I recently spent nearly a week in Tennessee visiting
my parents and selling books—and golfing and ruining my left knee. At 11:00 am
on Friday morning, I headed for Saugatuck, Michigan, for an art in the park
where I was to sell more of my books. My Garmin GPS said I’d arrive at my
daughter’s apartment, forty minutes north of Saugatuck at 8:22 pm. Yeah, right.
What GPS ever took into consideration Murphy’s Law? Exactly…none of them ever
do.
The obvious route was to take I-40 into Nashville
and then catch I-65 north to Michigan. The Garmin, however was bound and
determined that I take back roads for approximately 650 miles. I wholeheartedly
disagreed, so each and every exit I passed, the annoying mechanical device recalculated
my arrival time, and it continued to scoff at me, telling me I was going to
arrive later and later. On the two-hour leg of the trip to Nashville, the
Garmin let me know I had lost well over an hour, so inconceivably, just before
Nashville, I decided to do as the Garmin said, thinking I just might miss the
noontime traffic by skirting around the city. The Garmin is actually a demon,
isn’t it? It was programmed by an evil, insidious, inhumane, sinister person,
intent on ruining the day of any would-be follower who recklessly throws all
caution to wind, correct? On my ninth turn and eleventh stoplight, I began to
recognize that I didn’t “recognize” anything whatsoever and that Nashville was
quite a busy city and that I was lost and my Garmin had no intention of finding
me or saving me any time on my trip. It
just wanted to toy with me. I checked it for settings that might possibly say “Expressways
only” or some such thing. I swear I barely took my eyes off the road, but when I
looked up, the twelfth red stoplight had mysteriously appeared and another car
was comfortably sitting before it while I raced toward him at approximately
forty MPH. I slammed on my breaks, swerved to the shoulder, and skidded to a
stop exactly beside the law-abiding driver. I never looked to my left, but I’m
certain the driver was glaring at me and making unnecessary gestures. I knew I
was a careless idiot; I didn’t need any additional confirmation.
Well, I found I-40 (yes, the very road I exited) and
drove the rest of the way through Nashville and onto I-65 north. My car brakes had
begun grinding unmercifully after the near accident—until Louisville, Kentucky,
that is. It was there that every car on the highway was taking a siesta. No cars
were moving—at all—and the grinding stopped. Indefinitely. For some reason, no
cars were getting off at the exit just ahead and to my right. When I eventually
inched forward, I decided to head through another big city. I actually had very
little faith in the GPS, so I took out my phone and went to the compass with
the brilliant notion of heading north for a while and then slipping back onto
the expressway ahead of the traffic jam. My compass said I was going southwest. I can now say with certainty
that there was a Gremlin in my phone as well…so after driving several miles in
what I was sure was the correct direction, I finally turned to the GPS device
for guidance. It said turn left. Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. I kid you not—I
went completely around onto the same road I started. If Louisville has a
ghetto, by the way, I was in it. All roads were one-way streets. On the fifth
left, I was directed to get on I-65 east,
which I passed out of confusion, but I then decided in pure frustration to do
as I was instructed by the evil device, so again I turned left, left, left,
left, left, left—again, I kid you not—and it was on all different streets than
before. I didn’t recognize a single one, but on the sixth left, the fiendish gadget
told me to get on I-65 west. Yes, west.
I did it. And somehow shortly thereafter was speeding along north toward my
destination.
My arrival time continued to climb as I burst back
onto the expressway, certain that it would be smooth sailing, but within five
minutes, there was no movement whatsoever. I saw flashing lights far ahead, but
no cars were moving at all; however, there was an exit to my right. I was in
the left lane, of course. After waiting twenty minutes with my turn signal on,
the cars had moved enough for me to change lanes and I drove right into…a rest
stop—even I had to laugh. But I passed about a hundred cars when I drove back
out onto the expressway. When I finally passed the mangled car, burnt to a crisp
on the side of the road, my Garmin said I was going to arrive at 11:00. I’d
lost two hours and thirty-eight minutes at that point.
There is a road that runs north through Indiana
called US-31 that on a map looks like a wonderful shortcut to Grand Rapids,
Michigan, but which a couple of kind customers in a gas station told me to
avoid like a plague, unless I wanted to stop at approximately 400 stoplights
and visit 35 small towns on my way through the state. I chose to heed the
advice, but my Garmin was bound and determined for me to exit and use the most
direct path. Each time I passed the suggested exit, the time recalculated to
something later, until at midnight, I was still an hour from Saugatuck and an
hour and forty minutes (barring a new disaster) from Allendale and my desired
resting place. I had an unload/set-up time at 6:45 am on Saturday. I deducted
that it was no longer sensible to visit my daughter, so I pulled off at an exit
where I saw a Super 8 motel where I envisioned a nap and a shower for about
$40.00. At the Super 8, a single room was just “$109.99 plus tax.” I slept in a
truck stop.
My knee was aching, my car was full of crap, and I
was so tired and frustrated that I basically cleared space on top of my
folded-down back seats which I was unable to raise, laid down some blankets and
pillows, and crashed for four hours. I woke up twice—the first time after a
dream that I was speeding around an elevated expressway entrance and my brakes
weren’t working. I jerked the steering wheel so I wouldn’t fall to my death and
woke myself, dripping inside a sauna. Every window was fogged over and I was
completely drenched in sweat. I opened the windows some and fell asleep only to
dream I was being robbed at gunpoint at the truck stop, but I saved myself with
a sand wedge from my golf bag that I used to whack the thief over the head. As
I was plucking hairs off my wedge, my phone alarm went off, and I got to have
my first experience in a truck stop shower. Thirteen dollars. But I showered,
changed from my sweat-saturated clothes, brushed my teeth, and made it to my
art in the park event right on time—nineteen hours and forty-five minutes after
I left Tennessee. Thank you very much, Murphy. It was a frustrating adventure that I’ll never forget.
