White Knuckles

I knew I'd have to drive to Cleveland on Friday, and I knew it was going to snow. I had no idea, though, how epic Friday would be.

The day started on the wrong foot with the pulsating headache that can only follow a night involving tequila. My tolerance to beer has increased over the months, and the post-beer hangovers are pretty mild. Tequila, on the other hand, has been beverage non grata since 2004... for a damn good reason.

Due to extenuating circumstances beyond my control, I had a shot of tequila on Thursday night. One was all it took to put me in a spot of bother on Friday morning. In a din of pounding temples and less-than-pleased stomach noises, I looked out the window and saw the half-foot of snow on the ground.

"Oh hell no," I said to no one in particular.

The ensuing three hours were a nightmare, and a repetitive one at that. Every lane change had my tires losing grip amid the inches of slush that hadn't been cleared by traffic, a rapid onset of spin first in one direction and then the other. Worse was when a truck would change lanes in front of me, launching so much slush at my windshield that I'd be blind until the next pass of the wiper, which never came soon enough.

Worst of all was when we'd come across the snow plows, which were trying in vain to clear the slush. In those conditions, braking to match their speed did little to slow you, but instead was pretty good at inducing a hair-raising slide. Given that even following the plows, the slush was dangerously deep, I have to wonder what good they were actually accomplishing after the first dose of salt that morning.

Cars were spinning out all around me. 18-wheelers jack-knifed, and overconfident SUV pilots made fast acquaintances with the guard rails. The radio reported that North Jersey cops responded to over 150 accidents that morning, most of which were single-car.

I didn't crash. My heart pounded through my chest and my system was running low on adrenaline before I reached Hazleton, but I didn't crash.

For what it's worth, I attribute this success to bike racing. Quite frequently, I would brake for no apparent reason, have time to wonder "why did I just brake?", and then someone six cars ahead of me would brake, causing a chaotic chain reaction to which I'd already reacted.

See, Mom and Dad? A palpable (or nearly so) benefit of bike racing.

The drive was, without question, the most harrowing experience I've ever had in a car or any other moving vehicle - two wheeled, four wheeled, airborne, whatever. I reached Cleveland in a haze, absolutely exhausted and still somewhat shaken. In comparison, the ride home was blessedly easy, the only challenge being a self-imposed limitation on bathroom breaks.