“Road trip, road trip!” The Princesses chorus near full volume from the back seat of the car. The acoustics are akin to those of a small, metal building and the sound penetrates to my very core. When they were four and three, they did this to express excitement. Then their voices were sweet and melodic, but these years, after voice training, either one can shatter crystal on the moon and they shout the refrain just to watch my ears and nose bleed. It also serves to shatter my nerves before we get to the end of the driveway, meaning I have 12 hours and 600 miles to stop shaking. Yes, we are going on a road trip.

I want to break this one up into two parts, but the Admiral doesn’t. She says that it is too much work to unload and reload a car packed with enough goods to stock a small Walmart, she doesn’t sleep so well in a motel for one night and why don’t we just get it over with. What the Admiral wants, the Admiral gets, so I am stuck behind the wheel of the car for at least 12 hours.

I am the designated driver for these excursions. It is not because I am macho, and driving is the purview of the male of the species; no, the Admiral is a fine driver. The reason I drive every inch of the way is because I would have to do her job if we switched, and I can’t, I just can’t.

I refuse to sit in the passenger’s seat with my feet lost among the immediate-need supplies for the trip, with the dog’s bed in my lap, and for most of the trip, the dog. The Admiral is also responsible for the handing out of sandwiches, the dispensing of car-sick medicine, the refereeing of fights between the Princesses and the dog, the distribution of peace and sanity, and a myriad other chores that call for the wisdom of Solomon, and the patience of Job, neither of which I possess in measurable quantities.

Thus, I sit behind the wheel, lost in a world of my own, driving strange roads, with strange drivers, in places I’ve never been, and that’s just in Alabama. It gets a lot crazier in Mississippi, Tennessee, Arkansas, and finally, Missouri. I try to compare drivers in the various states, but truth be told, none of them drive as well as me, so they are all bad.

There is an irony that the people who earlier shouted an oak tree into dropping its acorns, now revert to talking in whispers or hand signals and I am further isolated. I must resort to, “What, I didn’t hear you,” or, “Say again,” or, “Speak up!” Most of these pleas for interaction go unheeded, or are answered with, “We’re not talking to you.” Okay, I’ll travel alone. I’ve got thousands of strangers all around me that I can interact with if I hit one, and sometimes, it is tempting.

This isolation continues until I am included in the conversations with, “I need to stop.”

“We just stopped 30 minutes ago.”

“I know.”

“Didn’t you go then?”

Silence is my answer.  I start looking for a roadside park, or an exit, while saying, “You know, if we don’t stop this stopping, we are never going to get there.”

Silence again.  I know when I’m beat.  Did I mention the dog is female, too?

We do finally arrive. My nerves are shot, as they have been since 10 feet into the trip after the shouted chorus. I am exhausted, but those who have slept half the way here want to swim, climb the 20-story hotel, leap tall buildings in a single bound, go to dinner, an amusement park, anything but sit in the quiet hotel room.

“What’s the matter with you?” they ask.

A wicked smile crosses my face, and I shout, “Road trip, Road trip!” I can’t shatter glass, but surprise in any battle is a key to victory. The shocked looks on their faces make the trip seem worthwhile. I smile, “Anybody want to go for a swim?” Silence. Revenge, sweet revenge. I do love a road trip.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.