Yes, you read right. This is all about my trip to California one weekend just so I could get some nookie, or as my one friend likes to put it, fornication. Before I delve into the entire story of my adventure in Californication, let me first say that I am truly delusionally optimistic. Because, as you’ll see as the tale unfolds, I can convince myself of nearly anything.
The plan was hatched innocently enough during a phone call one day with my then psycho-girlfriend, Connie. We were doing the coastal flight dating thing every month but this particular month, neither one of us had planned far enough ahead to get tickets.
We really wanted to see each other again, so I casually said, “Well, I’ll come down anyway.”
Open mouth, insert foot. The story of my life. Super Bowl weekend was about two weeks away and Connie really wanted to watch it with me. No, we didn’t have tickets to the Super Bowl. It wasn’t even in San Francisco. But as I said, the need to nookie can convince you to do some pretty strange and stupid things, this being one of them.
This was in the pre-Google Maps era, so I could only figure out the routing and estimate the time using the good old fashioned analog mapping process. I pulled out my trusty Rand McNally and started to plan my weekend escape.
It didn’t look too hard. Drive down I-5 for about 700 miles or so south, turn right before Sacramento, head for the coast. I really wanted to make the trip, so I convinced myself that it was only 14 hours from Seattle to San Mateo.
On the appointed Friday I loaded up my cooler of goodies in the back seat, put my boom box on the passenger seat next to me, and headed off down the road. I left at o-dark thirty, knowing that I wouldn’t see first light until I hit Portland.
The first couple hours were a snap. I stopped to refuel in Oregon somewhere, waiting for the guy to fill my car. I’m still not sure why they make someone else fill up your car in Oregon. But I will leave that to a later RobZerrvation to explore the reasons why this is so.
Onward I go. I had planned to make a minimum of stops – gas and pass only – so I had sandwiches, drinks and snacks in the cooler. I also had some No Doz in the car. As anyone knows, the drive through Oregon is extremely dull. After you pass Portland, there’s really no change in scenery for about five hours as you make your way to the Oregon/California border.
Then the scenery really changes. You start to make your way through the Siskiyou Mountains, which I’m pretty sure God put there so you could tell the difference between Southern Oregon and Northern California.
The hours clicked by… 13 then 14, then 15 then 16. I swear that they had put the Bay area on rollers for it wasn’t getting any closer. Finally, 17 hours later, I pulled into the apartment parking lot. I had made it.
I stumbled into the apartment where psycho-girl met me. I was so exhausted that I proposed to her right then and there. I figured if she said yes that while I may end up with a lifetime of misery, at least I wouldn’t have to drive back in two days.
Yes, you read right. I went down on a Friday and had planned to drive back home Monday. I had called in sick on Friday morning. This wasn’t as easy to do as it is now. There wasn’t any voicemail at the office so I had to wait until 7:30 or so to call in. I used a pay phone at a rest stop, praying that some trucker didn’t sound his horn while I was pretending to be home sick.
The next two days passed without issue. We visited went to Fisherman’s Terminal, wine country and yes, we did watch the Super Bowl. I also got the nookie but in retrospect, the halftime show was better.
On Tuesday, it was time to head back. I was supposed to head back Monday but just couldn’t bear the thought of driving all that way again. As with the trip down, I prepared to leave at o-dark thirty, hoping to beat the traffic jam that clogged every thoroughfare of the region. With any luck I would reach I-5 before the sun rose.
It didn’t exactly work as planned. It seems that the Bay area always has traffic, 24/7. So I did a lot of “go and stop” there before I finally hit the main arterial that would lead me home.
Things were moving right along, until I reached the Siskiyous that is. It seemed that I had forgotten to consider the fact that it snows in the mountains from time to time. A lot in fact. Especially in January. Chains were required. I didn’t have any. After a stop at a store to buy chains at Guido “dumbass, you forgot to buy chains -hahaha!” prices, I headed back on the road.
Bump, bump, bump… for miles at a snail’s pace. Finally, I reached the Oregon border and it would be an easy eight hours back home.
It was, until the flashing lights appeared in my back window just as I crossed into Washington. I had my headphones on… I was in trouble. Thankfully, I wasn’t stopped for this. It was because my tail lights weren’t working. I found out later that all that bump, bump, bumping had loosened a wire underneath the dash, shorting out the running lights. The officer only stopped me to let me know this and to tell me to use my flashers for the rest of the trip.
Flashing all the way, I finally made it back to my apartment in Bellevue, about 19 hours later. I was frazzled. It was about 11 p.m. by now and I would need to back at work, well on the road to recovery, in a few hours.
Ever since this time, when someone asks me how long it takes to get from Point A to Point B, they want me to double check my estimate on Google. So for the record. Google Maps says that this particular route takes 13 hours, 47 minutes. Not far off from my delusional estimate 20 years or so ago. So, let the world know that Google is just as delusionally optimistic as I was, apparently because someone who works there wants to get a little nookie, too.
Out on the Treasure Coast, thinking of taking a day trip to Key West which should only be 90 minutes or so from here,
— Robb