Classic Ride Home / Part 1

New York City to Toledo, Ohio in under ten hours. That was the goal in December 1989. Transportation would take place in my 1978 Chevy Caprice Classic. A hand-me-down auto from my older brother when he headed out to the West Coast. She had a boxy body with white wall tires. A dull baby blue outer shell and worn white top to match the tires. Bench seats front and back. Plenty of space for friends to stretch out on a long drive, but tonight I was on an isolated mission. A little under six hundred miles ahead of me with a few planned pit stops along the way.

The original plan was to leave just after rush hour. I was a little sleepy after work  and snoozed on my futon for an hour before the real packing began. I was heading home tonight. The Bowery was my current adult life home, but Toledo was where my parents and most of my family still lived.

I pulled the Caprice Classic out of a makeshift garage three blocks away; below Grand Street. I had to call up the building manager two days prior to get her out. He rented the bottom of an ancient building to a couple of car owners like me and filled in the hollow spaces around the cars with restaurant supplies. The deal allowed me to take my car out of storage once a month with two days advance notice for departure and return. I left the city four times a year, so it was a good fit for my lifestyle. I couldn’t let go of the Caprice Classic altogether. Being from the Midwest, I couldn’t imagine not having the option to get behind the wheel at a moments notice. In New York, I had to give two days’ notice.

After circling the block around Eldridge and Stanton through an AM radio news cycle, I found a street space to accommodate approximately eighteen feet of four door sedan. I was at the end of my block. Three roundtrips up and down four flights of stairs and I’d have the trunk and rear seat filled with clothing and provisions for my ride back to Ohio. It was dark now and much later than I planned for. With the car loaded, I locked her up and headed back to my apartment for one last security walk through. I checked all of the windows, unplugged most everything electrical, and stopped down the water valves beneath the kitchen sink. I was almost out of the building when uncertainty kicked-in for the door locks. Did I get the deadbolt just now, or was I picturing myself locking it from this morning?

I found my path into the Holland Tunnel by way of Broome Street. It’s past nine o’clock and tunnel traffic is thick and slow. A can almost sense the opening on the New Jersey side. I’m leaving the city. I’m leaving the raucous club behind along with the intensity of a non-stop emergency. I try not to imagine my destroyed apartment when I return after the meaningless breaking-and-entering, which sits in my mind as a distinct possibility. As I cross over the state line beneath the Hudson River, I envision re-entering a world of more relaxed people with fewer ulterior motives. A voluntary leave of absence from life in NYC. Time to distance myself from the dynamic sounds of the city and the random array of good, bad, and lethal smells.

I’d like to pick-up speed, make my way over to I-280, cross the Stickel Bridge, and transition to Interstate 80 within the hour. It’s a good plan, but Hoboken is calling me. Seven Stars Pizza is definitely open. It’s a small delay, but massively oversized slices of pizza placed on the passenger seat may save me from late night gas station food. There are no open spaces on the street and through dim lighting I am witness to a clusterfuck of parking signs. I find a spot curbside in the red zone. I’m through the pizzeria door. A small tinkling bell announces my entrance. Within a minute of my arrival, I trifold a slice of mushroom pizza and devour it. My taste buds are overdosing on the sliced shrooms, and my cheeks are fully inflated with warm crusty dough. Meanwhile, the counterman deftly slices up a white pie and glides it into a corrugated pizza box. I pay extra for a double box to reinforce the grease barrier and protect the cloth seats of my illegally parked vehicle. I’ve experimented with placing food items on the dashboard, but in the end, the passenger seat is the best snack and napkin caddy on my longer drives. Once I’m out of Hoboken, I won’t be able to take my eyes off the road and I want to be within arm’s reach of the mozzarella, ricotta, and parmesan delicacy.

I make Interstate 80 just before eleven o’clock. I’ve slowed down through a couple of accident scenes and worked around stretches of closed-off lanes due to construction. Between the late hour and drop in temperature there’s a falloff in traffic density. I see a clear path ahead with a plan to make up for some lost time.

