Over the weekend, I was preoccupied with the tire and the journey from Kilmarnock to Culpeper, and disappointed that the correct size tires- 235/50R19- were not in stock at the retail outlets in our hardy hamlet.
That resulted in the decision-making tree that suggested the tires might have the 72 miles left on them if I babied the car on the roads north, and I investigated
I wrote that cathartic story about it all as I stalled for time at the farm, waiting for the traffic to die down between me and Northern Virginia. Old Jim commented on the real message I conveyed and he growled it at me over his long-neck Bud at Willow last night. “You are too old to change your tires anymore.” Then he smiled that he had nailed me.
I had to agree. This aging thing is curious indeed.
I was introspective as I considered how I got in the situation where I had to change the damn tire to begin with. Conceptually, I should have swapped the tires out a month or two ago with a basic Spring multi-point look, but I got hung up on the State inspection sticker, which didn’t expire until the first of May. That is when some unique (and pleasurable) outdoor activities officially commence, according to the British traditional song that I won’t go into here.
But that wasn’t the problem- speed was. I like to drive fast, or at least find a rabbit and stay far enough back that he will catch the attention of the County Mounties or Smokey Bear first. It is sort of like drafting on the NASCAR Circuit. The problem with this particular drive was going to be the 49 mile-per-hour limit on the spare.
I have never intentionally searched for a route with the slowest speed limit, but this was a clear case for it.
I anticipated a white-knuckled trip back to Blue Arlington, with a potential disaster contained in each mile, and the risk of that occurring increasing exponentially with each additional mile per hour on the odometer.
I normally take US 29 north to the US 15 cut-over to Haymarket at the Buckland Mills Battlefield and thence to the junction with I-66 to head back into town. The idea of being on the interstate driving thirty miles slower than the Type A aggressive drivers filled me with trepidation, and my concern was that any problem with the spare would them involve a tow truck (or worse) since there was no backup solution.
I looked on Google maps for alternate solutions. It seemed that if I veered off the 60-mph Rt. 29 onto RT 28 where it begins at US 29 just north of Remington. Additional research indicated why I rarely take that way, even if I was headed to Dulles International: the speed limit is 45 MPH.
Perfect! I got underway around noon and flinched all the way up to the junction. RT 28 in that part of Fauquier County is a placid two lane with several lights to accommodate more self-important east-west routes. The two-lane road runs parallel to the railroad tracks originally laid down by my Irish ancestors for the Alexandria and Orange Railroad.
This was the heart of Mosby Heritage Country, and several of the silver cast iron historical markers can be seen as you roll along, gingerly trying to avoid potholes and sudden disaster, there is Supreme Court Justice John Marshall’s birth place:
And of course the marker commemorating the raid by Mosby Ranger’s on the Federal train at Catlett Station:
Route 28 enters Prince William County at Nokesville, where Jack the Enormous German Shepherd was whelped, Leaving the town, it expands from two to four lanes and becomes Nokesville Road. Further on, it reaches its first interchange at State Road 234 (the famed Prince William Parkway), south of Manassas, and that is where I curved onto the interstate.
Scary as shit watching the oncoming traffic attempting to run up my tailpipe, and I vowed to get off as soon as I could onto the much lower speed Rt .50. I did so with great relief at Ox Road, or the modern Rt 123, and stopped at about thirty lights, but with increasing optimism that I would be at Willow and my own bed that night, and sure enough, it worked.
With exception of a mild nicotine overdose from the vaporizer (one year smoke free) it was slow, nerve wracking and over. I cleaned all the detritus out of the car to prep for the maintenance appointment on Friday, and shifted colors to the Police Cruiser for the duration.
I had been listening to soothing alt-rock on the satellite radio, but considered myself relatively up to speed on current events, but it was not until I got back from Willow and watched the local news that I realized my time in the country had altered space and time. In the brief time I was gone, it had lurched into a scene from Detroit in 1967.
There are differences, of course. The great Detroit Riot was a reprise of earlier riots with some legitimate grievances. There were no peaceful marches hi-jacked by dedicated activists, though apparently there were some. There was no social media then to call for a “Purge” when school let out- but the images were exactly the same.
I think I have written before about Big John Minter, a 300-pound true gentle giant. He was my mentor in the parking attendant’s booth at Demery’s Department Store where I had my first real job beyond cutting lawns and baby-sitting. He sat on his porch in the old Black Bottom-Paradise Valley neighborhood on the near east side with a shotgun and was not bothered. Other of his neighbors were not so lucky.
Of course, the riot marked the end of the Motor City as a functioning entity. No one with the means to get out would stay inside the city limits after that. But the images from Baltimore took me back to the black-and-white images on the television as I attempted to clean up the house after an inadvertent flash party that had occurred at the house when the parents were up at the cabin for the weekend and I had two-a-day football practice sessions.
I respected John Minter immensely, and in the face of great adversity he taught me something about dignity. On the whole, I think I am glad I took a long drive in the country rather than taking in a ballgame in Baltimore at Camden Yards.
I think that just slipped off the bucket list for things to do before I get out of Arlington.
(Police Presence in the Charm City, April 2015. Photo David Swanson / Staff Photographer Philly City).
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303