The Evil Don Knotts and 18 miles of cussing

So I get up this morning early-early and run down through Chicago. The traffic was light... partially due to the hour and partially due to the torrential downpour when I was there. There were a few patches of washed-out roadways to forge through, but at 45 in a big rig it really wasn't a problem.

After a few hours I arrive in Bradley, Illinois to find one of the interesting characters you run across from time to time on the road. The security guard for this place I'm loading at has to be in his 80's and looks like a cross between a bald Don Knotts and Yoda. For the five minutes or so I spent with him checking in and out every other word he said was unprintable in this family-oriented site. On and on and on he went like a wind up doll on crack. I dubbed him the Evil Don Knotts, since everyone knows you have a twin out there somewhere and I found the nasty version of Barney Fife.

The load itself is a maximum weight one, of cooking oil this time. I would have been pushing it very close if I had full tanks, but I only have half and won't fuel until I dump off the load so I'm fine there.

I'm a few more hours down the road and getting a bit sleepy so I start looking for a rest area or something similar to take a quick power nap. At this point I'm on I-72 westbound headed for Missouri and if you've been on that interstate you know that there are precisely zero rest areas from Springfield on. Since this is over 100 miles it sucks, so I looked for someplace on a ramp to park or similar. No joy.

Eventually I decide I will get off and park along a side road so I choose an exit and leave the interstate. I get to the top of the ramp and look both ways and the news is grim: both are small two-lane roads that seem to run straight, with no place to turn around. For some reason I turn left to head over the bridge to the other side when I realize that I've just made a boo-boo. I don't see anyplace to turn around and now the only viable option is to get back on the interstate going eastbound. I sigh and make the turn, grabbing gears and getting back up to highway speed.

Until, that is, I see the cute sign that reads "Next exit 9 miles" and I realize that it has been a while since the last exit and now I get to run nine miles east, then turn around and run that same nine miles back along the freeway. Ten bucks in fuel for a silly turn decision.

Naturally, I'm cussing like a wind up doll on crack for the next twenty minutes. I guess the Evil Barney Fife is growing on me.


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