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Lessons from the RoadMay 10, 2006 It's true, when I reached Route 28 yesterday morning, with more traffic all going 10 mph faster than anything you see on the Vineyard, I did wonder for a moment Whatthafook am I doing here?? Over the years I've known several long-time islanders who are afraid to drive off-island. Did they always hate off-island driving and move here to avoid it? Or were they once upon a time nonchalant highway drivers who moved here and then gradually lost the facility? It's not hard to see how this could happen. Not only is the highest speed limit 45 mph, but the widest of roads offer only one lane in each direction. Drive on Martha's Vineyard for more than a few months and you'll soon know all the main roads and most of the minor ones. (You can spend a lifetime learning all the dirt roads and byways, where signage is idiosyncratic and lights nonexistent, but when you're lost in the wilds of Chilmark you're rarely going more than 10 miles an hour.) Off-island you have to make split-second decisions based on confusing signs while barreling along at 60. I'm happy to report that, though I hadn't driven off-island in about four and a half years, I can still do it. In fact, having done it again yesterday, I've had to add a disconcerting chunk of insight to my simmering stew about the "Land of the Scared, Home of the Slave." We may be deathly afraid of germs, gaining five pounds, and anyone who disturbs our assumptions by looking different or saying or believing something we don't like, but we're out there on the interstates cutting across three lanes of traffic all moving at average speeds between 60 and 70, holding our own with 18-wheelers bearing down behind or thundering by on the right -- protected by no more than a thin layer of lightweight steel armor and a seatbelt. What if a tire blew? Doesn't have to be your tire; how about the guy two cars ahead of you? We're all speeding along trusting not only in the speedworthiness of our own vehicles but in those of all the other guys, trusting not only in our own driving abilities but in those of all those other people -- even though we know that it's a sure bet that some of them are drunk, some of them are inexperienced, some of them don't react as fast as they used to, some of them are talking on cell phones, changing CDs, or reading maps as they drive . . . Yesterday it was raining most of the way up and back. From Portsmouth south to the junction of Interstate 495 and the Mass Pike it was pouring. Visibility was appalling. Each vehicle sped along in a cloud of mist and spray. At one point a huge splash covered my windshield. Couldn't see a thing. Hoped the splash wasn't going to be continuous -- and it wasn't, it was just kicked up by the car to my right pelting through a minor flood on the side of the highway. I drove as if I'd never heard of hydroplaning or the negative effect of water on braking ability. Brakes? At those speeds and in those conditions you're better off forgetting you even have brakes. We're deathly afraid of so many things, and so terrifyingly susceptible to fear-mongering, but we're also breathtakingly brave when we have to be, or when the payoff is high enough, or when the penalty for giving in to our fears seems too high. I tend to think of people who don't drive, or don't drive off-island, as impaired in some way, phobic perhaps. The truth is that they probably understand the dangers better than the rest of us lemmings.
This trip was for my friend Lisa Barnett, who died last week of a metastatic brain tumor, after a valiant three-year battle with what started out as breast cancer. I hadn't seen her since before her diagnosis, but we were in pretty regular e-mail communication, thanks in part to a horsey list we were on together, and I read her blog, in which she recounted her -- "adventures" is the first word that comes to mind, and it won't go away, so I'll use it, and if it makes her battle sound like the stuff of heroic legend, good; it was -- in which she recounted her adventures with her illness. I usually had to read her posts twice to realize just how serious the situation was, because what came through so strongly was her spirit and courage and optimism, and sometimes even her curiosity about and even fascination with what was happening to her. Brave? Breathtakingly, extraordinarily brave -- and yet maybe it's not so extraordinary. Melissa accompanied Lisa on the journey as far as she could, and now she's having to move on without her partner of 27 years. All of Lisa's friends and colleagues are having to move on, a little more bravely because of her example than we would have been without it.
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