Perhaps it was the fact that I opted to go out and par-taaay with a friend of mine, who was in town all the way from Whitehorse for the holidays, instead of sleeping before I left for Chicago that caused me to be overly emotional on my drive. Or perhaps it was something more. I was in Toronto for all of eight hours the night before my departure. I’ve been spending a lot of time back home (apparently annoying my sister to no end) over the holidays. I don’t have anything going on in either city right now, so the house with the best bed and bathtub takes the W. Anyway, I went back home to Toronto to see my friend before she headed back to the Arctic again. By 4AM, I had stripped out of my dress, grabbed my suitcase and my post-bar McDonald’s, and hit the road.
Traveling westbound on the 401, every single song on the radio was choking me up. I didn’t know what was going on. I knew I wasn’t sincerely worried about dying on the trip, even though my sequel to Down the Rabbit Hole predicted that I was going to die in a bitter snowstorm in the States after a hockey player did something horrible to me. Those that know me best know that my current circumstance is not all that different from the situation described in my book five years ago. I suppose, this time around, I was more conscious of the dangers of winter travel more than usual on account of these eerie coincidences, but the sadness I was feeling was not that of fear. It was a sadness that I haven’t felt since the beginning of March last season.
On my way to Boston before the trade deadline, I had this same feeling of culmination. Something was off, and something felt over. It was just like how I felt on that horrible day in March, when everything went insanely wrong, and I accurately sensed that the Arizona Prophecy was about to blow up in my face. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to make this trip to Chicago. It felt like it was going to be a wasted trip. It felt like a mistake.
As I drove, I desperately welcomed anything to distract me from my mission, and practically begged that something would force me to turn back. I gazed longingly at the exit that I would have taken to get to my parents’ house, and imagined how nice it would be to jump into my bed, wrap the blankets around me, and never come out. But instead I pressed on, fighting back tears and radio surfing like a crazy person trying to find a song that wouldn’t upset me. Then I discovered that the heinous, Fergie, butchered Heart’s Barracuda. Is nothing scared anymore? Go away, Fergie, you filthy beast!
I finally made it to the 402. The 402 is as reliable as a video game – in the snow and ice level, that is. If you are travelling in the winter, it is a 100% GUARANTEE that you will hit severe whiteout conditions for that entire 103 km stretch of highway. And I mean ACTUAL whiteouts, not like the ones you assholes in Phoenix are thinking of when you pay $10 for a hockey ticket and get a free t-shirt! I’m sorry, that was out of line, I’m still upset from having to recall the Fergie incident. Anyway, when you get to the 402, it’s like you’ve just completed that easy level in the video game, and now must conquer the bigger challenge before getting to the “boss,” which would be the Bluewater Bridge to the US.
Oh, the whiteouts came alright. But seeing as I am a very experienced hockey roadtripper, they were no match for my skills. This time they actually seemed more severe than usual. There were massive snow piles spilling over into the traffic lanes. At one point we were at a standstill because some douche bag decided to do 20 km/h, and no one dared drive in the other lane. Luckily, Killing in the Name of came on the radio and I decided I had enough of the snail’s pace. I pulled out of the lane and blew past everyone. Did anyone follow suit? I don’t know. What was hilarious was that less than a kilometre up the highway the roads were clear.
It was on that clear patch of highway that everything suddenly started to feel like it was going to be OK. The sadness subsided. It was like I was seeing the light, or at least that I felt reassured that at some point on my journey to the windy city something would make sense. It was seven in the morning, yet the moon still hung in the blackened sky like it couldn’t have been more than a stroke past midnight. It was kind of breathtaking. However, over the bridge, day was breaking.
The soft morning light usually hurts my eyes on my sleep deprived, overnight road trips, but this time around it was a welcomed change to the once dark and menacing horizon. Despite the pleasantness of dawn, the roads remained perilous most of the way. There were times that the road conditions were so bad that you couldn’t even pull off to help someone who had taken their car into the ditch. Yet, somehow, through these blizzard-like conditions, I still managed to reach my destination in record time, and in one piece – though, Lynxie didn’t look so hot anymore (really glad I spent $8 on a car wash before I left!)
It was freezing in Chicago; so cold that I could barely stand running a block from my hotel to the restaurant for dinner. I hid away in my hotel room for the rest of the night and watched the Hawks/Blues game on TV. Oh, the things a girl can get into when she’s bored and alone in a hotel room. Loneliness is a terrible thing. While I was lying in bed, I was once again overcome by that same familiar feeling of impending doom. Just like the trip to Boston that altered my life forever; something was about to change again for better or worse.
I knew it was over. If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll know that I’ve been looking for a new team. Philly didn’t feel right anymore. After this harrowing experience, I knew that my Philly days were numbered, and that Tuesday’s game might be the last one I go to. I was upset. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.
Roll the credits…
Tags: anaheim ducks, arizona prophecy, bad weather, chicago, chicago blackhawks, hockey addicts, hockey fans, road trips
