We'll See How Long it Lasts

Barb and I are enjoying a closeness while traveling we hadn’t experienced before.

We’ll see how long it lasts.

For the past 30 years we’ve fled Montana in March seeking warmer climes. It used to be Florida, a five-day road trip with a boat in tow. Now it’s the desert Southwest, a much shorter journey, with nothing in tow.

We’d always driven a pickup or SUV on our escape from the frigid North. This year, however, we’re traveling in Barb’s Mini Cooper convertible, a cool car, but certainly more confining than the larger rigs.

The seats are comfortable and there’s plenty of legroom, but the distance between us has shrunken considerably. Instead of a foot-wide console separating me from my bride, there’s now little more than a shifter and a parking brake keeping us apart.

So far, it hasn’t been a problem. We still get along relatively well. She finds me no more annoying than ever, and despite our close proximity, I still can’t hear everything she says. On those rare occasions when I begin repeating myself, Barb dons a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

A small convertible traveling at a high rate of speed inches above the pavement generates a fair amount of road noise. Conversation, by necessity, is loud. Mumbled comments, on the other hand, usually go unnoticed, something that plays to both of our favor in such a confined space.

Barb and I share the driving chores — front seat and back. She typically spots cops, and saves me from making wrong turns. I give her less useful advice such as “You’re going too fast,” or “Don’t get behind that truck!”

Four days into the journey we’re still on speaking terms, but we have 10 days to go. I tell her that a couple of times because I didn’t think she heard me. Barb just smiles, nods and turns up her headphones.

We’re closer than we’ve ever been.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected]