Misadventures of I-16 (Part I)

I’ve mentioned many times my disdain for the interstates. If I have a choice, I prefer to take the backroads. Life if much more interesting than billboards and green signs.

In Georgia, I-16 is the worst – the most boring 166 miles in America. Well, maybe not in the country. I’ve been on some stretches in interstate out west that will put you in a trance.

I got to thinking about that on Friday when Delinda and I headed back to Macon after spending the morning and afternoon in Savannah. We’ve had a couple of I-16 horror stories in our 24 years of marriage. I’ll share one with you today and the other on Sunday.

In the early days of our marriage, when our first son, Ed, was small, we used to stay at the same motel at St. Simon’s every year. It was built in 1948, and hasn’t changed much since then. Some would call it old. We called it quaint.

We went down to the island for a few days one summer. We hadn’t been down there an hour when Delinda HAD to have four chairs she found in an antique store. So we bought them, and had no choice but to keep them in our small motel room. So we were tripping all over them the
entire vacation.

When it came time to leave, I had to get some strong cord and tie these four chairs in the trunk with all the suitcases. Of course, the trunk would not close all the way.

We were about 20 miles east of Dublin when I crawled into the back seat to take a short nap. Delinda was driving, when all of a sudden we heard this KA-THUMP, KA-THUMP, KA-THUMP.

“That helicopter is mighty close,’’ Delinda said.

“That’s not a helicopter!” I screamed. “Pull over! We’ve had a blow-out!”

Of course, the tire was in the bottom of the trunk – under three suitcases, four chairs and who knows what else. I had to take all that out to change it. And it wasn’t a full-sized tire. It was one of those “bicycle” spares. You’re not supposed to go over 50 miles or 50 miles per hour on them.

Ever try to go 50 mph on the interstate when everybody else is going 80 mph? It’s a good way to write your obituary.

Back in those days, I-16 was the worst place to have car trouble because Dublin was about the only sign of civilization for two hours. (It’s not much better now.)

Fortunately, I was close to Dublin. Unfortunately, the only “gas stations” near the interstate were convenience stores. I’m sure there were a few places in town, but it was getting late and I figured most of them had already closed.

I had no choice but to drive back to Macon on the spare. It was almost dark and, every time we went over a bump, that hood on the trunk would ride up just enough to where the trunk light would come on.

It was distracting to me, so I figured it might be a distraction to other drivers coming up behind me.

I got out to see if I could remove the bulb. It was too hot to handle, and was located up inside a hole on the trunk hood. Maybe I can just cover it up.

So I found, and used, what any good newspaperman would use – yesterday’s newspaper. I stuffed part of it up into the hole.

That worked fine for a while, then we started to smell smoke. I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw smoke coming from the trunk. The hot bulb had ignited the newspaper, and I knew those antique chairs would make good kindling if the flame reached them. Not to mention the gas tank.

I stopped the car again, and put out the fire.

We eventually made it home with a travel story we have told – and re-told – for 20 years.

And I never travel down I-16 near Dublin that I don’t think about it.

But it wasn’t the only misadventure we’ve had on that ribbon of concrete.

Tomorrow: I-16 and the Windshield Wipers