Thursday, August 20, 2015

     Well today, Mr. Wonderful accidentally tripped and hurt his wrist and ribs. Down he went, although I didn’t witness it. I was across the road at Mc D’s getting him a Diet so he could continue driving. After he told me of his mishap, I realized that the time had come for me to step up to the clutch and take over the wheel. Now I am no sissy; I do know how to drive a stick. Au contraire, I don’t go near “Marcel” as he is Mr. W’s pride and joy, and I am afraid to put a fingerprint anywhere in sight. He says, “Drive it anytime you want.” Oh year, right. The minute I would get a scratch, I would have hell to pay. The license plate says, “Ma Joie.” That ain’t me, folks, that’s a roadster that only needs one master. On long trips, however, I realize that I should do my fair share, regardless of how tense I might be in 6th gear.

     So, we switched places, and I took over. Now on flat surfaces with no construction detours, no 20-ton trucks barreling down the mountain and no idiots riding my bumper, I
would be fine. Unfortunately, this was not the case. We were in the mountains of West Virginia in construction zones that never quit, and the truckers seemed to delight in flashing their lights at “Ma Joie.”

     The last time I drove a stick shift car for any length of time was in 2000 when I rented a tiny Fiat in southern France and drove all over the south coast. How I ever did that by myself, I will never know, but I did. One would think that after having accomplished such a dangerous feat, one would not fear an orange barrel or a 16-wheeler. Not true. I was very nervous, as I’m not used to the extra gear, and I knew that clashing Marcel’s gears would not get me an extra Cosmo at the resort.

     I am happy to report that my 75 minutes went pretty well, and I turned back the wheel to Mr. cracked-rib-sore-wrist. I ordered a giant glass of Chardonnay for dinner, and he even shared some of his when I had inhaled mine. Life is good. Maybe Marcel and I need to get better acquainted:)