Road.

Over the course of twenty years, I have traveled to every state in the continental U.S. Up until this last trip, I had avoided Delaware. This omission had not initially been purposeful; however, as time passed and states were journeyed through, the ostracism became somewhat amusing, cultivating into ridicule toward a state that did nothing to deserve it. Except for being itself, that which is Delaware. My first road trip companion and I had a large map push-pinned to a wall upon which we would carefully and proudly track our journeys with a black Sharpie marker. First to New Orleans, then southwest, then northwest--- driving with rarely a destination, only a direction. It was thrilling to be on the road in a beat-up car with little money and few possessions. In the age before cell phones (ghastly, I know), we had to rely upon passersby if anything bad happened. Somehow, it always worked out without us appearing on a milk carton. I would prefer to claim that we weren't stupid girls, but that was not always the case. If one was moronic, the other offered no astute insight, instead going along without reservation to the land of Imbecilica, chortling accomplices to any end.

A fairly accurate description of me is: “homebody with wanderlust.” My home--- once settled, once content--- is my sanctuary, a sacred shelter which protects me and allows me to decompress. Its comfort is restorative, its stability is life-sustaining, and its Wolf Cave is inspiriting to fecundity. Still, at times, I start pacing, I get snarky, I have an edge to my behavior, my movements, my speech. At that time, I know I need to get the hell out of my surroundings as well as my head; I need to go somewhere different, see and hear something different, talk to someone different, experience something different. Diversity and variety assist with sanity. Maintaining my creative madness without making me batshit requires a farrago, sparks of real life to rouse the right side of my brain.

To allow yourself to be in a state of complete unexpectedness takes balls. The excitement of that which is unfamiliar, senses renewed and enhanced by sights and sounds never experienced, it feels almost like an hazardous indulgence. Road trips are not for everyone, to be sure. Those who are high-maintenance should best stay home or consult a travel agent for their extravagant hooey. On road trips, vanity is, at best, a slapdash longing; luxury is laughable; itineraries are for namby-pambies. The correct answer to, “What do you feel like eating?” is: “Food.” And to the question, “Where do you want to stay?” the only answer is: “The car is fine. Or, if we're feeling outlandish, a place with a bed and a shower.” Without any idea of what may occur, one tends to rely upon the adrenaline rush itself. But, that, too, will become spent, and then dependence is upon the traveling companion to remain steady, as he or she is the only consistency available. That is why one has to be highly selective when choosing a compatriot. Will the person have temper tantrums? Then, no. Will the person be boring? Then, no. Though I have many friends with whom an evening is an absolute delight, they would never make the short list of road trip collaborator. Because John and I have spent many hours together, long stretches of time without the need for entertaining one another or being solicitous, we felt confident that we could not only stand one another for nine days, but also enhance the experience.

In Cleveland, John and I had the first of personal space challenges. The bathroom was tiny and its exhaust fan was less than effective. To emerge from the shower, apply deodorant and lotion, dress, and swaddle long, wet hair, was annoying and sticky. With a turban comprised of an itty-bitty towel, I opened the bathroom door and announced, “John, here's the deal. You will probably see me in my bra at some point during this journey. I will not subject you to full nudity, but I need to not ruin my showering event by embodying all that is humid. Therefore, I may appear from the bathroom displaying unmentionables. I refuse to bathe and then be moistly.” He nodded with empathetic understanding.

