What a pleasure it is traveling this way. "See the USA in your Chevrolet" went Dinah Shore's jingle when I was a kid. I do my driving these days in a fine German automobile with understated styling, a six cylinder Volkswagen Passat, built for the Autobahn with a beat up, fiber-glass chair topper on the top.
Long hours at the wheel may be tiring but do not hurt the way even a short hop by airplane does.
Transferring from my wheelchair to one of the back breaking, butt bruising aisle chairs hurts; getting schlepped onto a plane, indignity aside, is a major pain in the posterior.
I've been through the drill a hundred times, give or take. I know how to do it - I have above average communication, facilitation and negotiation skills. I am not intimidated by authoritarian personalities nor is Judy. She knows how to play blocking back when she needs to. "Keep your hands off my husband," she yells when a well intentioned "helper" reaches for my arm while I'm in mid-transfer.
It's so much more fun and so much safer flying with my beloved. But still, I carry a pain pill or two in my shirt pocket as the planes that fly out of Bradley Field get smaller and the seat cushions thinner.
I never once gave up the wheel on the drive down here. And for the first time in years the thought came to me that I might just have one more long-haul, cross-country road trip in me.
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