We all watch those travel shows on television, then search the Internet for travel hints and deals before we set off on our trips, don’t we? Well, I have a travel tip for you.
Don’t ever set off anywhere on Friday the 13th. I know, you think that is an old wives’ tale, a silly superstition, such as walking under a ladder. That’s what I used to think, too.
Before this trip from hell.
Listen. If you are trapped in New England with (another) blizzard invading from Siberia and Friday the 13th is approaching, you just leave early, or hunker down in Norton, Massachusetts, for a few days even if your relatives have had enough of you. But do not ever, ever, point your Honda south on that fateful day.
Yes, I am finally in Florida and it’s 80 degrees, but my wonderful Honda looks like one of the finalists in “ Mad Max.” It looks as bad as I feel.
I am not sure, but I think it started in Virginia with a high-speed blowout. I had to stop for repairs, just in time for a record cold wave, which froze my gas tank closed and my trunk open. My normal pit stop and total relaxation at Charleston was complicated when Rosie The Wonder Dog turned into Cujo and decidedly did not want me in the house. Rosie leapt and snarled every time I came downstairs. Just a little tense.
When I fled there, I sought refuge in my personal Eden, Jekyll Island in Georgia, which is an island surrounded by dunes and bike paths. But Siberia was still nipping at my heels. It was so cold, I never got on the bike, which I have to take everywhere. I had a wonderful meal at the Villas, my traditional stop.
Boom.
In the middle of the night, the Jekyll Island plague struck with the force of a hurricane. I had been sick before, like you, but this was biblical. Both ends, all night. First, I was afraid I was going to die. Then, I was afraid I would not. This could be it. Somehow, the horrible night passed, and I called the desk to spend another night.
Sorry. Sold out. You have to leave.
If I wasn’t crying, I was close to it. The desk remained firm. I packed up the damned bike and my battered, weak, sweating self and hit the road. A stupid decision. I decided that I would die in the Sunshine State and stopped at the first motel in Yulee, Florida. Since I could not eat, I survived on ginger ale and aspirin for two days. Hot sweats, cold sweats. Chills and fever.
I was supposed to attend a wedding in Spring Hill but could not bring the Jekyll Island plague there. I planned to hang out in Fort Myers and infect Red Sox fans until the plague passed. But an Internet search of Fort Myers motels found most sold out because of the record New England blizzards. Plus my normal dive motels, which I had cultivated over the years, had gone from $45 per night to $170 per night.
Back to the Internet. There was a bargain ($80) motel in Tampa, near the Yankee spring training facility. Perfect, I could hang there for a few days and infect Alex Rodriguez with the plague. I got the room, unloaded the (still unused) bicycle and settled into my palatial room, still sweating, sweating, sweating.
When I got up in the morning, ready to infect the Yankees, I walked to the car.
Ready?
The back window of my beloved Honda was smashed in. It looked like the scene of a gangland murder. Nothing was taken. I have little to take. After a 15-minute investigation, the Tampa police decided that someone walked into the bike rack on the trunk and was so mad that they put their fist (hammer, bottle, whatever) through the back window. They also said some kids break car windows just for the hell of it.
When in doubt, call AAA.
Sure we will help, they said. That’s what we do. We have a “window service” department. But we are closed on Sunday. See you tomorrow morning.
The battered Honda is in the parking lot, the gas tank cover and the taped, impromptu “window” flapping in the breeze. I have yet to see a single baseball or pedal that bike one inch.
Here are your tips. Don’t tug on Superman’s cape. Don’t spit in the wind.
And don’t mess around with Friday the 13th.
(Plus, don’t bring your damned bike on vacation.)
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.