Disclaimer: No, I have not forgot about the Energy Game follow-up post. Rest assured, dear reader, that it is on its way, as surely as I am on mine.

If you look for me right now, you’ll have to look hard. My family and I have run away to western Massachusetts. For the second time in as many days, I’ve hopped on the Pike to exit 4: West Springfield/Holyoke. In just a minutes, I’ll be on the Barnes Municipal Airport tarmac, which may or may not be in Westfield, MA. Luckily, I do not have to drive. Indeed, I cannot. However, that wasn’t always so.

Yesterday, I was scheduled to taxi my sister and her boyfriend Jon from Cambridge to rendezvous with my father in Westboro before departing for the far reaches of the world. And so, we tried. Shortly after the second toll booth, the Stratus did something it has never done before. It stopped. Dead. In the middle of the highway.

I have often seen those cars, lonely, flashing, and dangerous, and looked on with a certain amount of secret envy. Once before, after high school cross-country practice, Heather Petitpas’ car stopped in Holbrook square at a stop light. She had to slip the car into neutral and I pushed it to the curb. Exciting though that was, it was merely a stepping stone, and I had to conquer the Pike.

The Stratus couldn’t’ve executed the breakdown better. The engine seized. I immediately hit the hazards in response. Neither Jon nor Janice were fairly silent. One of them may have uttered a “Whoa.” But if he did, I can’t really remember. Next I tried to restart the car, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. We couldn’t mess around any more; it was time to call in the authories — it was time to call my dad.

Technology has made the world a much smaller place. Now I can leave a voice message for anyone, anywhere, no matter the circumstances. After a matter-of-fact “Dad, I think I’m going to be late; we just broke down on the Pike and we’re stuck in the middle of it. Please call me back,” it was time to ask the Stratus to start up just one last time. This time she did. It was like driving through chunky peanut butter, but we managed to the side of the road. Rather than a paved emergency lane, we checked onto the compacted earth immediately to the left of the four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. The cars seemed to pick up pace as soon as we safely pulled over. For breakdown, it was fairly scenic. Six-foot tall willows-of-the-wisp formed a barrier between the Pike and the outside world much like a reverse moat fencing out civilization.

By this time, Dad called me back to tell me to do all that I could do — to call someone else while we waited for him. Since my accident last spring, I felt confident in my ability to navigate the AAA automated, road-side assistance service menus. They dispatched a tow truck. It came, its driver checked my oil. He was short, gruff, and unwilling to bring us to Randolph. His shift was to end in an hour, he told us, and he had no time for us.

Twenty minutes later, a luxury tow truck rescued us. Meanwhile, my father had driven by and was presently negotiating an in Pike U-turn but with little success. I waived him on. We planned to reconvene in Randolph. The flow of cars allowed our passage to the South Shore in a safe and timely manner, despite my directions. The driver was nice; he offered minimal though friendly chit-chat. At about the same time on the same day one week earlier, he said, a man in his early sixties bounced from one jersey barrier clear four lanes over to the outside shoulder. The cops met him and called our driver to take the man and what was left of his car away. Incidentally, this man was drunk. Stinking drunk. Our driver couldn’t seem to stress that enough. To add that twist that every good story needs, our driver added, in shock, that this man was a professor at Bentley College. The cops didn’t touch him because they “didn’t want to deal with the paperwork.” If it had been you or me, our driver continued, we would’ve been locked up. I’m certain that he is right.

But eventually we got going. I started this entry from within my hotel room in Holyoke. I marvel that anyone ever populated this place. Verily, not many have. The rolling, high hills and dense tree cover speak to the sparse population and large town boundaries of western Massachusetts. Yet, as I have remarked before, the internet is everywhere. Our Holiday Inn features all the amenities of the modern world: an in-ground pool, bar and lounge, arcade, high-speed wireless internet, cable television, and an in-house Friendly’s.

Founded in Wilbraham, Friendly’s is nearly as numerous here as Starbucks is in the Square. After normalizing the stats by restaurant per area, perhaps Friendly’s wins out. My powers of estimation have never been that good.

Our Friendly’s looks like many in the Metro-area, but here the Chilis-meets-the-Christmastree-Shoppe decor works. And the farm fresh eggs make a difference. Over all, it was simply less depressing than the one’s closer to home. My bet is on the carpet. Fabric makes everything more comfortable.

After breakfast, we stopped one exit west. The gates opened at 8 am. We were here at about 8:15 am. It is now 5:27 am as I write from the backseat of my father’s Prius. Rumor has it that we’ll visit the next exit to the west on the Pike, bringing us to Exit 2. The power of portable technology.

I’ll try to post some of the pictures I took with my sister’s camera. In the meantime, we just awarded Jon the uncontested winner in the who-got-burnt-the-worst game. Goodbye, from Stockbridge. It’s nearly time for Italian, Berkshire style.