Right now I am pivoting between the cloudy skies through the window and the Weather Channel that announces in bold scrolling text that I should be on the lookout for a string of tornadoes that are currently decimating the area between me and where I need to be in eight hours. The map of the continental U.S. has a blob of concentric squiggles that vary from green, to yellow, to red, to purple at the heart of the storm. Guess where I am? I calculate my chances, weigh them against how badly I need to get to where I'm going, and decide to wait another day.
Just a few days ago I'd been west of the blob, where no cautionary colors lurked, starting my drive from California to Virginia in the perfect West Coast weather. Two weeks earlier I had crossed a stage and been given a piece of paper for which I worked four years. Two weeks from now I will be diving into a summer of intensive training that I'm not sure I can handle. But right now I am poised— half-nostalgic, half-anxious—and my poise turns to paralysis. ---
The funny thing about roadtrips over five hours is that somewhere after you've gotten sick of listening to music, you hit this zen-like quality of reflection where your mind begins translating the scenery into thoughts, that fly by you as the terrain does. By the time I hit Utah, the cliffs and canyons translated to my past four years of college—a crazy, ever-changing landscape composed of sedimentary layers of fun and homework. My heart aches that after four years . . . hours . . . in Utah, I don't know when I'll be back. And if I were to go back, would it be the same? Or would it just be the same topography without any of my memories? ---
A few hours out of the desert, I was driving through snow and ice as I crested the mountain above Denver. Any time you drive down to Denver, you know that you've gone pretty high. As tractor trailers swerved to the side of the road, and skid marks showed signs of icy patches, my heart began to race. I focused on the road, trying to remember to slow down, not stomp on the brakes, and steer into the skid. If I weren't so frightened, I'd be annoyed. I wanted to stop the car, run to the side of the mountain and yell into the dark that was spotted with snowflakes and city lights, “I'm on top of the world!”
I was over eleven-thousand feet high—my proverbial and literal mountain top and I couldn't enjoy it because I was terrified of what might happen next.
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Once you've conquered the Rockies, it's a straight, flat shot from Colorado to Illinois. Once again you hit a trance where you seem to be driving the same stretch of road in an infinite loop. The road is clear, there are no surprises, and every few miles there's a sign advertising a farm with an 8,000 lb. Prairie dog or a five-legged cow. I've given my share of friendly insults to the Midwest and its repetitive continuity of fields and sky. But this time, as endless cycles of redundant road passed by, I could feel myself calm down into a moment of clarity. I could see the road—it went for 951 straight miles between Denver and Decatur. This was manageable.
---
So now, here I am—poised between my moment of clarity and a string of unknown tornadoes. The cautionary concentric squiggles have waned to a light green, even though the sky rumbles that it's not quite through yet. In Illinois, you can see the rain from miles away as it races toward you, building to a downpouring crescendo. Black clouds frame the snowglobe sky and I think of turning back, of waiting until I'm older, more experienced, and ready to handle these tornadoes.
Rain begins to blur the edges of the horizon. I calculate my chances, weigh them against how badly I need to get to where I'm going, and drive forward.