It’s definitely winter weather out there. With the city far behind me know, I pass along exits to small towns and witness the thin layer of snow on rooftops in the distance. At eye level, there’s small patches of the grittier dark snow along the highway shoulders and ramps. It’s still early in the winter season around this part of North Jersey. I’m sailing along the Christopher Columbus Highway at a steady seventy miles per hour.

The car heater is blasting at my chest and throat. I could certainly lose a layer of clothing. I’m dressed as if I planned to hike my way to Ohio. I feel a continuous cool draft on my forehead. It seems like I’m sitting behind a leaky windshield, but the intermittent wafts of cold air may be the only thing keeping me awake. The early adrenaline rush associated with a road trip and the journey ahead have given way to the white pizza cheese mass working its way through my stomach and crashing into my small intestines. I need a companion coffee just to make the Delaware Gap and keep my steady pace into the more challenging regions of Pennsylvania.

Fast approaching, the fuel station that will revive my joy of travel and mission to journey across the mountains and valleys that guard my entry into the Midwest. The blue and red “TA” brand beacon associated with Travel Centers of America looms large over the highway ahead. This institution of transportation will provide sustenance for my Chevy’s tank and supply me with coffee I’d describe as, the taste of good enough. I’ll sensibly sip the first third of the stimulant as I stretch my legs walking the long isles of this remote retail monolith. Curated with everything a traveler could possibly desire while motoring in America. Whether you’re biking, trucking, or working a four-wheel automatic like myself, there are dozens of products to help with visibility and another dozen solutions to carry and organize your CDs and cassettes. There’s no end to the décor possibilities to dress up your person or your mode of transportation. I study a Merle Haggard baseball cap and belt buckle ensemble. A small section is dedicated to psychedelic seat cushions with fuzzy steering wheel covers. So many things to hang off the rearview mirror and headrest. I’m fixated on a neck massager that plugs into the cigarette lighter. I’ve prudently consumed a third of my coffee and feel confident I’m in the safe zone from a potential hot spill in my lap while driving. A woman with chocolate and vanilla hair split down the middle is looking at me from another isle. I recognize her collar. She’s on the Travel Centers of America team. A staffer on the lookout for truck stop shoplifters. I yell out to no one, “have a good evening now” and make my exit into the plunging temperatures of late-night darkness.

I’m a little ways into Eastern PA when I start to see signage for Perkins and Country Pride restaurants. It’s past midnight and truck stop coffee has moved my mental meter back to drive all night mode. A vision of late-night food with no-eye-contact waiting staff kind of dulls my original impulse. As I get closer to the exits of Stroudsburg, I look at the hour on the in-dash clock. The big and little red arms of analogue time are vertically aligned to midnight. Distance and time are making me anxious. I’ve made some progress toward home, but Toledo is well beyond the first rays of morning light. Let it ride and hope for a 24-hour diner down the road. Maybe it’ll be the small town of Buckhorn for me and the namesake family restaurant. That’s a little less than two hours farther west.

Not much excitement in terms of passing other cars or drafting off the back of a big rig. I’ve lost the signal to my sports channel. It’s been replaced by the steady buzzing and whispers from talk radio that never comes into tune. I may need to remedy my situation with the ancient technology of 8-track.

This was a special feature in the luxurious interior cabin of my ’78 Caprice Classic. An audio engineering triumph from the early 1960s. For this purpose, I have a traveling library of four cartridges. I adopted these cartridges loaded with endlessly looping magnetic tape from my father’s collection, which featured Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the harmonizing soft music of Richard and Karen Carpenter. My four choices were the additional bonus tapes that came along with the primary selections in Dad’s Columbia House Record Club. A good marketing ploy to turn subscribers onto new artists and more contemporary sounds. My glove compartment 8-track library represented my father’s rejection of the record club’s attempt to enlighten and expand his musical taste. Among the rejects, The Ohio Players, Boston, Jackson Browne, and Barry Manilow. I quickly glanced at the cover art featuring guitar spaceships and fed the car’s center counsel with my sound cartridge selection. I was lost in thought and working the steering wheel percussions to “Let Me Take You Home Tonight”. Coasting through a third pass on the 8-track loop and good for one more listen of, “More Than a Feeling”. Immersed in a meditative state of music and the road rhythmically passing beneath my vehicle, when it occurred to me that a large deer was looking directly into my eyes two hundred feet ahead and closing.

