Who Needs Interstates?

Last night I went on a little adventure. Let me tell you about how I fought the guardrail and the guardrail won. (And lest you think i’m a bad driver based on this and other occurences, I assure you, i’m a good driver. I think.)

On the way back from SC I hit parking-lot-esque traffic on I-85 South before I even got close to Atlanta, so I decided I was in no mood for such holiday shenanigans and took a right off into the country in search of a shortcut to I-75 North. There’s something mildly enjoyable about not knowing exactly where you are (especially when you do know the general direction you need to be going in.)

The “shortcut” consisted of Route 20 West to 575 North (you would think that 575 would join in to I-75 at some point, but you would be very, very wrong) which ends into Route 5 North which takes you to places no one lives. At this point, I knew I was heading North towards Blue Ridge, GA and needed to take a left at some juncture in order to find my way back to I-75. I did. But unfortunately, instead of choosing 76 West, I chose Route 2 West.

Let’s dig deeper into the genetic makeup of this famed Route 2 West. I hear it’s a beautiful drive, and i’d probably agree based soley on the number of scenic view pullover spots there are. However, such beauty and lush scenic viewing opportunities were lost on me in the middle of the night as I was driving through alternating rain storms and mile-wide fog banks. Also, scenic Route 2 is the most singularly curvy road I have ever driven on, doing its best impersonation of a sidewinder for the better part of 20 miles, up Fort Mountain and back down.

I tell you all that to let you know that it really wasn’t my fault when I hydroplaned around a curve DOING 20 MPH and not-so-delicately bounced off a guardrail somewhere amongst the scary woods, oddly pitched animal shrieks, and special effects crew of The Fog.

It’s fairly amazing that the hood of my truck doesn’t have a wrinkle in it, but just below the hoodline, the front passenger-side corner dents in at about a 45 degree angle now. That headlight shines about ten feet into the air somewhere close to the driverside now, and I also managed to somehow hit the back passenger-side corner on the guardrail too. Whenever I make a left turn, the plastic from the displaced front bumper makes the worst sound ever as it’s slowly worn down by my tire.

Here’s to guardrails, holiday adventures, getting intentionally lost in the Georgia hills, and beginning to suspect my Honda Passport is making a play to be a more memorable vehicle than my beloved, though wretched, ’89 Isuzu Trooper.