Driving to DC

My drive to Washington DC last Sunday was absolutely bizarre. I left the house at exactly 11am, and drove north on hwy 29. The plan was to take 29 North all the way through Virginia to 66 East which would take me directly into the city. I merged onto 29N around 11:10am and that is the last time things went according to plan.

When I left the house, the sun was shining and the new baby leaves on the trees were fluttering in a gentle spring breeze. I was surprised at how beautiful 29 N was and I was feeling pretty good as I approached Lynchburg, VA. It was sometime after I had made it through Lynchburg that I realized I had accidentally gotten off track. I realized that 460 E, the sign that had been flashing by the car for the last 40 miles, was not the same as 29 N, and that in fact, after studying the map, I was moving rapidly towards Richmond. Feeling a little stressed, and swerving all over the road as I tried to read the map and drive, I decided to pull over and take stock. I also needed gas.

I pulled into a gas station (it could be called that, as it had gas). I filled the tank and walked into the shabby building to pay. (What, no pay at the pump?!) As I approached the counter a very gregarious Indian man, with a strong Indian accent, asked me if I was from around there. I wanted to ask him the same thing but I didn’t and replied that actually I was lost. I asked him the way to 15 N which I had noticed on the map, eventually meets back up with 29N, right before 66. He pointed me in the right direction; I thanked him, got in my car and headed east.

What I didn’t realize was that 15 N is a two lane highway where the speed limit often drops to 35 mph as you slip though sleepy little Virginia towns. One town was built around the railroad. There were stacks of fresh cut logs along the road, and train beds filled with lumber. It was a like going back in time.

Somewhere in the middle of Virginia, the sky opened and it began to pour. I was glad I could only go 35 mph, as the roads began to fill with water. It was after the storms started that things got weird.

I entered a town called Gordonville. Halfway down Main Street the traffic stopped and I could see ahead a police officer, stopping traffic to allow a long line of cars along with a hearse onto the road from a funeral house.

“What a perfect day for a funeral,” was my first thought.
“Could there be more cars going to this funeral?” was my second thought at the 100th car pulled out in front of me. Finally, the cop pulled out behind the last mourner and I shifted into gear to follow. The rain began to fall even heavier, and the highway opened up to four lanes. I wondered if it was bad manners to pull out into the left lane so I could pass the 100 cars as I did exactly that. I was still far from meeting up with 29 N at this point, and was really starting to get annoyed. And the rain was getting really bad.

I passed by most of the funeral line when we all got into another town and the lanes combined back into two and I was forced into line with the rest of the funeral goers. I was a little stressed about this until we hit a red light where the cop had blocked traffic and was letting us all through. “Cool,” I said to myself as I imagined the unencumbered drive from there to 29N. No more lights! A mile later a cop pulled out in front of me and the line stopped.

“What is going on now?” I said out loud as another funeral procession began to pull out in front of me. There I am, sitting in the middle of a funeral procession, watching another funeral procession drive down the road in front of us while the rain continued to pound down, the road was turning into a river, and I was starting to get a little freaked out. The hearse in front of me and the hearse behind me made me feel a little claustrophobic, a little too close to being trapped by dead people, trapped between the dead and the water and both were closing in fast. Eventually the cop in front moved and the traffic began to ease forward and we moved into another small town where I was signaled through another red light by the local cop, but then turned right and left the 200 car, double funeral to escape through another small town.

The rest of the drive was incredibly beautiful. I realized that I was on some sort of Civil War route, as periodically I would come upon a historic placard describing a battle which was a turning point in the war, or a camp, or something else old. If only I had not been in a hurry to get to DC.

Eventually, an hour later, and 100 miles more than it should have taken to get there, I arrived at my hotel. I guess that trip was a sign of things to come, as the next day was no less stressful or bizarre, and eventually at nine pm on Monday night I arrived back in Greensboro, a little less than 36 hours after I left, with 660 miles more on the car.