The last two days, as the tires rumbled along the road, the background lyrics were something like this checklist: next city Tampa, next Gainesville, then Valdosta, Atlanta, Chattanooga, Nashville, Bowling Green, Louisville. I think my tan began to fade as I crossed the Georgia state line. I needed a sweater in Tennessee, a coat in Kentucky. When I got bored of reading, or listening to an audio book, I started taking pictures out the window. Don’t worry — only when I wasn’t the driver! I am surprised that any of the 70mph photos captured anything more than a blur, but there were a few cool ones of old dilapidated barns. I’ll post some in the next few days.
Then, as night fell this evening and I was determined to make it home, the distances between places on my mental checklist became shorter, the names more familiar once I crossed the Ohio: 30 miles to Scottsberg, 20 miles to Seymour, 20 to Columbus, 20 to Franklin, 10 to Greenwood, 5 more to the beltway, 15 miles home. The outside temperature slipped to freezing as we hit the city limits.
Indianapolis is going to be a crazy place this week. For now, I don’t care; I’m just glad that I’ll be sleeping in my own bed tonight after being gone for most of the month.
The husband and I started to sing this song as we crossed the bridge between Louisville and Clarksville. Neither of us knew more than the first line, though we should since it’s played each year at the 500 Mile Race. I like this version by Louis Armstrong better anyway.