Breaking Even

Interstate 195, which runs between Cape Cod and Providence, RI
Google Maps Street View

So Wednesday I had to take The Missus Herself to the airport for the first stage of her latest mission to California. Flight was scheduled to leave at approximately 1006 local, departure from Chez Sarge was set for 0800 local. Everything went according to plan.

Until we got half way to Providence on that road shown above, I-195, what I like to call "The Moron Highway." The road was this slowly moving (think less than 5 mph) nightmare. People were swapping lanes willy-nilly, all seeking the Holy Grail of the faster moving lane.

Like the Grail, that didn't exist.

I call this road "The Moron Highway" for several reasons. One is the tendency of many travelers on this road to camp out in the middle lane and go under the virtual speed limit. The other is the tendency of some travelers to hit the far left lane to pass someone, then stay there all the while slowly decelerating back to being under the virtual speed limit.

Not to mention the multiple times I've seen occupants of that middle lane texting on their cellphones. Or reading the newspaper. Seriously, reading the newspaper. What, dude can't afford an iPad? I mean, who reads newspapers anymore?

So displays of idiocy on this particular highway are not unknown.

What's that? What's a "virtual speed limit"? Simple, you have three speed limits on any highway in the U.S., and they are:

1. The actual, posted speed limit. Which is what you see on the signs beside the road, if you're paying attention. On I-195 (outside of Rhode Island) that speed limit is 65 mph.
2. The "I think I see a cop" speed limit. Which is typically 5 to 10 mph under the posted speed limit. Why people do that is beyond me. I shocked a buddy once by actually passing a state trooper. "You just passed a cop!" he said, all aghast. "Dude, the cop was doing 55, the speed limit is 65. He's a cop, not a pace car."
3. The virtual speed limit. This is that mystical "keeping pace with traffic" speed limit. It's the "safety in numbers, they can't stop all of us" speed limit. This can be anywhere from 5 mph to 20 mph above the posted speed limit. I kid you not. In Massachusetts, on the interstate highway system, 85 mph seems to be the standard.

So, that's what I call the virtual speed limit. I've even had police officers confirm that. One used this phrase (after pulling me over) "Geez Sarge, keep it down to 75 like everyone else, willya?" No, I didn't get a ticket but the trooper thought I passed a semi with a bit more panache than he thought prudent. In hindsight, I have to agree. (But damn it, it felt good to go 85 after trailing this a-hole for twenty miles!)

So. Where was I? Oh yeah, on the way to T.F. Green in Warwick, Little Rhody's airport of choice.

So there I was (see any Juvat post), stuck in traffic, watching the clock tick down to the "we're not gonna make the flight" time.

We were now moving at a sluggish, stop and go, 10 mph pace. Well, when we weren't at a dead stop. Saw one kid pull into the median (grass and trees, about 50 yards wide) and cross over to the other side. (No, no, no. Not that "other side," the other side of the interstate!) The look on his face was priceless. At first I was offended at his scofflaw attitude. A few minutes more of sitting, not moving, I began to admire the young lad's devil-may-care, eff-this, attitude.

Shortly thereafter, the love of my life decided to take command of this mission and directed Your Humble Scribe to take the next exit. We can skirt this mess, she said with confidence, and get back on the interstate on the other side. (No, no, no. Not that one. I thought we covered this?)

I protested that, surely all of those other folks getting off at the exit have the exact same idea. Which means that we would just be exchanging one traffic jam for another. Only the other one would also have the "joy of traffic lights."

The Missus Herself was giving off signals now that her "suggestion" to get off at the next exit was "directive in nature." So, good trooper that I am, I aimed Big Girl's nose at the exit and got onto the "surface roads," as the men and women of law enforcement are wont to call them (at least that's what all those episodes of Cops taught me).

There we traveled at a lusty and robust 40 mph for all of about a quarter of a mile.

Then we were, once again, in traffic Hell.

After a great deal of foul language, imprecations against whatever cruel fate decided to snarl traffic on this day and a lot of "You're an idiot" looks from the mother of my children, we aborted the "let's skirt this mess" concept and got back on the interstate. About a mile west of where we'd left it. Further on, but no closer to our goal. Which, I remind you, was the airport.

Traffic was no longer stalled, now it was sluggish. Turning to the answer to my prayers I said, "We're gonna need a miracle to get you to the airport on time."

(Hhmm, why does she keep sighing and shaking her head?)

At that point traffic began to move. I mean really move. Slowly we approached the "I think I see a cop" speed limit, passed that, got to the actual speed limit and then, lo and behold, traffic was flying, a good 10 to 15 mph above the posted speed limit. We had a chance. A slim chance, but if nothing else went wrong, we would make it on time.

Now as the airport exit came insight, I told The Missus Herself that I would drop her off at the Departures area so she could begin the checking in process while I sought a place to park the car. Oddly enough, she agreed. Not that I was expecting an argument, well, I was but that's a tale for another time.

Dropped her off, headed for the parking lot.

We've won!

Got to the United counter to find the lady of my dreams shaking her head and looking all adrift.

"What's wrong?" I asked. (I have a keen sense when it comes to detecting trouble.)

"Stupid machine says that I don't have a reservation."

"Hhmm, let me try."

Nope. Nada. Nothing. Ain't no damn reservation.

Then the lady behind the counter says, "Oh, that flight has been delayed. So we cancelled your reservation."

We've lost! Despair, doom and despair. Oh shit, oh dear. What do we do now?

Then the lady of the counter says, "Because it's going to be so late, we've booked you on another flight. You'll get to L.A. in time to make your flight to Fresno. Here's your boarding pass."

We've...

I don't know. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes...

You break even.

A text message received at 0238 local informed me that The Missus Herself was at The WSO's house. Safe and sound. Mission accomplished.