We both reveled in the opportunities for stories, dialects, and absurdity. Whether it was the aristocratic family from Beloit, cod curds, the psychopathic havoc of Lyle Dingman, Sicilian mobsters killing pet cats, exploding biscuits, or ass pain, we hyperbolized every incident and encounter until we could barely contain our hilarity. As we delighted in our waggery, we mutually honked clarion calls, inciting each other to take it one step further, and then clapping and roaring when it achieved preposterous. Ah, such gloating scribes! Though our inventive ad-lib narratives kept us occupied and smiling, we both needed a day without seeing everything at 80 or more miles per hour. The first stop at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum was a fun diversion, but we both needed our legs to stride and our eyes to veer. We decided to stay just outside of Boston and spend the following day wandering the Common and the Public Garden. Finding a motel proved to be challenging with every affordable place booked solid for no apparent reason. And, to make matters more stupid, all the motels we called apparently had the same receptionist. All conversations were close versions of this: “Are you on Mass Pike? If you're on Mass Pike, I can get you here. Where are you on Mass Pike? What direction are you headed on Mass Pike? From Mass Pike, I can get you anywhere. Take Mass Pike and head east. Exit at the second exit. You see that exit on Mass Pike? We're behind the Friendly's Restaurant. You can see Friendly's from Mass Pike.” This was spoken brusquely and with a distinctive, pronounced East coast accent, and the individual seemed exasperated that I wasn't of the “Mass Pike” elite, knowing precisely to what she was referring as if I wasn't an out-of-towner. “Mass Pike” continued to appear in banter for the remainder of the trek, easily upstaging other quips and capers.

The road has magical allure. On the road, there are no obligations and there is no accountability. It is a quick taste of absolute nomadic ambrosia. One of the thoughts that John and I both had independently was, 'No one other than my traveling companion knows where I am right now. No one knows what I'm doing; no one knows how to find me. I am experiencing freedom.' And, with freedom, one has time to come to terms with the many events that are transforming and life-altering. In addition to igniting imagination, the road allows time and focus to process. Mostly, we are denied that opportunity by daily life. The “big things” aren't broken down, sorted through, and resolved; they lay untouched and neglected in our minds until they start to decay. As they rot, other unresolved issues begin to fester until our internal cacophony causes us to act out with anger, confusion, and irritability toward others. Too often, the death of someone close or a severe illness or the dissolution of a relationship has its brief moment and is then tossed aside because, well, hey, life goes on. Grief and remorse and suffering are never given proper examination and reflection to reach resolution and then metamorphose into a past experience rather than a continual inner ache. This cyphering becomes angst, and we are unable to pick apart our own cryptogram and end our own torment. And that is why people are screwed up in their heads and mean.

On road trips, we need not be hurried to compartmentalize, stash away, and recover from before our next shift at work or our weekend with the kids or what have you. In my situation, before leaving I had a follow-up appointment with the physician who did my abdominal surgery. She informed me that because of the MS, my guts were becoming defunct. Those normal nerve signals that go from the organs to the spine to the brain and back again that say, “Um, pardon me, Person. You should really go to the bathroom soon,” in my body, somehow had a break in connection so that, basically, both my intestinal system and my urinary system had become paralyzed, no longer able to let me know I needed to relieve myself or to void on their own. Splendid. This news made me want and need to leave town, not to escape, but rather to process. I knew that the latest progression of the disease was not something that I could or should hastily accept and then within a couple of days be ready to face the world with a quick and ready “bah dum dum ching!” This progression was not just pain or lack of coordination, symptoms I had become accustomed to; this advancement was an insidious aspect of the disease, one that I had assumed would happen when I became bedridden and suffered from nearly complete paralysis. I had purposely skipped over the chapters in the MS books dealing with this, not only because I figured it was a long way off, but also because of its unpleasantness. The discomfiture and mortification were harsh, even for me, someone who does not embarrass easily. It's difficult to be a naughty, bawdy hellcat when you have voiding issues. Even though I had yet to suffer an incontinent mishap, my self-confidence was squashed, thinking that now, with these new developments, I lacked any sultry oomph. Carnal debauchery seemed dubious at best, hopeless at worst. Not that there was a throng of suitors and wooers in zany pursuit of me, but still... it could happen.

Thus, with my octogenarian bowel regime of Citrucel, Colase, mineral oil, and Miralax, and specific guidelines to John that we needed to stop every hour or two so as not to have pee flow up to my kidneys or down to my pants, we departed. In addition to both John and I needing adventure, escapades, and an unconventional and bizarre medley of people, places and things, I needed the road's magic--- its guidance to grapple with issues, its protection when jostling with fate, and its restorative powers--- besting reality by transcending its restrictions of clocks, obligations, appointments, chores, and pressures. It was time to clear the crazy and accept fortuitous events, whether blest or curst, whether happy or wretched. 'Tis life, best lived on an impromptu journey via motorcar.

Next: Asylum.