End of the Road

The last adventure behind the wheel had been in late October, after the undiagnosed foot problem was causing all sorts of problems and new limitations that I would not accept. The prolonged problem throughout October had me ready to lay off the bowling for a while. I had a planned absence in one league that I needed to prebowl for anyway, and my roommate who serves as primary control freak caregiver did not want me bowling at all. Like a naughty teenager I had been once upon a time, I stole my own car and went bowling. My scores sucked.
Under ideal circumstances, I could still do OK driving then. Some legs of the journey were actually enjoyable driving. The parts of the journey that were not enjoyable more than overcompensated for the easy parts.
Due to the closure of the School Street exit, I had to go by a less familiar route. If I had thought to go via Newport Avenue, I would not have had the scarey moment. The road markings are clearer on Newport Avenue and other traffic would have kept me in line with the road. Instead I went by the industrial highway. The traffic markings there grossly need repainting. I guided by the side of the road, which worked only until the industrial train tracks leveled and opened to the car traffic road and there was a break in the curb and the asphalt crossed and merged with those tracks.
While driving on the tracks, I did not test the claim of that old MacGyver episode that Jeep Wrangler wheel bases perfectly align to standard railroad track widths. I thought it more prudent to use the rugged vehicle to jump the curb and get back on the car roadway. I don’t recall ever seeing a train on those tracks, but why take chances just because the non-traffic ride on the tracks was somewhat more worry free than contending with other drivers who might be paying less attention than I could physically give?
No train came; I could have made it the half mile or so to where the tracks opened to the next street.
I did take the better marked road home. That caused its own problems as the setting sun flared against the dirty windshield and my dirty eye, stopping me dead at one point, an action not appreciated by other drivers with loud horns.
I’d never been so tempted to kiss the ground in gratitude of safe arrival from my own driving before. I decided I wouldn’t be driving again.
I didn’t get caught for having snuck out and never did tell the roommate. I fessed up to two caregiver type friends, one of whom found it horrifying and the other hilarious.
So why did I, one last time after this harrowing experience? It’s what I call "elderly adolescence."