What a night!

I literally crawled home last night.

After a night on the town with Robin, my running buddy, it was the only way I could get to my house.  My car is parked two streets from our house, facing the wrong way, but against the curb - sorta.  But there was no way I was going to walk to my house.  I stood there, wobbling, took a tentative step and fell.  I tried to stand and couldn't even manage it.  I seriously considered the possibility of taking off my shoes to see if I had better luck in my bare feet.  No really, I did.  Eventually I hit upon the idea of crawling.  If you had driven up our street last night you would have been treated to the sight of me crawling on hands and knees along the driveway.  Not pretty, but it worked!  I was able to haul myself to an upright position at the front porch, and use the banister to steady myself as I laboriously climbed the seven steps to my front door.

I could blame Robin, but she really isn't responsible.  So I blame running.

Last night Robin and I went to the premiere of the Hood to Coast documentary.  (which was awesome, by the way)  Afterward we went our separate ways via public transportation.  My train, of course, showed up at the stop 26 minutes after hers left it!  Some folks are born lucky.

By the time I got to where my car was parked, the lot was deserted.  I mean not a car in the place, and it normally holds hundreds of cars.  The late hour was part of it, no doubt.  But 10:15 pm doesn't explain why there was no traffic on the streets, and almost none on the nearby highway.

When I stepped out of the train, the reason for the ghost-town parking lot was manifested.  There was a sheet of ice covering everything.  Nice, glossy, ice.  Shiny.  Pretty.  Slippery.  Deadly.  I started hyperventilating.

The car was parked about 35 yards from the train.  It took me 10 minutes to get to it.  I turned on the engine (and my already belabored heart skipped a beat as the little-engine-that-could refused the first attempt), plugged in my phone to recharge it (just in case), called Scott to get a weather report (it's maybe a little slippery, but fine), and sat to wait for the car to get warm and my nerves to calm down so that I could scrape the windows.

Ten minutes after that, with the car warm on the inside, and the windshield ice-free, I gathered up my courage and put it in "drive".

We all know that it is a good idea to test the road conditions when it is safe to do so, so creeping along at maybe 10 mph I hit the brakes and skidded a la Tokyo Drift.  Okay.  In slow mo.  But you get the picture.

Now terrified beyond words (for those of you who don't know, black ice in Wyoming caused an accident of epic proportions, flipping our pickup and tossing Scott out from under the canopy - I no longer "do" ice) I faced a steep hill with a sharp curve just to get out of the driveway of the train station.  With a lot of praying, a lot of self control to keep my foot off of the brake, and just enough pressure on the accelerator, I fish-tailed up the hill and managed to stop before I skidding into the street.

Made it.

Only 6.5 miles to go.

I won't detail the nightmare of driving on ice-covered streets.  Of chugging along at 15 mph.  Of realizing with horror that because I couldn't get the ice off the rear window, and had neglected to scrape the side mirrors, I could not see to change lanes.  And as I was in the left lane and would need to make a right turn, that was a problem.  (in case you are interested, I did it!)  There were city buses and cars and trucks pulled over and piled up left and right.  Idiots who drove 40.  Folks who thought MORE pressure on the brakes was needed due to the ice.

If you've never been to our house, the last mile is the worst.  Picture a half-mile long, very steep inclined bridge.  Then you get a reprieve of a quarter mile of gentle uphill.  One more steep uphill section where you also make a sharp left turn across traffic followed immediately by a right turn, only now you are heading down hill.  Then just a bit more gradual downhill to our street which, again, begins with a steep uphill.

I made it, white-knuckled with terror, to our street, turned, gently hit the accelerator, and prayed.  My little Suzuki Swift pulled a mere 20 feet up the hill then went from forward motion to treadmill (running in place that is) to gently sliding down the hill.  Backwards.  Oh, and sideways.  I got the car to stop.  And then tried again.  Exact same results. 

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, I said "screw it!" and managed to get back onto the other street where I parked on the wrong side of the road, but in a legal parking section, gathered my things, and headed for home on foot.

All went well until I hit the hill, and then I could get no traction.  If there was something I could hold onto, like the rock wall of the corner house, I was fine.  But the open tundra of the driveway defeated me.  And so I crawled.  A mere tenth of a mile, but ice melts and I soon had soaked jeans and soaked gloves.  Ahhh, the misery!



Warm and dry and the arms of someone I love never felt better.