Odd coincidence.
In November 2007 I was leaving Altoona, PA in my rental, already by the city limits one wrong turn in. I was in no hurry, though. There was Pittsburgh rush-hour traffic ahead and a two-hour wait at the airport before my flight. It was dour outside. Bare. Leafless. Wet. Snow the day before.
Just as I am getting back on highway 22 and pointed in the right direction, an official-looking highway sign flashes by that tells me, Buckle Up Next Million Miles.
Did I see that? I haven't had an hallucination in 40 years. So: enchanted, I'm sure!
I could stop; have my camera. Traffic's light. It's cold though. I'm already a mile up the road going a legal 65. I keep driving, there's a Panera I know up ahead where I can eat lunch and grab their free wireless. A clothes-hanger of regret rubs my shoulders. I expect to see the same sign again, since I'm driving another 60 miles. I don't.
Désolé. That was a great sign. Highway travel should be more entertaining; it would save lives. I'm always falling asleep on interstates. They're designed to be hypnotic: predictable, unsurprising, repetitive, broad, no sharp angles, all soft curves.
Rumble strips have saved me from a dozing crash on at least two occasions recently. "They" should make civil engineers take a semester's worth of human psychology. Engineers work in three dimensions. Drivers occupy at least four and maybe five dimensions on the road.
Flash forward to France, May 2009. I'm driving Paul Duffy, lawyer, limousine chauffeur, joke machine, and photophanatic, from the Toulouse airport back to the house. We have two hours to kill, so we're all over the topic pasture. He mentions a sign he saw on the highway, Buckle Up Next Million Miles. Me: "You saw that, too? I thought it was a prank!" Him: "No, it's real. I have the photo. I'll send it to you."
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