It was Friday and the weekend was screaming out at me. I assessed my options. Zip. So I got in contact with my mate in Auckland.
“What are you doing this weekend?”
“I might go to a beer fest on Saturday.”
“I might come up then.”
I carefully wrote down the directions to her new place. Driving in Auckland severely induces tourettes in me.
So I began my journey on a sunny morning, with a staticky radio station playing. After patient attempts to find some sounds that weren’t in a blizzard, the damn thing got turned off and my phone’s selection got turned on. Yet, I was still smiling. I was back on the open road.
Thoughts generally surpass the sound of passing cars, rolling hills, and quiet music. I had come to the realisation that these road trips usually ended up with me driving home with a hangover. Ah well.
I stopped in Paeroa for an over-sized mocha, takeaway. A lady in the toilet queue told me she was here for the highland dancing and that you always need to get an extra shot of coffee here as the coffees were pretty weak. I don’t usually drink coffee, but thanks for the tip. That cafe also needed to mop their floors, because my jandals got stuck and made Velcro ripping noises every time I moved.
Me and my new bestie got back into the car. I sung ridiculously loudly, out of tune, and the wrong words. Mocha just looked up at me and said ‘drink me.’ He didn’t care that my singing was enough to make Simon Cowell fly over to New Zealand just to tell me to stop.
I got stuck behind a Sunday driver on a Saturday. I needed to overtake, but the problem was that I don’t like to. It’s a little bit scary. What if my car won’t do it? What if they point and laugh at my serious face as I pass them? Mocha said ‘do it’. So I did. I slunk past super Sunday driver, only to get stuck behind another one 2 minutes later. I did it again, gaining overtaking mojo points along the way.
At that point I wished I had an old school muscle car. The kind of super bad-ass car that could eat you up and spit you out. You’d be grinning because you had been coolified. People would wave and cheer at your awesomeness as you drove past. Pregnant women could line up and I would drive past, delivering their babies. Their babies would then be named after me and my car.
I made it to the final stretch before the motorway. Mocha wasn’t quite so lucky, but he didn’t have any complaints. He’d fulfilled his duties.
I approached a passing lane. I have a problem with passing lanes. I find that you get stuck behind Mr. Slow in the single lane, who changes to his alter-ego Mr. Accelerator as soon as you reach ‘Keep left unless passing.’ What’s with this? Even laden trailer decided it’d break free and make a run for it. So in my attempts to overtake the slow and weak, they decide they are related to Usain Bolt. Then once you get back into single-file, the brakes come on because they are back in Sunday cruise control.
I curved onto the fast-paced motorway race. Then it all slows down, as you near exits that lead towards festivals and activities. I was nearly minding having to drive at -5 kmh, until I saw Happy Dog. Happy Dog was a beautiful large Rottweiler, who loved pacing from side to side on the back of a ute. I wanted to join it. Lapping up the scenery, wind in fur, tongue blowing out to the side of drooling mouth. It was actually smiling and so was I.
Amazingly I made it to my destination without raising my blood pressure or inducing any heart attacks. I was stoked with my efforts to remain calm, and to see my friend. I had made it and was ready to reward myself by over-indulging in the alcoholic department.