Excerpt

J. Dalton Hayes

From Chapter 7, pages 119-121:

We flew out of our regional airport, changed planes at the hub and flew a “puddle-jumper” to the airport nearest “The Steadfast”. I will have to admit that I had failed to locate the Inn on a map and I expected that we would be a few minutes away. We were 60 miles away! And The Professor had rented a Porsche 944!

I queried him about the choice of vehicles and the need to stow our fishing gear and he looked at me as if to say, “Why ever would I rent an SUV to drive 60 miles into the rugged mountains in a vehicle crammed with fishing gear?” Never having been this deep into western Virginia (and not paying a penny for this expensive vacation) I let the subject drop immediately. He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder as he said, “My Boy, in just a few minutes you will understand why the Porsche is the perfect vehicle for this leg of our journey. If I have a good time at the conference I will let you drive the return leg.”

I should have been suspicious immediately upon seeing his face look so, shall we say, “manly”. The car rental clerk smirked and giggled and said, “Y’all goin’fer ah ride, Dude!”

Somehow we crammed all the suitcases and tackle into this tiny red car and we pulled onto the two lane highway from the airport. He was careful and observed the speed limit and my concerns began to fall away. For a few moments it almost felt like one of my college “road trips” but the YAHC was unlike my fraternity brothers in too many details.

I relaxed and chatted with him about the conference and the feeling of being officially “on vacation” started to settle in. The gentle rolling hills were beautiful to look at and I was becoming energized by the possibilities of the next four days when he asked a question in a straightforward and neutral tone.

“Hey, Skippy. Do you ever get seasick?”

I looked over at him in his pilot sunglasses and leather driving gloves and said, “Why, I have occasionally gotten seasick during severe weather but I am not prone to motion sickness, thank you. I understood you to say that the river at the Steadfast is 30 feet wide and we will wade and fish from shore. Are we going on a boat?”

He didn’t turn to look at me. “No, no, we’ll fish from shore. It’s just that I see a Pharmacy ahead and if you get seasick easily I thought we could stop and get you some Dramamine or something.”

I looked ahead and saw the same sign for a local pharmacy. It was right before the sign that said “Blue Ridge Parkway 3 Miles”. I was slightly confused by the conversation but I replied forcefully with a small laugh, “No, no, I don’t need any Dramamine.”

The tone of his reply, “OK, suit yourself,” should have prepared me but I had never been on the Blue Ridge Parkway before. And not in a red Porsche. And not with a guy in pilot’s sunglasses and driving gloves who is starting to look “manlier” and “manlier” by the minute.

Let me pause and give you a piece of free advice, Mrs. S. If you ever face this situation while riding with him, politely ask him to stop the car, exit from the passenger’s side door and walk the remaining 58 miles. That’s my advice.

The Commonwealth of Virginia has a mountain range that I had only seen from the air. It is much more impressive from the ground. It has a highway right through said mountain range that rises and falls, twists and turns, dips and weaves, spins and pirouettes and is best driven at about 35 miles per hours if you have a solid stomach and a stoic inner ear. It is best driven at 15 miles per hour if you, or anyone you have ever known, has become seasick in a Class 2 hurricane while 25 miles at sea in a canoe.

When he made the left turn and started down the entrance ramp I got my first hint that in addition to Dramamine I would soon be requesting a helmet, roll bar, and Last Rights. What was the hint?

How about we start with his phrase, “Helllllooooo, Parkway!”

Then, “Yeah, Baby.”

Then how about my head being flung back against the headrest and my lips ballooned by the rushing wind like one of those 8 mm movies of test pilots on jet sleds in the Nevada desert in 1950. All of this happening simultaneously with the screaming of 300 horses under the red hood which blotted out the radio and any hope of my shouting pleas to slow down before we are both killed.

Hey, you know I am a manly guy, too. I am 28 years old, six feet two and weigh 190 pounds. I can run a marathon (not that I ever will again), I hold a brown belt in Karate, I have boxed competitively, and I have earned respect in several other sports. My manhood does not need to be validated further.

But I do not wish to ever, not even once, not on a bet or dare, in any way, ride with him after he says the words “Yeah, Baby,” again.

You can imagine the ride if you have ever hitched a ride with an F-18 pilot who has had three times the lethal dose of caffeine.

It seemed to last forever and I thanked God Himself when he began to slow down and pull over onto a stony island outcropping overlooking a verdant valley. I was thinking about looking for the hotel as soon as my neck regained it’s strength but as my flaccid head rolled over towards the driver’s seat I saw gray pants and a large gun standing by the rear view mirror. No matter what commands I gave it, my head would not elevate to look at the face above the pants. The Professor got out and greeted the Trooper warmly.

Next I heard a high pitched male voice begin to say, “Gall Darn it, Professuh! Watch y’all doohun back in these parts? Ah was sittin’ up dare in my speeyud trayup and I watched diss red Porush screamin ‘roun deese turins and I sayed to mahsayuf, “Days onee one mayun what driyuvs like dayat and dat Duh Professuh.” I hope I dinnint gib no offense to y’all passenger by pullin y’all ober but I haid to say “Hey”, ya know. Y’all hab a grayut trip and a very pleasant day.”

The Professor replied, “Thanks, Roger. Say Hey to your lovely wife. It was good to see you again.” Then he turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, Skippy, we’ll make up the lost time.” I moaned and prayed for unconsciousness.

We did the 58 miles in 58 minutes. When we screeched to a halt in the parking lot of the Steadfast, he jumped out, still energized and said, “Hey Skippy, how ‘bout lunch.” I couldn’t move.

The Valet opened my door, bent over to the level of my face, grimaced, and said, “Ahmmm, sorry, Suh, but y’all is lookin’ a little green. Would y’all like us to call y’all a doctuh oh would y’all like us to teck y’all straight to the hospituh?”

Threatened with hospitalization I mobilized my aching bones and wobbled out of the Porsche. As he stripped off the driving gloves and acknowledged the porters and valets who all said “Moanin’ Professuh”, he turned back to me and said, “Gosh, Skippy, you do look a little off. Do you want lunch?”

The fluid in my inner ear balance mechanism was still lurching irregularly and my stomach was dodging the opposite direction. I took a breath deeper than any I took in the last 58 miles, commanded my stomach to stop thinking for me, and said, “Sure. Lunch would be great seeing that I lost breakfast at Mile 32.” He laughed.

He strode (I waddled) up onto the grand verandah and into the Lobby. The Desk Clerk echoed the earlier “Good Moanin’, Professuh! You room ready! Welcome back! And dis muss be Doctuh Skippy. Good Moanin’ Doctuh, please to meet y’all. You room ready too if you want to go up dare and lay down a spell. Y’all ain’t lookin’ none too good.”

And with that the Clerk turned back to The Professor and said, “Professuh, did you warn him ‘bout you and dat damn Parkway? No, don’t answer dat. Shame on you!”

Last modified: 05/19/04