Once we convinced Mom to go, we tried to convince Dad to let us drive. He may not admit it, but he has had a few close calls and one minor accident within the past few years. He enjoys picking us up at the airport every summer, but each year the trip becomes more precarious as he veers into the next lane, changes lanes suddenly or cuts someone off. Julie and I had already worked it out: she would take the highway driving and I would do the city driving. Dad insisted on driving, boasting that Cleveland was his city. I reluctantly slid into the front seat of his Honda CRV with my Mapquest printouts while Julie hopped in the back seat with Mom, who was snuggled in with her water bottle, sweater, and pillows. We were off! I tried to enjoy the scenic drive up I-71 in an attempt to calm my nerves before we reached the city. We mapped out our route and discussed which neighborhood we would hit first.
We were excitedly chatting when I noticed my Dad fiddling with the steering wheel. I forgot that he is completely addicted to his cruise control and instead of hitting his brakes to slow down, he hits the decelerate button on the steering column. I am a self-professed control freak and have NEVER used my cruise control. Let’s just say that my control issues multiply when a 78-year-old man is behind the wheel, ankles crossed and tucked underneath the brake pedal because heck, why does he need his FEET when he has the decelerate and accelerate buttons on his cruise control?
His feet were in this position as we passed Cleveland Hopkins International Airport and whizzed by Cleveland’s southwestern suburbs.
“Dad, did you know that it’s best to only use cruise control when you’re driving on long stretches of highway with little or no traffic?”
“Hmmm. Well, I don’t use it in the city.”
I saw the Terminal Tower and Key Bank looming up ahead of us and felt the energy of the traffic speeding by us. My dad and his trusty cruise-controlled vehicle remained in the left-hand lane right up against the concrete barrier, occasionally passing over the solid white line as the highway twisted and turned. I leaned up against the passenger-side door with such force that my cheek had become glued to the window. Yes, we were in the city and the cruise control was still on. I comforted myself with the knowledge that his right foot was only inches away from the brake pedal, albeit under his left foot.
“Oh, look! There’s the Q; there’s the Terminal Tower, Amy!”
I muttered through clenched teeth, “That’s nice, Dad. Now please watch the road!”
I felt Julie’s hand on my shoulder and looked back and saw her eyeing his crossed feet on the floorboard , his fingers deftly thumbing the cruise control buttons. I shot her a knowing glance. We approached Dead Man’s Curve (a sign of things to come?), where I-71 merges into I-90 and runs along Lake Erie’s shore. Thankfully, Dad applied his brakes and slowed down as we approached the 90-degree turn. Who the heck would design a highway with a 90-degree turn right by the Lake, on a road that is most certainly frozen six months out of the year?
We made it through Dead Man’s Curve uneventfully and I started to uncross my legs, which was not an easy feat considering how tightly I had been clenching them, until I realized that Dad was still in the left-hand lane.
“Dad, did you know that in Texas, the left-hand lane is used mostly for passing?”
“Hmmm. That’s interesting.”
I could see that being subtle wasn’t going to work and I hated to hurt his feelings seeing that he was in “his” city, so I kept my mouth shut and silently prayed that God would allow me to tuck my kids in bed that night.
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