Emotions at 102 Degrees

Winchester, VA

We turned the corner at Ocean City, Maryland before sunup. Old Danny Boy parked me on the side of the street, and then walked to where he could get a shot of the “Sacramento CA 3073” sign. It was already warm, windy, and muggy – a combination we’re not used to.

Rehoboth was a very quiet place unto ODB pulled the trigger on my ignition at 4:45 this morning. Ocean City was a different story. Quiet, yes – but far from deserted. OC is a big-time resort and party town, There were plenty of folks making their way home as daylight encroached over the Atlantic. One lip locked couple leaning against a utility pole evidently believed they already were home . . . with the door closed . . . to the bedroom.

Okay, that was interesting, but not worth going around the block for. But hey, he’s the driver, not me. What’s a mo-cy to do?

He claimed the reason he went around the block was to get the sign shot.

Right.

That corner in Ocean City was a big deal for Mr. Boy. He’s big on end-of-the-road phenomena. And he’s been obsessing about US 50 for years. We even stopped long enough for him to have a cup of coffee from the 7-11 at that very corner.

Then we were off, barreling eastbound and down on a nearly empty US 50 in rural Maryland. Conditions gradually changed the closer we came to Washington DC. By the time we crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge (one impressive structure, this) US 50 was four lanes of madness. Later, I would understand why.

This is a guy thing. I know all about guys. My rider is one. Guys understand that before they get into DC, traffic will come to a standstill. Therefore, they take that into considerations when they figure how fast they will drive. In this case, the speed limit is 55. However, since a fair amount of time will be spent below 10 MPH or stopped altogether, one must drive 80 when one can in order to average things out at 55.

The lack of city governance is obvious in DC traffic. Timed lights? No way. Arbitrary street repair with no warning of lane closure? Who needs warning signs? Just start digging and let drivers figure it out when they get there. Street blockades? Hell yes. We wouldn’t want anyone driving past the White House for cryin’ out loud. Parking? Park in Virginia and take a tour bus back to DC. The tour companies need the money and DC doesn’t have room for such mundane stuff as parking. After all, legislators are dropped off and picked up by one of the hundreds of dark windowed town cars that park illegally in the outside traffic lane.

By now the thermo’s at 102. Humidity must be pushing 99%. ODB, in his mo-cy gear of long sleeved cotton shirt and heavy jeans, decides he needs to visit Arlington. I wait in the parking lot, one of the few in DC. No wait, Arlington is in Virginia. I rest my case.

So, off goes Mr. Tender Heart to see Arlington. When he comes back he’s a basket case. Not only is he exhausted from the heat and humidity, he’s completely overwhelmed by what he’s seen: JFK’s Eternal Flame. Ted and Robert Kennedy buried under simple wooden crosses. Reports fired in the distance in threes – funerals are underway. A horse-drawn cortege passes. The Tomb of the Unknowns and the changing of the guard there. But most of all, rows and rows upon endless rows and rows of perfectly aligned marble gravestones.

I tried to get him to leave, but no, he “has to” visit the Viet Nam Wall. He would not listen to reason. So, with My Rider about ready to fall over from heat and emotion, we head off to The Wall.

It took a while to find a place to park. We’re back in DC now. Finally, we land a spot; he leaves me to walk across a field of grass. It’s so damn hot! He’s thinking about sacrifice and how silly it is to complain about the heat, considering what so many have faced. He arrives and walks down to the monument. Again, he is overwhelmed. These soldiers were his peers. His name could easily be on the wall had things gone just a little bit different back in ’64. It was just too much. Too many names. Too much heat. Too much humidity. Too strong a reflection back from The Wall. He kept seeing himself.

We try to flee DC but are unable to get through jammed traffic. He’s taking a beating from a relentless sun. My engine is throwing off even more heat as we sit in a stagnant sea of iron.

About the time he starts seriously contemplating criminal behavior, traffic breaks and we start moving. That brings some relief. At least the air is moving. The thermo drops to 100-even and stays there until we reach our motel, two hours later.

(Google Map Update)