Eyes glowing with the bright yellow reflection of my headlights. I swerved left to an empty lane and then fought to realign the car to the right. The car held to the wet road with some recoil from its two-ton frame. I rocked back-n-forth until things settled. I thought about everything that could have gone bad in that instant of avoidance. What if there was a car to my left? What if the deer had moved forward a bit more onto the road and smashed through my windshield? I started questioning myself to confirm that the animal was actually there in the dark. The deer was real, with hoofs on the blacktop, and on a path that would have intersected with mine. I don’t know if I could ever recreate the instantaneous maneuvering of the vehicle that just took place.

I was awake and sharp with adrenaline. I had good blood flow to the brain. I was looking for an exit to take a breather from the driving and see if the car checked out alright. Maybe I’m missing a hubcap from the stress I placed on the car’s suspension during my catlike evasive maneuver. I saw signs for Milton and I-180. I couldn’t look at a map, but I was pretty sure that Buckhorn was well behind me now.

I was hoping for a local diner. At this hour, I got a 24-hour truck plaza instead. I was one of the few sedans in a sprawling gravel parking lot of tractor-trailers. Dozens of semi-trucks in every variety of color and condition. I entered the building and walked through a hall of pay showers and changing rooms. This corridor of hygiene connected to the restaurant dining hall where I found myself in the land of bearded men. There was no placard on the wall banning the presence of women, but I couldn’t spot one among the patrons. As I made my way to an open table, I definitely felt like I would be called out with silent eyes as the city man dandy I appeared to be. Yes, I had adopted some of the fashionable dress items more practical for urban life. If I was thrown from my car, I’m not sure if I’d last more than an hour or two in my slacks and choice of shoes.

I settled down at my table and found a menu jammed between the napkin holder and sticky condiment bottles. A sweet round woman of retirement age hovered over me in silence. No words were needed at this late hour. She was ready to jot down my order. With no pictures on the menu, I imagined the best sausage gravy and biscuits I’ve ever eaten through the printed description. Of course, I anticipated disappointment ahead. I asked for two eggs on top cooked over easy in case the gravy beneath was so far off and beyond consumption. Her name pin read Phyllis, and I offered a “thank you” ending with ma’am. Phyllis asked if I wanted links or patties on the side. I thought I got rid of her with my respectful thank you. She also offered pigs in a blanket for an extra two dollars. I assured Phyllis that the sausage in the gravy was enough sausage for me at this time. Friendly Phyllis chuckled, “There’s not much in the gravy, so you’re gonna want the side. It comes with the meal sweety.” I chose patties and added a black coffee in a to-go container.

The retail side of this operation didn’t have much in the way of tourist junk or car accessories to gaze at while sipping the first third of my black coffee. I took it outside and decided to inspect my vehicle one more time. Hub caps, all four intact. Antenna, in one piece. Windows, thin veneer of new snow. Things had picked up since my arrival in Milton. Wind gusts and snow flurries were in the air. Time to warm-up the engine and ignite the heater. I was all set to find my way back to I-80 and passage over the West Branch of the Susquehanna River.

The highway was no busier than when I last left her. The pace of snowfall before my headlights had picked-up and I had the wipers on low. I’d have to modify my pace, and for the most part, I kept my speed well under 60 MPH. I found a news channel coming in clear with a low steady hiss my ears could deal with. Thirty-minutes into this leg of my drive I lost radio contact once again. Back to 8-tracks with Jackson Browne and his live album, which was recorded across many venues on tour, “Running on Empty”.

