Last rides of 2025

 "Second prize is two weeks in Philadelphia." It's an old punchline. I just spent three weeks there, while the cellist underwent a medical procedure at Penn Medicine's facilities.

In matters medical, some things can't be scheduled at your convenience. Thus I got the call to drop everything and get my ass down there at the end of November, to care for her in recovery from a surgery on December second. She would need to go to follow up appointments, lab visits, and any unscheduled turbulence that might hit us as a result of a major procedure.

My annual mileage total is nothing impressive, but it stood tantalizingly close to 3,000 miles when I headed down. With less than a hundred miles to go, I would have nailed it easily. I thought I might sneak in a ride or two while I was down there, because I keep a bike on site, but that didn't work out. I didn't want to stray far from the patient, even though she was making a relatively stellar recovery.

What I did do was drive a pretty vicious stretch of Interstate 95 between Wilmington, Delaware, and Philly, over and over.

I left Megalopolis in the late mid 1980s with no regrets at all. I've devoted my life to quietly advocating against the concept of Megalopolis since I first learned about it in school in the 1960s. I was always a kid who found a patch of woods to play in. I saw early on that they were an endangered habitat. I can do highway driving, but I would rather not.

It's like the line that comes up in various gun oriented movies, where the protagonist declares his antipathy to gunplay. Later on he's forced into it by the triumphant bad guy who assumes that it'll be an easy win. The reluctant good guy nails the baddie with one perfect shot and says, "I didn't say I couldn't, only that I didn't like to."

Drivers between Wilmington and Philly are some of the most aggressive assholes you will encounter anywhere. The worst of them specialize in a maneuver I call "The Delaware Shoot-a-Gap." General traffic may be romping along at 70-75mph, and one of these road heroes will come shooting up out of nowhere, weaving sinuously through the shifting crowd. No doubt they feel proud of their skill at getting ahead of the dubs.

I had to drive the stretch each way multiple times. All of the runs northward were between mid morning and mid afternoon, but the return trips were at night several times. For instance, on the night of her surgery, which was scheduled in early evening, I drove back down close to midnight. The day I visited her during her post-op hospital confinement, it was after 8 p.m. Later, she had a crisis that had us in the emergency room at Penn, and I was driving back around four in the morning, after sitting with her for twelve hours, waiting for her to be officially admitted. One of my jobs was taking care of her cats, so I did have to get back down to her work-season apartment.

I looked like this a lot:

This picture is from the morning after her actual surgery. She texted me at 7:00 a.m. She'd been awake since 5:00 a.m. And she'd had the advantage, despite having a surgical team remodeling her insides, of being under heavy anesthesia, whereas I had been languishing somewhat anxiously in the waiting "lounge" for hours. Then I had to drive on 95. I got to bed after 1:00 a.m.

I figured out within a couple of these trips that the secret to 95 was to merge onto it like you're throwing yourself into a bar brawl, work your way to the left lane to cozy up to the center barrier, and floor it. Do whatever it takes to hold your place. Sometimes you have to wedge into the middle lane to slingshot some terminal asshole who can't find a hole to weave through, but for the most part the southbound key is that left lane, and 75-80mph.

It's fucking insane, but it's their normal routine. Pieces of car and truck bear mute witness to the calamities that their haste brings them from time to time, but in the three weeks I navigated the area I only saw one, on my transit north as I began the trip home. Some idiot in a flashy Porsche with race numbers and shit had gotten tangled with a bland family minivan as we all navigated a heavy rain with gale force winds during the latter part of rush hour. No one appeared to be injured, but the sporty car was badly dented front, rear, and on  the one side I could see. Other than that it was just a daily series of miracles in which I nearly got clipped or nearly nailed someone hovering in my blind spot several times, but made no contact.

The northbound run was trickier, because we had to exit on the right, but needed to avoid getting sucked into a lane that then peeled off entirely. Hugging the left wall could get you trapped over there, but the middle lane makes you everybody's punching bag.

I hate that shit.

Eventually, the cellist was ready to send me back north and rely on her local support team of excellent work colleagues. I had missed a moderate snowfall and some temperature swings that meant my driveway will be a chunked-up mess of frozen ridges until spring, but what can you do?

The best part is that the roads were clear and dry on a day when I could actually get out on them.

Yesterday was sunny and I had a couple of items to take to the post office. Pump up the tires and suit up. Temperature 18 degrees F. Light westerly winds. What would I find after three weeks of basically no exercise? Fortunately, with the air that cold I had no urge to push for high speed.

Snow was forecast for today, but the forecast had it starting later in the morning. Today's conditions were more demanding, with colder air and fully gray skies. The sun isn't strong this time of year, but when it's bright it imparts emotional warmth, and some actual warmth on darker clothing. Still, I managed to push my sore legs around one more time. The storm forecast has gotten bigger and bigger, and I will be pulling more hours at work than I have since the 1990s, so probably no rides until spring arrives. I'll just run the stairs in my house every day. Weight-bearing exercise!