The Road Trip Without Pancakes

The worst road trip of my life is the only one that I didn’t want to take.

I like the road-trip experience. I pack a cooler, load up Google maps on my iPad, fill the tank of my Audi with gas, and head out.

I live in Idaho, so there are country roads all around. I drive to the outskirts of town – any direction, it doesn’t matter – and choose a road randomly. Sooner or later, I come to a lake, or an outdoor flea market, or a sign pointing me to a scenic hiking trail.

On the Saturday of the worst road trip of my life, I was in the car to escape a bug bomb.

This Saturday, I really wanted to be at home playing Call of Duty, but pesticides and my lungs are incompatible.

I reached the outskirts of town when I realized that I’d left the cooler on the kitchen table, where the air was now saturated with pesticide.

I’d left my iPad on top of the cooler.

I remembered the ham and cheese sandwiches in the cooler. I was suddenly very hungry. Still, I was on a road trip, and I like road trips, so I was determined to have a good time.

The antique shop in the next town with the cast iron skillet in the window that I’d been hoping to find for years wasn’t open on a Saturday.

The diner at the next crossroads, Joe’s Best Pancakes, had gone out of business. Pancakes sure sounded good right now.

I pulled off the road and rummaged through my glove box, hoping for a map. I discovered instead a handful of stale Tootsie Rolls. This encouraged me slightly, so I pulled back onto the road.

Moments later, I spied a hand-lettered wooden sign with the words “HISTORIC HOMESTEAD CABIN, FIVE MILES” written on it.

Five more miles?

The house was still fumigating. Why head back to town before it had finished?

I had my stash of Tootsie Rolls. I was prepared for an adventure. I continued towards the historic homestead.

Just as it started to rain, I turned up a narrow gravel road towards the homestead that I could clearly see 100 yards away.

I resolved that the rain didn’t matter. I had arrived at my destination. Nothing was going to prevent me from enjoying my historic homestead.

I parked the Audi, hopped out of it, rain in the rain to the homestead’s front door.

Of course, the door was locked. Actually, locked isn’t an adequate description. The door was boarded shut.

I admitted defeat to myself. I was headed home.

Except that I couldn’t head home, because I’d forgotten to tank up before I left town.

Naturally, there was no cell phone coverage – I was in rural Idaho, after all – so I spent the night sleeping in my car before a passerby came to my aid the next morning.

My road trip that Saturday was the worst in my life.


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