Johann Georg Wille: Gale (1777)

" … hardly a memory by then."

Like every other human activity, Toodling depends upon a certain amount of good fortune. One can plan until their head nearly falls off, but weather will always trump planning. Routing along the least-taken roads does not guarantee that they will not be overflowing with traffic. Days where everything goes as planned might not be worth counting. Fortunately, most unplanned events turn out to be better than expected or, perhaps, better for not having been expected. Many happy accidents go into making any Toodle memorable. One sad one might render it the most memorable of all.

So we take to the road knowing we cannot know, reveling in the knowledge we're on vacation from knowing for sure. This must be what we find so refreshing about being gone. We're out of our fields of expertise, unable to foresee even ordinary things. Fortunately, the highways don't seem to care whether we never quite know where we're heading. We follow along just as if we knew, nobody the worse for wear. Weather, though, always rules. Snow brings the whole show to a stop. I have better than chains. I have enough sense to park the car until the snow clears. I've already chalked up the years when I absolutely needed to be any place at any specific time. If the conditions don't warrant Toodling, I can wait out the conditions until they're more conducive to traveling.

Wind might be the most insidious influence when Toodling. Wind might be the most common given in the Great Southwest and all along the Great Basin Country. Back in South Dakota, where The Muse hails from, she insists that the wind remains continuous but never blows because it sucks. I can tolerate a steady few miles per hour. When sand and dust kick up, and the semi's trailers roll sideways, I seek an exit. Some drivers seem nonplussed by gales. They continue zooming along at their usual unreasonable speed, just as if they weren't being sandblasted. The truck drivers who continue passing cars maintaining merely the speed limit when the wind's gusting to fifty terrify me and should. I understand their bosses hold them accountable to meet their deadlines come Hell, high water, or gales, but they become a hazard to general navigation when they over-drive conditions.

I have never been the master of my driving. Put me behind the wheel, and I feel humbled rather than empowered. I acknowledge that I'm driving something the rough equivalent of four refrigerators down the road. I understand enough about mass to realize I won't stop on anything even distantly resembling a dime. I encourage everyone to pass me. The Muse counsels me that I don't really need to slow down when another car starts passing, and I understand I do that without being asked because I really want them to get off my ass and get on with their Hell-bound excursion. For me, driving is a race where, through careful planning and skillful maneuvering, I always come in last. I want everyone behind me to pass and leave me the you-know-what alone. This, above all else, serves as the essence of Toodling.

Blowing reliably drives me off the road. I further tuck in my already tucked-in tail and take the exit after driving at quite a bit less than the speed limit for the final few miles. Nobody seems to want to stay behind me, regardless of the lack of visibility and buffeting gusts. The Muse guides me to the hotel, where I park in a space protected by a wall because more than dust seems to be blowing in on us. The storm rages as we settle in behind heavy concrete walls. She suggests we just take a day off tomorrow since the forecasts predict this same wind until sundown. I readily agree. We do not need to be anywhere badly enough to contemplate four hundred miles of buffeting headwind. I gladly add another day to our estimated arrival. Commerce will continue in our absence. Tomorrow, we'll doubtless pass a few of those semi-trucks unfortunate enough to get blown off the road while trying to meet their imposed deadlines. We will be Toodling again, that fierce wind hardly a memory by then.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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