Rerouting Washington

I was anticipating highway 64 in Virginia for some time as the morning light cast shadows on the roadway. 10 times the amount of people means at 7:30 when I thought I’d be clear sailing alone, 10 times the amount of people were thinking the same thing. Baltimore was glorious, funny expression for a city with the highest murder rate, so Hal enjoyed telling me.

Warm had sunk into the car and my hands weren’t gripping the wheel quite as tight. A panoramic overview of the ocean and harbor lead me to the off ramp and a fabulous trip around the grand shipping harbor. It was magical seeing these massive working cranes as far as the eye could see loading and unloading cargo trunks from the ships. The car followed the shoreline for miles then just as gently as I followed the 180 turn off the highway I was back on overlooking their stadiums, downtown and lesser prosperous areas.

Descending, as the roadway literally drops for miles into DC a flurry of activity was upon us. Highway 64 leading west to the BRM was shut off with police manning all the possible exists when I finally came across a place to pull over and ask where I would connect back onto it and a stocky female officer hummed, “Take the 9^th street bridge and follow highway 345 to Richardson, but I have no idea where and how you could connect back to highway 64, I don’t think it’s possible, now get going this isn’t a tourist office.” The hours I’d made up on the highway to get to the BRM early was lost in DC. It took 1.5 hours to get in and out.

Washington was under my tires before I could blink. The Lincoln Memorial, the Capital, The White House and the Washington Monument can't be described but grand. I drove around gawking and then finally parked the car and got out. No picture could possible capture the essence and now I knew why so many of my friends had suggested a day in town. I wondered as I drove on if they wanted to keep up with the Jones in Europe better known as the Vatican and not allow them to be the only city enclave.

A running mass of 45, 000 caught my left eye as I was crossing yet another bridge in my attempt to find a highway moving westward. The veterans ran several races a year in each city to raise funds and there was no shortage of support. Veterans in the States have a very different respect than our, major road closures in Canada, for a running race, I don't think so.

The sun had slunk back into the clouds as I found my trail, the Blue Ridge Mountains Parkway. The first 100 miles I was daunted with sheets of rain. I stopped off at the pull outs laughing. Besides being drenched within seconds, there was no view, low lying clouds. When I entered the next 100 miles the clouds were so low I could barely see the yellow line separating the oncoming traffic. At one pullout several of us gathered and discussed what to do. Frightened and noting that the stagnant air wasn’t going to lift, I drove as slowly as I could fearful that without sight I could easily go off the cliffs edge and no one would find me for weeks, months, or even years. The thick foliage would engulf the car within hours. Another pull out 10 minutes down the road brought an abrupt stop to the journey. A police officer was closing the roadway. The only question was how do we get off?

The BRM sits about 500 meters above the main roadways with only several exists. Getting out my map for the umpteenth time I found a little route down, little did I know the road grade was a frightful 20% for 2 miles. I also learned how long a mile is when you’re not breathing. I pulled the car over after descending to make sure my legs were functioning and then I wanted to kiss the ground, like terrifying flights, I too was happy to be alive. Looking up I couldn’t comprehend the lack of movement in clouds. It lasted all three days I had available to sightsee. God was either telling me to return another day, or never come back.

The silver lining at the end of the day was Ron and Cyndi’s Virginia home. A bed, not a smoke filled  hotel room, not an overcrowded or desolate campground with bear warning, a bed, a luxurious bed that I coveted along with fun tales to tell my girlfriend, as this was her brother and sibling rivalry doesn’t end when your 20. Rich dialogue ensued about the differences between north and south, educational jargon, sports, Canadians vs. them Yanks and what living in the south meant for a Canucks.