Once I’m past the toll plaza gate, I’m in the
chute. Eastbound or westbound, Ohio or
Chicago, no turning back without
hassle and a fee.
It’s a river, and no matter how many times I
run its course, there are flashes and
splashes of fresh sights and sounds, plus
strangers floating alongside – on their way to
destinations of their own.
And once I drift over to the Tri-State after
sidling into Illinois, I’m committed again. Miles
tick by, and the transponder silently posts my
tribute. It’s the contract I signed when I
flopped down on the current of the
road. The cost accounted for a priori; a free
exchange – cash for mobility.
Northward lies Wisconsin. Cheese shops, Harleys, and
hills. Headaches and hope – who knows what can
happen? But I won’t make it that far today. About
halfway, I’ll turn around – the funny kind of
turnaround required by the Tri-State: Proceed from the
oasis, a few miles or more, then exit, re-enter, and
back on the current in the opposite direction.
Another tentative journey to be continued.
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