Tale of the Nail--Suzuki Adventure, Day Nine

First off, a confession: It isn’t really a nail that we discover in the front tire of the Kizashi two hours into the drive on our ninth day of driving. It is a screw. However, “nail” rhymes better, and the two have common character: sharp, shiny and tire-popping. Perhaps a screw is even worse, because of the wearing, tearing grooves.

Staring at it in the gas station next to a Krystal burger joint outside Pigeon Forge, TN, we become very, very nervous. It is only a small screw, but nonetheless, not the sort of thing you want to contend with when driving through the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee in icy conditions.  How many times can the rubber meets the road before this tiny little metallic whatsit will worry a hole straight through it?  What are the odds of a blowout after dark in the winter on a mountain pass? It's not the kind of over/under you want to take.

After I assure my boyfriend that every gas station in the country also doubles as a garage/mechanic, we spend nearly two hours driving around rural Tennessee looking for a garage in a gas station. Nothing, nothing,  nothing.

At last we decide to make the most of the remaining daylight hours and press onward.

Dusk comes early in the mountains—it seems to come earlier than in the flats, and to stretch out forever. We’re amazed to see that the sky is orange and gold in the west where the sun is setting, and Easter egg shades of pink and blue in the east.

Every journey has a disappointing record-keeping day, where for whatever reason—usually some combination of logistical circumstances--you don’t get all the great snaps you want, and can’t pull of the main road to explore the scenic drives or seek out a little road food discovery. This turns out to be ours. Though early in the morning we had determined to find the greatest fried pie shop in all the land, we don’t have time to do that. Our camera batteries deplete with the sunset, so there are no pictures of the oh-so-picturesque barns and country houses we zipped past. 

It is a long day of driving that takes us all the way through  the mountains and into Virginia.  The screw in the tire remains at the back of my mind, keeping me alert and uneasy. But we arrive at our country inn in the Shenandoah Valley without further mishap.  It is, unbelievably, the last night of our journey. Tomorrow will take us onto the vast, quick-moving freeways of the northeast, with a detour to Washington, DC, and then over to New York City. Home.