Of course there's even a name for the fear of roads.
We all have our phobias, which may or not be grounded in reality. Some people fear snakes even though they have never touched one, or been threatened with one. Some are afraid of dogs despite never having had a bad experience with any.
I have my phobias too. Babies terrify me. Men should be kept safely locked away on their own damn planet.
In my sailing life, people, read landlubbers, ask me all the time if I am afraid out there on the big ocean. My response is: are you not afraid of the interstate, driving 90 miles an hour surrounded by cars on all sides no further than two feet away all traveling at the same speed? Fear is a relative thing.
I had to laugh at myself traveling south on interstate 95 one night. It was very late, and there was construction around the exit for the George Washington Bridge. The way the barricades had been set up and the signs were hanging, I found myself channeled off the interstate and into New York City. Worse yet, I had been funneled into the Bronx, along that section of highway where if you get a flat tire, get out of your car, call your insurance agency and report a total loss, because bad assed dudes are going to be all over it within minutes, removing every bit they can pry off, including you if you don’t run like hell. This was the same area where one friend was changing a flat tire on his truck when someone came along and actually said “right, man, you get that tire and I’ll take this one.” Luckily my friend was 6’4”, and looked like a deadly biker dude. He pulled himself up to his full height, folded his arms and said in his deepest voice. “Dude, this is MY ride.” The stripper stepped back, put his hands out while backing away, and said “sorry, man, no problem”. Luckily the guy didn’t know my friend was a total pussycat who is against violence of any type. Another friend was driving through the same area when his old classic VW van did what they do best: quit running. He had just come back from sailing the Caribbean, and had collected a load of various items to sell in his Connecticut “odds & ends” shop. He was messing with the motor in the back of the van when he heard a noise up front. Someone was trying to pry out a headlight while at the same time trying to free the emblem from the grill. One of the items lying near the top of my friend’s collection was a machete. He grabbed it and went yelling like a maniac after the guy, who ran off screaming. Anyway, here I was, alone in my vehicle, on the streets of the Bronx, in the neighborhood where these things happened all the time, and I began to panic. I could see the interstate; the street I was on paralled it. I began to hyperventilate and freaked out about being over here and not there. And then I had the thought that if someone picked me up at that very second, and plopped me down on the deck of a small sailboat in a heavy sea, I wouldn’t be nearly so bothered. That thought made me laugh, and I began to notice that most of the other cars around me had out of state plates. We all had our heads craned to the left to keep our eyes on 95. Many others had fallen for the same dirty trick. We formed a procession as the lead car discovered a way to get back on the highway. The rest of us followed like sheep, glad for the safety in numbers. Whew. Safe at last, back on the interstate, speeding in a crowd of cars.
Yes, I get afraid at sea sometimes. I’d be stupid not to. But I get petrified on the highways all the time. And that only makes sense. But it doesn't stop me from thousands of miles of road trips!
I have my phobias too. Babies terrify me. Men should be kept safely locked away on their own damn planet.
In my sailing life, people, read landlubbers, ask me all the time if I am afraid out there on the big ocean. My response is: are you not afraid of the interstate, driving 90 miles an hour surrounded by cars on all sides no further than two feet away all traveling at the same speed? Fear is a relative thing.
I had to laugh at myself traveling south on interstate 95 one night. It was very late, and there was construction around the exit for the George Washington Bridge. The way the barricades had been set up and the signs were hanging, I found myself channeled off the interstate and into New York City. Worse yet, I had been funneled into the Bronx, along that section of highway where if you get a flat tire, get out of your car, call your insurance agency and report a total loss, because bad assed dudes are going to be all over it within minutes, removing every bit they can pry off, including you if you don’t run like hell. This was the same area where one friend was changing a flat tire on his truck when someone came along and actually said “right, man, you get that tire and I’ll take this one.” Luckily my friend was 6’4”, and looked like a deadly biker dude. He pulled himself up to his full height, folded his arms and said in his deepest voice. “Dude, this is MY ride.” The stripper stepped back, put his hands out while backing away, and said “sorry, man, no problem”. Luckily the guy didn’t know my friend was a total pussycat who is against violence of any type. Another friend was driving through the same area when his old classic VW van did what they do best: quit running. He had just come back from sailing the Caribbean, and had collected a load of various items to sell in his Connecticut “odds & ends” shop. He was messing with the motor in the back of the van when he heard a noise up front. Someone was trying to pry out a headlight while at the same time trying to free the emblem from the grill. One of the items lying near the top of my friend’s collection was a machete. He grabbed it and went yelling like a maniac after the guy, who ran off screaming. Anyway, here I was, alone in my vehicle, on the streets of the Bronx, in the neighborhood where these things happened all the time, and I began to panic. I could see the interstate; the street I was on paralled it. I began to hyperventilate and freaked out about being over here and not there. And then I had the thought that if someone picked me up at that very second, and plopped me down on the deck of a small sailboat in a heavy sea, I wouldn’t be nearly so bothered. That thought made me laugh, and I began to notice that most of the other cars around me had out of state plates. We all had our heads craned to the left to keep our eyes on 95. Many others had fallen for the same dirty trick. We formed a procession as the lead car discovered a way to get back on the highway. The rest of us followed like sheep, glad for the safety in numbers. Whew. Safe at last, back on the interstate, speeding in a crowd of cars.
Yes, I get afraid at sea sometimes. I’d be stupid not to. But I get petrified on the highways all the time. And that only makes sense. But it doesn't stop me from thousands of miles of road trips!
There's no place like home. Only the old, gray part on the left is mine. The rest is new construction and is only a shell inside that looks like this:
