The great escape

The challenge: Get from Portage, Michigan to Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts -- 967.20 miles, according to Mapquest -- in 24 hours. I was sure I could do it. Long drives didn't worry me. After all, I had a Prius, which meant I wouldn't have to stop for gas very often, and I could take along a bag of snacks to distract me from the siren-like call of all the fast-food dens of iniquity that would be lying in wait along the way.

I failed: I arrived 26 and a half hours after I started. Alas, if only I'd been able to avoid the temptation of that hotel swimming pool. And that McDonald's that beckoned me away from the Massachusetts Turnpike.

But considering more than 16 of those hours were spent on the road, going from Michigan to Ohio to Pennsylvania to New York to Massachusetts and then on to a car ferry that took me from the mainland to the island, I couldn't beat myself up too much. Besides, the pool was really refreshing, and if I hadn't loosened up my muscles during that half-hour swim (plus 10 minutes in the jacuzzi) I doubt I would have had the stamina to complete the trip in a little more than a day.

I left Portage at 7 p.m., about eight hours later than I had hoped. Prior to my departure, I had called the Steamship Authority in Woods Holes, Massachsuetts to book a reservation for the car ferry on Thursday. I had hoped for something late; the only opening they had was at 6:15 p.m., unless I wanted to catch the 6 a.m. ferry Friday. I took the Thursday night reservation, confident I'd make it somehow.

I was born in Columbus, so I am hesitant to criticize anything Ohio-related. But the Ohio Turnpike is one tedious drive: miles and miles and miles of vaguely pretty farmlands and endless sky, with occasional exits to tiny towns full of what I call the possessive eateries: Wendy's, Chili's, Bennigan's, Applebee's, etc. I guess Bob Evans doesn't technically qualify for inclusion in that category, but it sounds like it should and there were certainly several of those as well. I didn't reach Cleveland until almost midnight, but even cloaked in darkness it was such a happy change of pace from what I'd been seeing for the past few hours.

Then came the Pennsylvania Turnpike and the New York Thruway, which almost made me nostalgic for the opulence of Ohio. I will say that even though the New York Thruway is generally less than exciting from a scenic standpoint (until you get to the impressive forests and rugged mountains outside of Albany), the road itself is in remarkably solid shape. After spending so many years on the lumpy patchwork quilts Michigan calls freeways, it was a refreshing change to actually travel for hours on relatively smooth, carefully maintained pavement.

At 2:30 a.m. I finally decided to take a break. I was in Fredonia, New York and I thought I was about at the halfway point of my trip. (I was wrong, but I didn't figure that out until the next morning.) I checked into the Best Western Dunkirk & Fredonia Inn -- apparently both towns insist on claiming a piece of this particular establishment -- and walked into a room that was decorated in a style that might be called Abstract African Lite. It looked as if a designer saw "The Lion King" and said, "Yes, something just like that -- but a little less, uh, ethnic."

I suspect there might have been a clash of opinions on exactly what direction to take the inn, since the exterior of the building was adorned with mock Greek frescoes of bunches of grapes. Perhaps Dunkirk argued for Greek and Fredonia pushed the African agenda; perhaps we'll never know for certain.

Anyhow, the morning breakfast buffet was laid out in an area overlooking the hotel pool and spa, so while I was munching on my Belgian waffle and sipping some orange juice I could see that lovely, empty pool just waiting to be utilized. So after breakfast, I ran back to the room and changed into my bathing suit and enjoyed a peaceful, revitalizing swim, followed by a quick plunge into the violently bubbling hot tub.

By the time I got back to the room, my body felt invigorated, as if I'd had a tune-up. I think I heard a few of my muscles quietly apologizing for all the grief they had given me earlier in the week. The state of detente would not last long. Those same muscles would be cursing me all over again by the end of the day, after I had pushed them to take me all the way across New York and Massachusetts in a mad race to get to the ferry (along the way I called the Steamship Authority and managed to change my reservation from 6:15 to 8:30, which turned out to be a wise choice).

The day was as suspenseful as any Hitchcock thriller as I kept checking my AAA TripTik to see how many miles I had left to go and then struggled to calculate how long the trip would take, based on my average speed and the traffic conditions. If I didn't stop for a real meal or get lost at any point along the line, it looked like I would make it, although there literally wasn't a moment to spare. If it had been possible to drive with my fingers crossed, I might have tried it.

Everything was going perfectly most of the way. I had filled up the car just as I was leaving Fredonia and, because of the 55-65 mile per hour speed limit on the Thruway, the Prius was getting magnificent mileage. I enjoyed the extra fruit I had purloined from the continental breakfast table and passed the time listening to National Public Radio (when I could find it), Canadian rock stations and an enjoyable set of eclectic material from the University of Rochester radio station (when no NPR outlet could be found), and CDs of Japanese electro-pop (when I ran out of other options).

But not long after I crossed into Massachusetts, about seven hours into the journey, it felt as if my energy was draining away at an alarming pace. My head began to feel heavy, my arms started stiffening up and my stomach, not satisfied with a diet of leftover fruit, dried strawberries and Smarties, began to growl. Should I give up and get a good night's rest and continue on Friday morning? I seriously considered it for a few minutes. Maybe I was pushing myself to ridiculous extremes that I would regret later. Maybe it was time to eat something substantial. Or just rest: I had only gotten a little more than five hours of sleep the night before because I went to bed so wired that it took me much longer to fall asleep than it should have.

But then, salvation appeared: a "service plaza" with a McDonald's. I pulled in and ordered a Filet-O-Fish meal and a lemonade. If they gave me the extra burst of adrenalin I needed to get to that ferry at Woods Hole, wonderful. If not, I would check into a hotel, crash for the night and start fresh tomorrow.

McDonald's worked magic, although a rather weak sort of magic. I had barely enough power to make it to Woods Hole, although I was yawning and rolling my shoulders quite a bit along the way. But I rolled into the docking area and boarded the ferry at 8:15 p.m., exactly nine hours after I left Fredonia and just in time to see a stupendously lovely sunset. Glorious streaks of deep purple and magenta appeared in the twilight sky, a ravishing reward at the end of an arduous day.