The joy of being lost

Somewhere West of Bath, New York, on I-86, the Pilot Intense Energy Coffee kicked in and I was overcome by the manic need to call Todd Dills of Overdrive magazine to pitch stories that I would probably never get around to writing.

It was more like a rant session -- something someone with letters behind their name should be charging $200 an hour to listen to.

But by the time I burned through two or three ideas and hung up with Todd, I saw a sign that elicited an involuntary gulp. Then, an utterance emitted from my lips, one not fit for this august publication. Somehow, while talking trucking with Todd, I had made the rookie mistake of veering off of I-86 and onto I-390. 

Then the telltale sign: TO I-90. By then my wife, Denise (CB Handle: Jumper), and I were approaching Rochester and the New York Thruway. "Well, maybe there was a bad wreck down there or something,” I proffered. Granted, that may just be what an absent-minded 60-something tells himself to soothe the sting of his own mental decrepitude. (And for the record, I wasn't rooting for some 15-car pileup with multiple casualties and medivacs hovering overhead down on I-86 just to buttress some delusion of divine appointment.)

Every now and then, there's nothing wrong with keeping an open mind and making the best of things. 

Now westbound on I-90, knowing this blunder would add an hour and a half to the trip, we passed a sign that ol' Jumper read out loud:

"Niagara Falls. Sixty-seven miles. Hmm."