Per Ardua Ad Astra

Jack goes to great lengths to get his Wednesday post up this week – –

Wendy and I just arrived in Knoxville so completing the first stage of our journey to Scotland. Tomorrow we fly from here to Atlanta and then overnight direct to Edinburgh.

Apart from during the Covid 19 pandemic I’ve organized small group tours of Scotland every year since 2009. Two years ago I decided to stop, but requests kept coming so here we are again; the second final tour! There are already requests for the date of next year’s Third Final Tour.

They take a lot of liaising with an agency over there to organize bookings for hotels, ferries and visits. I also have to coordinate with my driver for the minibus. My longtime driver was an old friend, Colin, who sadly died a few years ago. Colin was much more than just a driver – a great singer and historian. However I had become good friends with another great singer and historian in the form of Alan Reid. He was one of the founding members of the well known ’Battlefield Band’, traveled the world with them and often drove their band bus. So a perfect fit!

Once I’m confident I have all the ducks in something resembling a row, I then start sending regular emails to the paying customers with travel tips and information about the tour.

Finally I have to start thinking about travel arrangements to Scotland for Wendy and me. Checking flight times and prices and deciding where to stay for a couple of nights before the tour starts,

Then I start to worry about whether I’ve thought of everything and what might go wrong, because there’s always something. We’ve had everything from an overnight hospital stay, an emergency dental visit, a ferry strike and bags that didn’t make it with their owner. We even had a family who missed a flight connection and arrived into Edinburgh on the second day of the tour!

But heck – once you’re three hours away from home there’s little point in worrying!

Whit’s fir ye will no gang by ye – que sera, sera – what will be, will be. Hi Ho Scotland here we come!

Why I Love Truck Drivers

Everyone on the scene was frustrated. Those of us with enough local knowledge to get off the construction-clogged interstate escaped after enduring only two miles of the eight-mile tailback.

The guy behind me drove a macho white truck with one of those grills that moves cows and cop cars out of their way. He was NOT happy, but you couldn’t really call it tailgating when everyone is inching bumper to bumper along the two-lane local side road.

Finally we cleared the interstate snarl from the side road, crossed the overpass, and with a row of commercial semis, my new friend Mr. Grill-against-Mine and I began merging back onto the Interstate.

I could see it coming. Grill Guy planned to surge around me the moment he cleared the merge barrier. So I swept onto the interstate quickly, because if I hadn’t, I would have eliminated the possibility of the semi in front of me getting on at all. And the semis had been nice. They’d kept up their speed and they’d kept a few eejits from going up the shoulder to the exit back when we were all getting off.

Maybe that vibe was flowing from my wee white Prius, given what happened next.

As I took my rightful place on the highway and let the semi ahead of me in, Mr. Grill swerved back around me into the merge lane. Glory be, he was pulling a lawn mower trailer, and the thing swung erratically as he gunned it past me. Giving me a very deliberate and prolonged middle finger out the window.

Either homicidal rage blinded reason, or he flunked geometry in school. Grill Guy swung in front of me without leaving room for the trailer, so I slammed on my brakes.

Meanwhile, from those who had elected to wait patiently through the snarl some miles back, commercial trucks were still coming up the left lane. So when Mr. Grill-not-Geometry swung into the left lane to try and go around the truck I had let in, well, he almost got killed by the truck approaching at a good clip from the left.

This is where I consider him to have made his biggest mistake. He swerved back in front of me, and then, with a semi in front of him and a semi beside him, he flipped them both off.

You know, those guys have radios…..

Suddenly, from behind me a semi appeared. I got into the left lane, anticipating passing the guy Mr. Grill had tried to pass. But that truck driver had other plans. He stayed on Mr. Grill’s left flank, speed for speed. The truck driver ahead slowed down. Like a supporting ballet dancer in tight choreography, the truck behind me got up on the bumper of Grill Guy’s trailer. Mr. Grill was now completely boxed in by three trucks—sustaining an even and prolonged 60-per-hour.

It was like watching orcas hunt.

The road added a left lane after about two miles—something I suspect the truckers knew. They kept their finger-flipping-friend hemmed in while the rest of us passed their box trap.

I risked a peek at the driver boxing their quarry from the left as I passed. He was grinning.