There was no snow in Harrisonburg, Virginia, until I got there this week.
Served them right.
I fled the blizzard of 2015 on Friday the 13th like I was Butch Cassidy with a posse on my trail. Vermont Jon had miraculously raised enough money to get my vintage Honda out of hock (I thought my friends were worthless) and I fled the snow drifts for Florida baseball, an annual rite since 1993. When my friends said, “We could get rid of Emmet for the winter,” many said, “I’m in.”
In years past, the trip had always clung protectively to the Interstate 95 corridor, even though that included New York, Baltimore and Washington, D.C., traffic. This year, on the advice of professional trucker Florida Mark, I did the Route 84-81 scenic route. It seems much longer, but much prettier when you consider New Jersey smokestacks.
Somewhere in Virginia, I was listening to Diana Krall’s new album on iTunes when I heard this screeching noise. I turned off the radio, but it continued. I figured it was that poor devil in the car beside me.
Nope. I was that poor devil.
I had a blowout at 70 mph. Luckily, it was a rear tire and the car pulled daintily to the side of Route 81. Miraculously, I had just renewed my AAA and screamed for help. They showed up 30 minutes after AAA somehow figured out where I was. I had driven through three states (Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Virginia) in the past hour and had to admit I had no idea where I was. I had a “donut” tire in the trunk but had no intention of fixing a tire a few feet from that stream of speeding traffic. I took off the bike from its rack, pulled out the suitcase and golf clubs (honest to God) and other junk in the trunk to get that “donut.”
After the quick road service, I put the suitcase and golf clubs back in the car and put the rack and bike back on the car.
Puff, puff.
The first motel caught my eye and I stopped gratefully. As God is my witness, as I got out of the car a brutal snow squall slammed through the motel parking lot. It was Virginia, but it was in the teens. I had brought the New England weather with me. As I checked in, I just had to say I was from Maine and used to such arctic blasts. As God is my witness, the woman beside me was from Bangor and was the daughter of longtime BDN reporter Len Harlow, who opened the Rockland Bureau where I worked for a few decades.
I fell asleep in about 35 seconds and awoke to 6-degree weather. In Virginia. Naturally, the winter weather set all Virginia records during my brief visit, including a 30-degree drop in a few hours. But I had to replace my “donut” with a real tire. Once again I moved the rack, the bike, the suitcase, the golf clubs. I went to get gas before finding the tire store. The gas tank lid had frozen shut. Then I noticed the trunk lid had also frozen, open. I went off to the tire store, figuring a warm garage visit would cure both ailments, along with installing a new tire. More than $100 later, the tire and the trunk problems were cured. The gas tank lid did not want to play and I could not blame it. It was as cold as the top of Sugarloaf.
In Virginia.
I pried open the gas tank lid with a knife, popping a few frozen parts in the process. It would surely take another $100 to put that back in working order. Back went the bike, rack, suitcase and golf clubs. It was 10 a.m. and I was already beat. Months on the Cobb Manor couch had not prepared me for such rigors.
Gassed up, with the gas tank lid flapping in the breeze, I headed for the balmy climes of Charleston and the cozy hospitality of South Thomaston transplant John Purcell, who had gleefully decorated his guest room in Yankee wallpaper, photos and memorabilia, in my honor. Once again I unloaded the bike rack, the bike, the suitcase and the golf clubs.
I looked behind me to see if winter was still on my heels. I was safe. It was almost 40 degrees! But this was the last year. This was too much trouble. Battered and bruised, I came to the conclusion that this was the last trip after more than 20 visits. I will just stay home now.
Then I saw the television weather reports from Boston and Maine.
Maybe one more year … with better tires. And I will leave the bike and its rack in the barn.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.