Smoky

The Appalachian Mountains must be traversed to go from East to West anywhere north of Georgia. We began to head home at near sea level in South Carolina’s Low Country. The road climbed quickly into the mountains and once at the summit the descent into the Midwest’s fertile farmland is more gradual. Numerous Interstates crisscross the range and this year we chose to drive east on I-40.

I-40 was blasted through the mountains. Layer upon layer of geology is laid bare by road cuts. A tall concrete barrier with little or no shoulder bounds the driver’s side, and shear rock towers over the passengers. The road feels narrow and confined. A common sign seen before blind curves is “Falling Rocks”. It is unclear how to react to this pronouncement.

Trucks are restricted to the right lane and this forces them into convoys. The long strings of them are intimidating to pass especially on curves. Every so often there is a straightaway but mostly the road is in constant flux: right to left, left to right, ascending and descending. On certain curves, large yellow warning signs graphically depict trucks tipping over and threaten certain disaster if the traffic does not slow to 45 mph. Of course, no one does.

The mountains do not affect our Honda Accord V6 Coupe. It has enough horsepower, brakes, and handling characteristics to make light work of the mountains, that is if used in the proper dosage. Paddle shifters on the steering wheel get a work out downshifting, so I only have to brake on the sharpest curves.

I try to follow Marty’s (my all things car related consultant) advice to brake before the turns and accelerate through them but usually get the timing wrong. Driving here requires both hands on the wheel. I try to feel the car rather than look at the gauges. When the road straightens, I depress the gas pedal in an attempt to put distance between the tons of rolling freight and the car’s rear fender. I am often successful.

It is calming to be alone on the road. We glide through the turns and even with the electronic steering, I can feel the tires gripping the asphalt. Cloudbursts moved through the valley leaving smoky trails of clouds. The tires give a bit on the freshly dampened road. What would it be like to drive a true sports car through these mountains . . .

I have driven over these mountains since I was 17 and seldom see Porsches, Jaguars, Corvettes, and their more exotic counterparts. They seem to be reserved for the big city. The mountains are left to more mundane vehicles.

Half way between South Carolina’s Low Country and Chicago is Berea in the Kentucky Highlands. It is home to Berea College, and a vibrant arts and crafts community. The college stresses practical work experience, so each student must have a job and sometimes two. The upside to this is that the college is mostly tuition free.

We stayed at the Boone Tavern Hotel. It is affiliated with the college and most of the work force is students. The first student we interacted with was the young man who helped us with our bags. As I handed them over to him, he said in a quiet envious voice, “Nice car, mister”. To that I replied, “You are absolutely correct young man, it is a nice car”.

The next day we detoured to Cincinnati to see the art museum. At this point most of the drama was out of the road. It was replaced by the stress of negotiating the endless construction projects that continued into Chicago. It had me wishing for hairpin curves and steep declines, for the claustrophobia of concrete barriers and tractor trailers, and for the sight of the smoky clouds of the Appalachian Mountains.