Thursday, March 12, 2 a.m.: my bedroom
Already behind schedule. Great!
2.56 a.m.: Clinch Avenue
Here we go! 16,400 miles on my car.
5 a.m.: other side of Nashville
We retrieve Karly from the Flying J. Thomas has logged 200 miles. My car sits at 16,600.
7 a.m.: I-40 West
100 miles outside Memphis, Mamaw calls to tell us to turn back due to flooding in Austin. We drive on, but it rains like hell over the Mississippi River in Memphis.
Thomas and Karly sleep, and I nearly kill us all in Arkansas when I fall asleep behind the wheel in the furthest western point I’ve ever experienced. Each gravel under my tires or 90s hit song Karly and I sing brings me further away from my known and into the wet, sticky unknown.
Thomas took a muscle relaxer and refuses to wake up. What did I expect?
I log 250 miles but miss the ever-important anniversary of my car’s 16,666th mile. Karly takes over, and we are sick to our tummies thanks to no food, all caffeine. We are quick pissers at rest stops. 16,900 miles.
10 a.m.: other side of Little Rock
Finally I have made it to the coveted backseat of the car. Relinquishing control of my vehicle in such shitty weather is a test of will power. Remaining oblivious in the backseat is much harder than it might seem.
Now would be an opportune time to inform my devoted readership that it is during the rain when I have endured my least favorable auto experiences. When I was 16, I totaled my car and shattered my right lower leg after an early summer rainstorm. The day before my 20th birthday on our way to Chicago, my boyfriend-at-the-time totaled my car in a hurricane. Thus my anxiety.