Over an hour later and it seemed like I wasn’t making much progress. I’d check my odometer occasionally and try to predict when the next mile marker was about to come into view to my right. Visibility was far from a moonlit summer night. No headlamps tracked me from behind and infrequent truck sightings up ahead. I promised myself a break from the monotony around the two-hour mark of this current installation of drive all night. I wasn’t quite there when I spotted a hotel sign promotion. Despite my two-hour promise, I was fully committed to the next exit.

This idea had been rolling around my thoughts for the last twenty-minutes of driving. I’d take a short snooze in a hotel parking lot. The cold would wake me in no more than an hour and I’d be on my way with a little rest. I rationalized that I’d be closer to morning light and possibly closer to the end of an increasing snowfall.

From the exit ramp, the road to the hotel parking lot was a short distance. A modest single-story building that sat alone and curled up within a sprawling property I’d never see. It was all setback from the street, and I was only interested in finding a parking space with no other cars around. The last thing I wanted to do was pull-up next to another car with a driver doing the same as me. The area seemed so completely rural — I couldn’t imagine a protector of the property on watch for slumbering travelers of the night. Besides, if anyone knocked on my window, I’d thank them for the wake-up call.

My plan worked. I woke to a chill across my face. As I reconfigured my location and time of day in my mind, I could barely move my toes. A burning sensation passed through my feet as blood attempted to increase flow through the frozen blocks within my poor choice of shoes. I was in my car on a mission to drive in a westward direction. I was somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania on my way home. Still dark outside, I felt reassured that I didn’t lose too much time to rest. It stopped snowing sometime during my sleep. In all directions the sights were covered in white.

I inserted the ignition key. The steering wheel felt cold and stiff. The engine sounded sluggish as it turned over. In an instant, my heart raced with a small scare. My whole plan could be sabotaged if my Caprice Classic becomes stuck in this hotel parking lot. I was ready to kick myself for stopping in the first place when the 305 V8 engine roared. I was groggy but overcome with relief. There was no time to stop for coffee, as I could see the somber glow of first daylight beyond the surrounding treetops.

At this point, I couldn’t be sure of my exact location and the remaining distance to Toledo. I sensed that I may be a little more than halfway across Pennsylvania. I knew the timing from Youngstown to Toledo was about two and a half hours. If I could come across a mileage sign for Youngstown, I’d be able to calculate my arrival in Toledo with some accuracy. In the meantime, my best guess was about five more hours of driving. I could join Mom and Dad before lunchtime.

Twenty minutes into this stretch of my journey and I’m a complete loner on I-80. I have not seen a single moving vehicle of any kind on these roads. The sun is rising behind me, but it’s still dark on the horizon ahead. To my left and right I’m fenced in by trees. I can’t even see the eastbound roadway. It’s out there somewhere. There’s a clearing coming up. When I get there, it’s the end of the dense trees and I’m looking out at vast arable lands covered with snow. These open lands are down below as I’ve arrived here atop a precipice.

I start to descend. I wasn’t going too fast to begin with. I’m picking-up speed. The road is steeper than it first appeared when my vehicle first dropped in. I make a small adjustment to maintain my lane. The car continues on its path in defiance of my light touch on the wheel. This is when I first realize there’s no response to my steering wheel. I’m turning the wheel a bit left and right, but the car is moving straight on a course that’s bleeding outside of my lane. I tap the breaks at about the same time as the start of my left-right maneuvering. There’s no slowing down. In fact, I’m picking up speed and I can’t say that the increase in velocity is showing up on my speedometer. There’s no looking away from the road as my mind locks-in on the situation and my eyes have gone full fisheye lens. This is all happening over the course of a few seconds.

In an instant, my nervous system jumps from DEFCON Level 5 (peacetime) to DEFCON Level 1 (imminent danger). It’s a five-alarm fire for millions of neurons calling out from my spinal cord to every corner of my body. There is no flight option here. It’s fight for my life, as I’m on a highway hillside of black ice with over three thousand feet of steep downhill road ahead.