How I Kicked Off My Christmas Vacation.
It's a good feeling to look back on a year and accept the fact that really, it was a hell of a good one.
The rest of Christmas, however, was pretty damn epic. Here's how it began for me.
My target departure time last Friday was 12:30, which I met, barely, as I was still buying presents for people I was going to see that evening. I made decent time right up until I hit the typical maelstrom that is D.C.'s mixing bowl, and from then on until I got north of Baltimore on I-83. My goal was twofold: To make it to northern New Jersey in record time, while taking the most convoluted route possible in order to not pay tolls. Hence, the 83 instead of the 95.
What can I say, I'm stubborn.
Anyway, as soon as the traffic let up, I cruised peacefully through the southeastern Pennsylvania farmland. All of a sudden, my control went nuts, and after a few seconds to determine that "Yes, this is a pull-over kind of emergency," I eased [more like "shuddered"] my car into the shoulder, which couldn't have been more than five feet wide. After carefully timing my exit into the six-inch space between me and the 75 mile-per-hour traffic, I was able to see that my left rear tire had practically disintegrated off of the rim. No hope of resurrection, whatsoever. Plus, I wasn't sure I had even a doughnut to limp to the next exit.
At least I wasn't, you know, dead or anything. Well, actually, the tire changing process almost cured that...the six inches of space between the car and the highway was all the space I had between me and speeding 18-wheelers while I operated the hopelessly ineffective winch jack. Despite the precarious position [and my recurring mantra of involuntarily attempting to recall statistics of motorists killed while changing tires] I managed to operate the jack from behind the car, untangle the mass of rubber that used to be my tire from the hub, and swap it out with the spare doughnut that I wasn't sure I had in the first place.
Of course, once that ordeal was accomplished, I found out that said doughnut was hardly inflated. Perfect. Fortunately for me, I was able to roll to the next exit which had a Wal-Mart Tire Center. I wasn't about to wait three hours with them to get a new one, but I did get re-inflated. I rode the rest of the four hours up to New Jersey with white knuckles, brazenly defying the "DO NOT EXCEED 55MPH" warning on my little spare by barely breaking 60.
I arrived in front of my grandparents house only 1.75 hours behind schedule with a simmering temper and a growling belly. I am a good grandson though, and not wanting to bring my troubles into my family's home, I sat in the car for a moment, took a few deep breaths to calm myself, and then slowly got out, and locked up. Smiling at the thought of mashed potatoes, Swedish meatballs, seeing my family, and drinking a cold beer, I walked a few steps through the snow to the kitchen door.
It was at this precise moment that I realized that I had just locked my god-damn keys in the car...
The rest of Christmas, however, was pretty damn epic. Here's how it began for me.
My target departure time last Friday was 12:30, which I met, barely, as I was still buying presents for people I was going to see that evening. I made decent time right up until I hit the typical maelstrom that is D.C.'s mixing bowl, and from then on until I got north of Baltimore on I-83. My goal was twofold: To make it to northern New Jersey in record time, while taking the most convoluted route possible in order to not pay tolls. Hence, the 83 instead of the 95.
What can I say, I'm stubborn.
Anyway, as soon as the traffic let up, I cruised peacefully through the southeastern Pennsylvania farmland. All of a sudden, my control went nuts, and after a few seconds to determine that "Yes, this is a pull-over kind of emergency," I eased [more like "shuddered"] my car into the shoulder, which couldn't have been more than five feet wide. After carefully timing my exit into the six-inch space between me and the 75 mile-per-hour traffic, I was able to see that my left rear tire had practically disintegrated off of the rim. No hope of resurrection, whatsoever. Plus, I wasn't sure I had even a doughnut to limp to the next exit.
At least I wasn't, you know, dead or anything. Well, actually, the tire changing process almost cured that...the six inches of space between the car and the highway was all the space I had between me and speeding 18-wheelers while I operated the hopelessly ineffective winch jack. Despite the precarious position [and my recurring mantra of involuntarily attempting to recall statistics of motorists killed while changing tires] I managed to operate the jack from behind the car, untangle the mass of rubber that used to be my tire from the hub, and swap it out with the spare doughnut that I wasn't sure I had in the first place.
Of course, once that ordeal was accomplished, I found out that said doughnut was hardly inflated. Perfect. Fortunately for me, I was able to roll to the next exit which had a Wal-Mart Tire Center. I wasn't about to wait three hours with them to get a new one, but I did get re-inflated. I rode the rest of the four hours up to New Jersey with white knuckles, brazenly defying the "DO NOT EXCEED 55MPH" warning on my little spare by barely breaking 60.
I arrived in front of my grandparents house only 1.75 hours behind schedule with a simmering temper and a growling belly. I am a good grandson though, and not wanting to bring my troubles into my family's home, I sat in the car for a moment, took a few deep breaths to calm myself, and then slowly got out, and locked up. Smiling at the thought of mashed potatoes, Swedish meatballs, seeing my family, and drinking a cold beer, I walked a few steps through the snow to the kitchen door.
It was at this precise moment that I realized that I had just locked my god-damn keys in the car...