Juneau is a place where the road ends less than 50 miles out of town, yet you somehow manage to put thousands of miles on your car anyway.
In fact, earlier this month our odometer topped 120,000. Even subtracting the distance we logged driving up here — 4,326-plus miles from Brooklyn, New York, to Palmer, Alaska — we’ve still easily averaged 10,000 miles a year, every year since rolling off the ferry at Auke Bay.
And just where have we gone in all those miles? Nowhere. And everywhere. These days especially, I find myself circling the same loop over and over again in a seemingly endless cycle of drop-offs and pick-ups at school, the pool, playgrounds, soccer, back to the pool because someone left a jacket — with the occasional spur trip to Fred Meyer or someplace more exotic, like Safeway.
Gasoline and lube job expenditures notwithstanding, here’s the thing: I’m at peace with all this driving; you might say I’ve grown to like it.
Some societies mark passage into adulthood with the successful completion of a challenge, e.g. hunting and killing an animal or, as with my tribe, chanting from a scroll followed by a catered lunch.
Culturally I became a man at age 13 — before returning, two days later, to seventh grade — but I really only started growing up in my 30s, and only because my children made me.
You see, nothing makes a person feel more like an adult than tooling around in a car full of kids — not even plucking grays or having wisdom teeth removed. Muscle cars, sports convertibles, souped-up monster trucks? Child’s play. It takes a real man (or woman) to drive a sensible crossover SUV with multiple car seats and greasy little handprints on the windows, just as it takes a real man (or woman) to change poopie diapers in the hatchback. That’s a whole different kind of tailgating altogether.
Indeed, I can pinpoint the exact moment I entered maturity: the first time I pulled over and yelled: “Hey, you kids, quit horsing around back there!”
Of course, nowadays I hurl this invective frequently — indeed, I daresay it’s starting to lose its effect. But in that very first instant I became “Dad” with a capital “D”. Either you’re the one horsing around or you’re the one trying to stop it. Round that corner, there’s no heading back.
Here’s another perk: No matter the destination — even if it’s just to the ice rink; yet again — when you’re at the wheel of the family car, you’re the captain. For those miles, and possibly those miles alone, you control your family’s destiny. You also decide whether or not to stop for donuts (a key bargaining chip). And you choose the music. Word of advice: A good captain makes the crew happy, so every once in a while cue up some Katy Perry. Nothing quashes a backseat mutiny like Katy Perry.
Of course, driving with kids — without driving yourself nuts — entails embracing chaos. And mess. Growing up, my dad’s car was so clean you could eat off it, most likely because he prohibited food and beverages. My car, by contrast, is a trove of half-consumed snacks: petrified cheese sticks, fossilized PB&Js, mud-encrusted fruit roll-ups and, I’ll admit, more than a few old travel mugs.
But even I reach my limits. The other day, our car started to smell — like death. The culprit: a putrid banana squashed beneath the floor mat protector. (Nice job, floor mat protector, letting a whole banana slip by you. I’d hardly call that “protection.”) You know what wasn’t helping, either? A bag of my son’s wet clothes from pre-school, festering away in the spare tire well (don’t ask how it got there; I’ve learned not to).
Luckily I honed my skills at car deodorizing back in college — thank you very much, designated driver duty. Now our Subaru smells like pina coladas. It’s fitting considering how often we get caught in the rain.
Anyway, I guess my point is it’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness (although, actually, I prefer both — try candle-lit swearing sometime).
Fine. So you can’t take a road trip in Juneau that doesn’t involve a leg at sea; so your routes are so familiar you can drive them with your eyes closed (legal disclaimer: Do not drive with your eyes closed). But you never get to use cruise control even though it’s your favorite button to press, aside from the windshield washer fluid, which, fortunately you get to press all the time.
These are small prices to pay. After all, Juneau is also a place where rush hour lasts 15 minutes, tops. And where else can you pull over on the way to karate to watch orcas breach?
Plus, it could be worse. Take the guy on St. Paul Island who earlier this week ran into a 300-pound fur seal while commuting to work. You’d need a little more than Katy Perry to restore the mood after something like that.
• “Slack Tide” runs every other Sunday in Neighbors. Follow Geoff’s daily Twitter feed @geoffkirsch.com.
