I Loathe Atlanta Traffic

Jones 40-foot motorhome with car and bicycles in tow

All Aboard the Circus Train

I am delighted—and surprised—to report that my husband, Herman, and I are still married and we have safely arrived in Biloxi, Mississippi, the first stay on our planned two-month motorhome trip West.

This is indeed good news, since to get here we had to drive through Atlanta.

I have a long, painful history with Atlanta traffic.

I once dissolved into hysterical tears after riding Interstate 75 in the red leather bucket passenger seat of my mother’s 1972 Chevrolet Camaro. Well, not in the bucket seat, exactly, but with my rear end braced two inches above it, both feet pressed tight against the floorboard and legs locked in a vain attempt to brake and slow down the car.

When I began to sob, my mother decelerated long enough to turn to me and say, “What in the world is wrong with you?” Then she hit the gas and roared up alongside another car whose female driver had cut her off a few minutes earlier—either in panic or self-defense.

Mother cranked down the driver’s side window. Manually. The Camaro didn’t have power-anything except a bucking bronco engine. She held onto the steering wheel with one hand (What? You need two?) stuck her head into the breeze and yelled at the offender, “You little vomit.”

Pulling herself back into the Camaro and gunning even harder, Mother passed on the right, doing at least 80.

When Herman and I came through The Big Peach this week, the traffic was more horrific than ever. The sky had already run out of cats and dogs to rain down on us and was hurling thunderbolts, huge splashing splats of water a bucket at a time, and a plague of frogs. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but only about the frogs.

After forcing us onto a route straight through the city center, the GPS had suddenly gone ambiguous. Even though four out of five lefthand lanes were lit on the display screen, the woman in the box exhorted us to keep right, keep right on I-85 ahead.

“Which way?” Herman cried.

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” I wailed. “It’s so confusing.”

“I don’t’ care,” Herman barked. “Make a decision. We’re a team. I’m driving and you have to make a decision.”

He must have been truly frantic because that’s the first time I’ve heard that. No matter where we go, he has the same standing joke about me and my backseat (or technically, shotgun) driving. Our rig is as long as a transfer truck and completely unwieldy: A forty-foot long one-lane wide motorhome. A car hitched to that, dragging behind. And two bicycles perched on a carrier on the back the car.

Every time people see our circus train, they ask me, “Do you drive it?”

I smile like Mona Lisa and turn to Herman.

“Oh yes,” he says. “We took a 6,000 mile trip a couple of years back and she drove all the way.” He pauses a beat. He has had a lot of practice with this particular routine and his timing is impeccable.

“Really?” his audience says, amazed.

I nod, conspiratorially.

“Oh yes. She drove every mile of the way,” Herman concludes, triumphantly. “I just held the steering wheel.”

Come to think of it, I guess we are a team, after all.

 Did this make you laugh? Make you cry like a little girl in a souped-up Chevy? I’d love your comments and memories below. Want to follow our progress across the country? Use the form at the right to subscribe to the blog. Or click one of the buttons on the right to follow me on Facebook or Twitter.  Thanks for reading!

8 thoughts on “I Loathe Atlanta Traffic

    1. Charlotte Post author

      Thanks, beloved and favorite son. (Srsly?) So far, it’s all rain and relatives (had a GREAT visit with your older and also beloved brother) but we can’t wait to get to Tombstone and the West.

      Reply
  1. Margaret Mock

    Traveling and writing–what a fantastic life you have. I’m happy to travel along via your blog.

    Reply
    1. Charlotte Post author

      Thanks, Margaret. You’ll appreciate that we did the NC Mother visit on our way . . . and now it has rained more than 2 inches since we pulled into Biloxi. Looking forward to the desert Southwest, for sure.

      Reply
  2. Tammie

    Love this! Especially that you drove and Herman only held the steering wheel….isn’t that how it is supposed to happen?

    The description of riding with your mother brought back (terrifying) memories of riding with my late husband…..who was convinced that faster was better regardless of road conditions or traffic. His only concession was to turn off the radio in traffic “so he could think.”

    Reply
    1. Charlotte Post author

      Yikes! I’m sorry to hear that. And, yeah, somebody’s gotta do all the REAL driving. Might as well be you and me. (You and I?) See. I’m second guessing myself already.

      Reply

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