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It’s one of the most dreaded parts of our week. Traffic. And it never moves fast enough. Those who know me are well aware of my rants about Interstate 94 here in Michigan. In the morning, getting out of Detroit, heading west, is pretty easy. In fact, I can leave only fifteen minutes before I have to be in nearby Allen Park and still make it on time.
Coming home on the other hand . . . Interstate 94, heading back into Detroit in the afternoon, is remarkably deceiving.
I cruise along – and I know the instant blockage and dead stop is coming – but I’m always optimistic. Most days, it’s in the same area so I know when to expect it. It’s like clockwork. I know by West Grand Boulevard I’m going to get caught in the backlog. Sometimes, I get lucky and make it further to Grand River Avenue. There are some days my mind is really blown and I get all the way to Linwood Street. Other days, I go no further than Livernois Avenue.
Granted, if you are not from Detroit, these street names mean nothing but the point is, Interstate 94 is an engulfing, unpredictable vortex from which there is no escape. Friday afternoon, it’s the closest thing to a black hole in our galaxy; the equivalent of waking up from The Matrix and experiencing the literal hysteria in Bill Murray’s famous quip from Ghostbusters about cats and dogs living together.
Yes, that’s Interstate 94. No, I’m...