Obeying the TomTom

One of the benefits of driving a luxury car like a BMW or Lexus is something called the Global Position System, which is your personal navigator to just about anywhere in the immediate universe. Plug in an address, and it takes you there, advising you of road closings, heavy traffic and the occasional flash flood. There is no better friend on the road.

But if your RV is four years old, you don’t get an installed GPS. So you go shopping for a TomTom, which is the little brother of the GPS, and costs about one-twenty-fifth as much.

A TomTom is a good thing, but it doesn’t have the intelligence of its big brother. It doesn’t know the difference between a 2,300-pound car and a 32,000-pound RV to begin with. It figures all roads are okay for whatever you’re driving, and unfortunately, it is something of a wiseass when it comes to routes. If there’s a shortcut, TomTom figures you’ll be really grateful for the four minutes you save, and sends you places where the idea of a guy in overalls with a rifle aimed at your back windshield isn’t far off the mark.

TomTom, unlike GPS, tends to strain a marriage.

After John had a tense ride the day before on the Long Island Expressway, then along the exceedingly slender Route 9 in Westchester, I thought it only fair that I offer to drive the next day. I may not be a better driver, but I am quite relaxed, even during accidents.

Did I freak out when we sideswiped that cop? Au contraire, I invited him in for a Coke. Always the hostess.

The next day, I found myself a the wheel of our, may I remind you, 41-foot-rig-plus-10-foot-tow-car, headed from Poughkeepsie to Middleboro, VT, where we stayed for four days. The Poughkeepsie stop was an overnight in a shopping center parking lot, where two fire-breathing-dragon trucks pulled in on either side of us and kept us up all night with their generator noise. It was like "Straw Dogs" the movie, where the innocent travelers felt the violence long before they experienced it. Luckily, we were able to make our escape the next morning when the truckers walked over to McDonald's for breakfast. Whew.

The TomTom guided us skillfully up into upstate New York, and then across to Vermont. At about the three-hour mark, The TomTom spoke up once again. “In 800 yards, take the next right,” she said. (We like the girl voice, much less bossy than the boy voice.)

Obediently, at 800 feet I turned onto a side road, and we were treated to some really pretty scenery, including little gingerbread houses, farmland, ponds, streams, A-frames, beautiful little flower gardens and the like. We did begin to notice that the road was narrowing, and when our CB antenna collided with a low-slung tree branch, my dear husband intoned, “You know, you have to be aware of the height of this rig as well as the width. Perhaps you should move over to avoid the trees.”

Inasmuch as the road was only four feet wide and therefore I was already on the left side of the road, this advice was neither helpful nor well received, however well intentioned it may have been.

The further we got into our detour, the more worried my husband became. Nevertheless, I made yet another turn at Tom-girl’s urging, this time onto a dirt road. I just love a challenge.

The road continued to deteriorate, as did my husband, who was now alternately cowering and glowering, clearing his throat, and sighing. But certainly this road was still drivable. By a Jeep, maybe. Or a farm truck, or an ATV, or perhaps a Sherman tank. The RV bumped and swayed, doors opened and spilled their contents, chairs fell over, groceries hit the floor and Zeus whined. He's always on John's side.

“How much farther?” John asked.

“Just 3/10 of a mile,” I replied, glad to be approaching the end of this teeth-grinding, muscle-knotting, breath-holding, grumpier-by-the-minute road.

“Take the bridge,” said Tom-girl.

“Bridge?” I wondered.

“Bridge?” said John.

We rounded a corner and there in front of us was a beautiful covered wood bridge. The typical Vermont scene, a true photo op. It was o bviously built when the farmer who owned this land was a young, strong man and he needed to ford the creek to get his buggy into town. In, say, 1865.

A small sign warned us, no vehicles over 12 feet. “How tall are we?” I asked John.

“Twelve feet three inches.”

“Oh, I said in a small voice. Should I turn around?”

“I have no idea. You picked this road.”

You have no idea? You have no idea! You’re sitting there, the master of the RV, the man with a map in his lap, the man who hasn’t uttered a word for 6 miles and you have no idea?

“Anyone with a modicum of common sense …” he began.

I did what any sane woman would do. I grabbed the TomTom from its hook and threw it at him.

John got out to inspect the bridge, then to my surprise, motioned me forward. Now it was my turn to wince and hold my breath. I inched forward. The opening grew smaller as I approached it. It was a mouse-hole and I was going to try and shove an elephant through it.


But John kept urging me forward, and I kept inching closer, and then, miraculously, I was through the opening and on the bridge.

The one built in 1865, for a buggy. How much did a buggy weigh? I weighed in at 32,000 pounds. The bridge groaned and gave a loud crack. I put my foot on the gas. I might hit John, but I was damned if I was going to end up in the creek.

There was silence the entire way from bridge to campground. Cold war silence. The silence of a thousand death threats. The silence of a man with a map on his lap. The silence of a woman who obeyed the TomTom. The utter silence of a disaster that never happened

In the silence, I imagined my next steps. I’d pull out my suitcase, pack up only those clothes that were unwrinkled -- obviously I’d be traveling light. I’d jump in the tow car and drive to that used car dealer down the road. I had spied a vintage black and tan MG convertible on the lot and immediately knew it was my getaway car. That sweet ride had my name written all over it.

But wait. The suitcase was underneath, in storage, behind things I couldn’t move myself. And the car was still attached to the RV, and you needed a mallet to get one of the bent hitches free of the tow bar. And unhitching always got you really dirty because of the grease …

I decided to stick around and work on the marriage. After all, it had only been 40 years. I should give it some time.

Betty