FOUR: Down The Gap
No matter how far away from home I go, I try my best to get home as quickly as possible so I can sleep in my own bed. That's led to late-night and really early flights, and insane driving - sometimes 8 or 10 hours to get home.
When a stretch of highway has its own nickname, well, that's something special.
A few years ago, on a Thursday, I was just outside Gettysburg, PA, teaching an all-day conference for United Methodist church leaders. The event was over at 3 p.m. and I briefly thought about spending the night, but then just optioned to drive it - all 9 hours and 11 minutes. My ETA, I told my Vicki, was going to be about 1 a.m. give or take an hour for stops at a Cracker Barrel and rest areas. I've never met a Cracker Barrel or a rest area that I didn't like.
I decided to avoid the fifth level of hell known as I-95 through DC and Richmond. Instead, I decided to take the I-81 South route down to I-77 to Charlotte and home.
But, this story isn't really about any of that.
No, this little post is about bad advice received at the Kangaroo Express near Chances Creek and the Fancy Gap Pottery and Fabric Outlet all near Fancy Gap, VA. The Kangaroo Express, a convenience store chain with nary a noticeable connection to Australia, had a store on I-77 at the start of a 6.2-mile stretch descending down a 1,300-foot grade so steep it's called "Down The Gap." (Click that link to take the drive!) It's a semi-dangerous, brake-smoking run that obliterates the speed limit on I-77.
At about 10 p.m., I stopped at the aforementioned Kangaroo Express for gas, to pee, and to get a cup of coffee - in that order. I don't know why we pee and immediately feel the need to again fill our bladders, but we do.
With coffee in hand - and a package of chocolate Swiss Rolls (which makes me laugh to think about), I made my way to the open cash register and there's a salty old truck drive standing at the register to my left. He's got a cigarette in his mouth and one eye is closed so he can sort of dodge the smoke in his face. He looks at me and asks, "Headed South?"
For a minute I felt sort of like Johnny in a sequel to The Devil Went Down To Georgia. I thought I was about to be challenged to an interstate race by the devil. Daddy always told me to respect "working men" which is code for "men who sweat while working" and so I said, "Yes sir; headed home and that's south of here."
"You got far to go?" he asked, and I told him I was headed to Columbia, SC. He said, "Late night ahead." He turned away and then turned back, grabbed a 5-Minute Energy Bottle, and tossed it at me. "Pour that in your damn coffee and you'll hit Down The Gap on 77 and won't remember nothing till you get to Columbia."
And, my name's Johnny and it might be a sin, but I'll take your bet and you're gonna regret cause I'm the best there's ever been.
My experience with 5-Hour Energy, to this night at the Kangaroo, had only been intestinal. That high-caffeine shot did nothing for me but make me fart. Bad. Real bad. But, what the heck. When a salty old devil gives you advice on I-77 at the Kangaroo, you take it. I poured that energy drink in that black coffee and drank it down.
I'm still not 100 percent sure what happened.
But, I do remember flying down that steep asphalt grade with all the windows down, Atlanta Rhythm Section cranked up on the stereo, talking to Jesus with perhaps one leg hanging out the window. Maybe I just tried to put a leg out the window. I don't really remember. I sang loudly all the way home, and when I got home at 2 a.m. . . .
. . . I did two loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and read an entire issue of Sports Illustrated. Had I had an hour of daylight, I would have cut the grass. About 7 a.m., Vicki found me crashed in the recliner with what she described as a cloud of the foulest smell she has ever inhaled hovering around me.
She just threw a blanket over me and went to work.
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