I Nearly Didn't Make It

Those who live far from four lane highways and interstates must consider a new issue when we travel to distant appointments. In the past, you could figure a mile a minute on open highway in good weather. Tweak that for town speed limits and stoplights. Only during harvest season did you expect to deal with slow moving, oversized vehicles. Nowadays, travelers heading south down Highway 183 from Phillipsburg anticipate a slow jaunt not behind just one wind tower or blade in tow, but several. Fortunate drivers will cruise at a crawl until they pass those behemoths.

Recently, I’ve experienced instances heading to an appointment in Hays where I found myself thrilled that my family trained me to leave well ahead of time no matter what the reason. Here’s the dilemma. How early does one need to depart when caravans of wind turbine carriers take over a road designed for 65 mph traffic and roll along at 40 to 50 miles an hour?

The other day, my dentist worked me in for an emergency appointment at noon. I calculated mileage and slowdowns through the five communities along my path. Under perfect conditions, I’d arrive in 1 1/2 hours. In less than optimal circumstances, I’d need another 15 minutes, so I left 35 minutes early. You can imagine my chagrin when I spied slow-moving vehicle flashers at Glade.

Initially, I figured I’d pass the warning vehicle, turbine truck, and the pickup ahead of it with blinking yellow lights before Stockton’s city limit sign. No worries. I had yet to note two additional long, white, ultra-wide pillars and their escorts. My hopes sank when those became visible once I reached the region’s highest hill. Darn! I counted fourteen vehicles trapped ahead of me amongst these diesel tortoises’ creeping procession. I looked in the rear view mirror and noted at least four agitated drivers behind me. Nineteen of us were murmuring unkind thoughts about the economic benefits of wind generated electricity.

At Stockton, my bladder announced the arrival of that morning’s coffee. I’d passed one turbine team so there was no way I’d listen to nature’s irritating call. By Plainville, that organ screamed on high alert, but by then, I’d overtaken the other two units. Uncomfortable beyond belief, I writhed in my seat and set the accelerator for the speed limit plus tolerance once I exited town.

That 24 miles to Hays was miserable. Side roads called me to pull over until I glanced in my rearview mirror to see the bright orange end of that huge pillar trailing behind. In response, I squinched around until I found a tolerable position and maintained speed. No way was I letting either that convoy or a trooper slow me again.

By the time I reached Wendy’s, I had just enough lead for a pit stop that would permit me to stay ahead of my nemesis. I reached the dentist with two minutes to spare. That’s a close call for someone who’s been taught to arrive at least 10 minutes early to all life events.

Living Life between the White Lines

Some of us rise long before dawn breaks the horizon and hit narrow two lane highways in night’s deepest black. For these folks, life between the white lines balances boredom caused by limited visibility  with edge of the seat, adrenaline-rushing thrills.

Early each morning I turn east on Highway 9 and immediately shrink to a blip on the universe’s radar. If satellites actually watch cars passing down remote roads, I ‘d hardly be visible in my silver Toyota that blends in with a worn asphalt ribbon  connecting one shrinking farm town to another. I’d show up as two tiny eastward moving light rays.

To help me see better, I hit my high beams and begin a journey bordered by KDOT applied parallel stripes. Even on bright, my headlights don’t extend much outside those margins, so I take aim and stay within their confines.

It’s easy to succumb to the monotony of a daily journey over a known road, but on shoulderless highways like 9, it’s wise to keep to the path. Too many accidents begin with a veer over that asphalt lip, followed by a corrective jerk of the steering wheel that actually sends the car out of control. Not wanting to become a statistic, I let those edges work like the guide on a sewing machine to keep me on the straight and narrow. 

While the headlights focus mostly on the road between those strips and the calf scour yellow broken or continuous center lines, spilled light reveals tawny bluestem or waving brome outside those borders. My eyes continually scan that little Serengeti for bits of reflected green. This little tell may be my only warning before a car/deer collision.

I’ve been driving this route long enough to recognize distinctive headlights. A small car with only one headlight shining  like a bright-eyed Cyclops meets me every morning about ten miles out of town. Though I wouldn’t know the driver if I met him or her, I recognize that vehicle’s familiar wink when I see it coming over a hill.

Ditch grasses stand as silent witnesses to passersby and kamikaze creatures that fling themselves into grills and under wheels. One morning, four raccoons had met their end in a thirty-six mile stretch. Sometimes, all that remains is an unrecognizable speed bump.

It isn’t just hitting a critter that gets a driver’s adrenaline rushing. Those near misses raise heartbeats as well. It took a few controlled breaths to still my own pump after a coyote raced in front of me the other morning. Lucky for him, he lived to eat another rabbit. If I were faster, he’d have been carrion.

 

Lowering speeds to 55 or 60 isn’t always enough to avoid wildlife between those white lines. One morning I dodged a buck sprinting across the highway only to run into a herd of deer up the road. I saw them soon enough to slow, but not soon enough to halt. One less doe will produce a fawn next spring.

In a world confined by dark edges, life between the white lines is more than a little exciting. Despite the narrow boundaries, adventure and thrills await.