Zero To Seventy In Eight Hours

For anyone looking for a day vacation, there is no better experience than a spirited jaunt from Roanoke to Mount Airy. Sounds kind of boring at first, in a "we're going-to-visit-Aunt-Helen-so-shut-up-back-there" way.

(Absolutely dreadful anecdote, if it can even be called that, is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

I hadn't been on Parkway South since Reagan's second term -and that was only to take my date to an overlook. Ask me what happened that night when the back seat of my 1969 Country Squire station wagon wouldn't fold down. I had no idea she would end up over the top of the back seat like that. NASA would have been impressed. Truly. I tried to recall which overlook we were chased out of by a snickering park ranger that night, but they all seemed to boast 500,000,000,000... acres of breathtaking views that would have made the most coldhearted realty agent weep. Every single one had the same glorious view, it seems, although I had an especially glorious view of

Ahem.

The trip along the parkway was more sedating than being slipped a mickey in a mausoleum. I wondered if Bambi was going to emerge from the treeline, bat those long eyelashes at me, and ask me to dance the dance of the forest amidst throngs of applauding squirrel and bunnies. (Imagine what I'd be like if I did do drugs.) No offense, but sometimes nature is, well, boring, and kudzu only serves to blur that experience. "Look, there's a weeping willow." "How can you tell?"

But then things got interesting (because you knew a pregnant pause was going to occur").

A T intersection introduced itself to me -nay, saved, me from going out of my mind, which is a short trip when you have a Bipolar disorder. "Hello", it said cheerfully, as T intersections are wont to do, unlike four way intersections which are too busy for such frivolity. "If you're interested in heading south, I'd be happy to lead you to Stuart. Or, if you prefer something lighter, I have a very nice Mount Airy just across the state line." What the heck, I reasoned. You don't often meet such friendly intersections, so I might as well get the most out of this. Since North Carolina was as accommodating as the T intersection was cheerful, I thought, "why not?", and several minutes later North Carolina actually welcomed me to their state. They even put a big sign up saying so!

Mount Airy, as it turns out, is deceptively complicated for a small town. Seems that no matter which way you turn, you end up right back in another part of Mount Airy, unless you don't turn. Then you end up in Level Cross. Not the one which elicits anticipation of strolling around in Petty Enterprises museum, but the Level Cross that boasts an actual four way intersection complete with four -count 'em, four- stop signs. I know! Well, who visits Mount Airy without seeing the historical district? Yes, I saw Floyd's City Barber Shop. I think the original Floyd still works there. Wish I had gotten to town before five. Then I might have gotten up a good game of checkers and asked if Ray Pollister ever got that vaccination. I also saw a recreation of Andy Taylor's 1962 Ford Galaxie (Yes, that's how Ford spelled it. I don't know why either.) squad car. As an aside, the historical district is a one way street. I learned that when I accidentally turned right and almost had a head-on collision with another dumb tourist. Whew. That's all I'd have needed -to be cited by Barney under a 301.25, which would surely have led to my either being fined twenty-five dollars or spending two nights in jail. Rough stuff, I'll tell you.

A very calm and serene trip to Mount Airy, followed by walking around in a very laid back tourist area, was the perfect lead-in to the trip home: gentlemen, start your engines.

Let me say right here and now that the moonshiners of the day could have put Europe's finest road racers to shame. I drove those roads this evening. I drove, at daring speeds, over a couple of hundred switchbacks. I had the advantage and convenience of driving a relatively new car with front wheel drive. To have driven a 4,000 pound car with rear wheel drive at those speeds through those turns without losing control would have required nothing short of world class driving. No wonder, then, that NASCAR's top drivers of the era were all from those parts. Ridge runners often say they weren't afraid of crashing. That's because there wasn't time to be afraid. I took turns so tight that I'm still trying to catch my breath at 12:40 am. I ate curves like they were strands of spaghetti. The more I got, the more I wanted. I almost cried because I didn't have a 400 horsepower musclecar for that particular trip. I felt like I was cheating my way through the turns with my Accord, which I happen to love, by the way. Curtis Turner would have put me to shame on those roads. Then again, it's easy to be motivated to be a great driver when you're being chased by federal agents for, um, being a libertarian when it comes to tax on alcohol.

Today was about starting off slowly and speeding things up. Typical day for me. If the 45 mile per hour trip along the parkway was somewhat of a ho hummer, the upwards of 70 mile per hour trip along those neverending ess turns brought back wonderful memories of high speed driving when I was younger but just as foolish. Unlike the days when I was young and immortal, today I was entirely cognizant of the car's capabilities. No side roads were anywhere near the stretches of roadway I was on, nor were there any other drivers or pedestrians. Once back in Virginia, though -I think it was in Floyd- I did see a bear cub toddling along a treeline perhaps twenty-five feet from the side of the pavement, but by then I was back to Clark Kent speeds. I'd love to have snapped a photo of the cub, but I suspect Mama Bear wouldn't have approved.

Probably would have given me the "I mean it" look Marsha gives you when you use "sarsha" in a sentence. (Sorry, Marsha. Mountain Dew paid me to say that.)