Little Nascar

Often in my everyday work schedule I will find myself on I-75 headed Southbound towards Knoxville or points that branch off in either Eastern Kentucky or Tennessee. The common thread of all the miles travelled is that one just never knows what adventure lies around the next mile marker. I always travel Old 150 to Mt. Vernon and enter the Interstate just above Renfro Valley. When I still had the black jet it was light it up and lift-off about 9 0'clock in the morning most of the times when I was heading towards points south of Knoxville. The routine never wavered---the jet would be approaching 75 mph as it merged with the usual commercial traffic of the interstate, knowing that if I averaged 80mph that I would be buying a medium coke at exit 129 in Tennessee in one hour. That was taking in account that we would slow down to 75 for the speed trap before the Livingston exit, and the army of bored troopers as they ticketed hundreds of unwary yankees as they approached the first London, Kentucky exit. There is always a calvacade of Canadians as they are either coming or going to Florida. Sometimes it seems that Eisenhower just developed the Interstate System to accomodate our Canuck neighbors to the North. Now in all sincerity some of these Canadians look old enough to have participated in the battle of Quebec when Wolf defeated Montcalm, but that's probably just the effects of a lifetime of harsh winters and too many shots of liquor after a hard day at General Motors. It is hard to foster genuine feelings of comradeship with these fellow travellers when you're nodding at them at upwards of 90 mph as you tackle Jellico Mountain with a vengeance.I have been over that mountain hundreds of times over the last 20 years and it's always the same , and yet always different as your reflexes receive a workout dodging old retirees, strung out truck drivers, and interstate alligators(huge carcasses of blown -out rubber truck tires). Everything slows down about mile marker 134 (Caryville, Tennessee) as the tan and dark brown trooper cars have a propensity to ruin the days of carefree travellers.The saddest thing about this area is that those nasty little beetles have killed all the pine trees on the side of these mountains and left gaping black holes in the sides of the forest. Over the past five years there has been a battle of morals as a church started in a metal building complex off of Exit 141 and then moved to a larger unseen building to be replaced by "ADULT World GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS". . It seems the church crowd is battling the den of iniquity with a 5 story metal cross, but it appears there are more semis parked in that old nasty gravel parking lot every time I go by. For the un-initiated Exit 141 is the place that has the fluorescent ferris wheel that flashes in day-glo orange and yellow that fireworks are to be had. I guess I could stop for Fireworks or "GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS" but I know that just 12 miles down the road is my first destination-- McDonalds and a smoky smelling restroom followed by a large coke in a plastic cup that always has something about the "Vols". How that coke can taste so good in that nasty orange cup is beyond me. As I near Knoxville traffic picks up and the chore becomes harder as I-40 and I-75 converge and cars play ping-pong with each other with regularity. There's always construction in Knoxville, and wrecks are as plentiful as the old Canadians are headed to Tampa. It seems in retrospect that the retired Canadians and the Michigan malcontents are imprinted like Canadian geese to head south every fall and north every spring. Michigan drivers are a totally different story. They are usually the old geezers that are attached close to your bumper, flashing their high beams in their impatience for you to pull over to the slow lane. I think most of them are always in such a hurry to get to Florida because they are so old that they think they are out-running the Grim Reaper. I have had them flash their highbeams at me while I have been doing over 90 mph, to pass me in a metallic flash of chrome as they have the cruise set on 105 in their lumbering Cadillac Deville or Buick Park Avenue, usually accompanied by a blue-haired female with a yapping white poodle draped over their shoulder.I often wnder if someone is dreading their arrival in Florida, or if someone in Michigan is elated that they have finally gone South for the winter.The beauty is that I'll never know all these answers as I finally hesd North out of Knoxville again, headed to the first Mt. vernon exit. The only certainty is at the Williamsburg exit is a waiting medium coke with my name on it doled out by some pimply faced Cumberland College student. I can hear the ticking metallic sounds of the jet's motor as it is cooling down from the subsonic descent down the mountain. I check the cell phone for messages, and light the motor up, the jet fires and its back to Helm Street and the inner city.