Day One: The Decider, FOP, and Who's Route Is This, Anyway?

Our first day, Road Trip '14. A bit chilly for the end of May, but nice driving weather, and looking forward to the longest in miles, if not in duration, of our round-the-nation motor tours. One of the things that enthused us about this leg of the trip is that, instead of driving west on the New York Thruway, which we've done several million times (48 years ago we actually lived in Buffalo), or Routes 84 or 80 or 76 which we've done several hundred times each, this time we would take Route 88/86/17 across the lower border of New York State, which we've done only once, in the other direction at that. Why one road has three route numbers we can only guess, but apparently New York State and the federales have different opinions about it. Michelle (the sweetie who lives in our GPS) seems content to just call it Route 17. Some great town names, like Wiliwana and this one:

I couldn't help but wonder if John Marley's character in The Godfather lived there.

Although the scenery was often lovely, and totally countrified save for five miles fore and aft of Binghamton, I wouldn't recommend it. 80% of its 280-odd miles are what we would describe as mafioso; that is, they were made of concrete back in the days when organized crime controlled both the concrete industry and many highway commissions. Because seasonal expansion and contraction of concrete requires frequent expansion joints and two angle irons for each joint, spaced within a hundred feet of each other. The result, for a new concrete road, is a tick-tick tick-tick tick-tick sound for the length of the highway. For a slightly older road, the sound is thunk-thunk thunk-thunk thunk-thunk. And a few years after that it's blam-blam blam-blam blam-blam. A trip from New York City to Buffalo, before the Thruway mafioso road was replaced with asphalt, meant hearing thump-thump some 23,000 times. There are insane asylums in both cities, undoubtedly due to its many years as the premier mafioso road. Repairing such roads is neither cost-effective or technically possible, so states that have them often try to disguise their original misjudgment with another: covering them with a layer of asphalt, which works until the first warm day, when the asphalt follows the contour of the expansion joints and goes thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk.

Since few things are more boring than being a passenger when I'm driving, Mary Frances brings her knitting and her iPad. When I ask her what she's knitting (which I asked the other day and forgot already) she tells me it's a clutch. Since this car has an automatic transmission I assume there's some other meaning for clutch, but surely I'll forget that, too.

I've always taken pride in the habit of keeping my eyes on the horizon, or at least the next bend in the road. This enables me to see the maximum of the beautiful scenery ahead, to discern large or small animals in the road ahead who may represent a danger to us—or vice versa—or to avoid that moron who's too busy texting to stay in his lane. Or (you knew this), cops. No longer. After this winter in Massachusetts, especially after numerous visits to Fitchburg, I now suffer from FOP: Fear of Potholes. Now I focus my eyes on the road twenty feet in front of the car, searching for those nasty shadows that imply surface sinkholes that eat your tires and rims and nerves and wallet. Before setting out for this adventure, we had a number of adventures with potholes that resulted in a new tire ($150), a new rim ($600—I didn't even know I had alloy wheels) and an alignment ($90.) I crank the steering wheel this way and that avoiding them, and scaring the hell out of anyone coming the other who naturally assumes I'm that moron who's too busy texting to stay in his lane.

We were looking out the window at a great blend of tree varieties, conifers and deciduous. It seemed obvious that the word conifer was related in some way to cone, but the word deciduous caused me to wonder. Perhaps the root is common with that for decide. Which could mean that someone thought those trees decide to drop their leaves in autumn. Made a lot of sense to me, for a second or two. Then I realized that if leafy trees decided to drop their leaves, then the pines equally decided not to, which would make them deciduous, too! This is typical of the majestic thoughts that wander around in this old gray head while my bride is knitting a clutch.

At mid-afternoon we arrived at our first day's destination, Seneca Iroquois Casino in Salamanca, New York:

While the road to get there is hell under wheels, the Casino is clean, well-maintained, with lovely rooms and nice restaurants Only two complaints: the slots could be a lot looser, and the old dude who tends bar should know how to make a martini by now.