hills, banishing the mist and chasing the shadows from the rocky crevices.
Forty minutes later, I zoomed across the freeway overpass, joining the cavalcade of cars heading towards metropolitan Phoenix. Even though traffic slowed at times, it was nothing compared to the miles long backup choking the Interstate construction zone. I congratulated myself on the decision to avoid it, only to have my triumphant mood squashed a mere three miles further. My heart dropped at the sight of the orange and white highway markers. Not today, please! I slowed to a crawl and then a complete stop. Crap. I gripped the steering wheel. “Un-friggin’-believable!” Go. Stop. Move a few feet. Stop. I drummed my fingers and strained to see beyond the seemingly endless procession of vehicles. Feeling trapped and helpless, I forced myself to breathe deeply. Temper, hold your temper, O’Dell.
Hopefully, it was just a temporary delay. Okay! We were moving! I edged forward a few feet, then several more, but traveled no faster than five miles an hour. The irony of the situation hit me as I drifted past a sign indicating the recommended speed limit of 55. “I wish!” I glanced at the clock again and did some swift mental calculations. If I continued the rate of five to ten miles per hour, it would take me…what, five or six more hours to reach Phoenix? That would ruin the entire day—no shopping, no lunch with Fritzy and my family would be left stranded at the airport.
Fidgeting restlessly in my seat, I checked out the traffic alert apps on my phone, but none confirmed the backup. After watching several bicyclists in brightly colored gear glide past, I growled, “Damn it!” and opened the door. I stood on the running board and peered into the distance, trying to make out what could possibly have traffic tied up to this degree but couldn’t see anything but a sea of cars and trucks ahead. Several other people had exited their vehicles and were milling about pointing, talking, walking their dogs. With a loud groan, I slumped into the driver’s seat and reached for my phone to dial Fritzy’s work number. I’d been looking forward to our meeting for two weeks and hated to disappoint her, but unless a miracle happened, lunch looked like a wash at this point. Oh wait. We were moving again. Perhaps there was still hope. I waited to hit the call button and reached the thrilling speed of fifteen miles per hour before I had to slam on the brakes again. Craning my neck, I spotted a signalman ahead with one of those SLOW/STOP signs in hand. A dump truck was backed into the middle of the road where half a dozen workmen stood leaning on their shovels. How long was this going to take? It appeared that my well-laid plans for the day were going up in smoke. “Oh, come on!” I finally shouted. “Fix the stupid road tomorrow!”
Should I make a U-turn and head back towards the freeway? Would I be trading one traffic backup for another? I spotted a second group of bicyclists heading towards me, this time from the opposite direction. I shouted out the open window as they approached. “Hey! Got any idea what’s going on up ahead?”
One of the riders slowed, thumbed behind him and shouted, “Rollover crash! Cave Creek Road intersection…medical chopper on the way.”
Oh. So it wasn’t just road construction. So much for the phone app. “Thanks!” I watched wistfully as the bikers raced on by, free as the flock of birds flying overhead. I hit the call button on my phone. No response. What? Then I noticed No Service blinking back at me. Groaning, I laid my forehead against the steering wheel. I waited another interminable amount of time and had just made the decision to make the U-turn and deal with the freeway, when I heard the thumping whir of helicopter blades. The chopper flew in low and descended to the ground a mile or so ahead. At that moment it struck me that someone or perhaps more than one person must be gravely injured or worse. And as that realization sunk in my agitation diminished. So I was going to be a little late. How lucky was I not to be lying on the ground or trapped in the crushed, twisted remains of my vehicle? So I might not get the place card holders Ginger wanted, or the three-dozen bud vases. So I might miss lunch. I was