In Portland. Karen is tidying up after our last in-room hotel picnic meal. Tomorrow we'll be home.
I did all the driving today: nine hundred and fifty eight kilometres. It's worked out that I've done most of the driving for the entire trip. There've been moments during the day while the others write, read, or nap, that I've looked out at the "...fine white lines, the white lines, on the free freeway" and let my thoughts wander.
I've noticed the long black scars of sudden braking on asphalt, and thought about the near misses they must represent. My eyes have followed the twin tracks of rubber that disappear off the edge of the road into grass, or gravel, or guardrails, and the tragedies they bear silent witness to as they flash by my hundred kilometre per hour windows.
In the quiet moments, with the radio off and the others occupied, I've thought about my own near misses.
Countless moments of stupidity.
Abuse at the hands of a man I thought loved me.
And yet, here I am.
Five hundred and four kilometres of scarred asphalt framed in the windshield remain between me and the end of this great adventure.
I miss my boys. I can't wait to be home.
Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. The navel gazing is free of charge, and entirely my own.
Also, I'm pretty sure Hejira is my favourite Joni Mitchell album.