"Back Roads" by Alice Lowe

Back Roads

Panic attacks on the Coronado Bay Bridge — sweating, shaking, hyperventilating, fuzzy brain, and death grip on the wheel — put an end to my driving on narrow concrete spans over deep bodies of water. My symptoms escalated, extended to overpasses and freeways, interfered with daily life. Self-diagnosed in psycho-lingo then as hodophobia, fear of traveling, now finetuned to a more discrete dread: vehiphobia, fear of driving motor vehicles, which is itself distinct from amaxophobia, fear of being in a vehicle. I fought the fright valiantly. I would strong-arm myself out of it. Tough love. But when I felt I was becoming a hazard to myself and others, I surrendered.
San Diego is a large city, crisscrossed with freeways that bisect communities like meat cleavers. I’m bounded by four freeways, but my urban neighborhood is walkable, close to everything I need: a small deli/grocer around the corner, supermarket six blocks away, library just up the street, restaurants galore within blocks. It’s a half-hour walk southeast to Balboa Park or west to Old Town, a short drive downtown. When I need to drive, I’ve mastered surface streets and can maneuver easily around the city. Outlying parts of the county are more of a challenge, but I cobble together byways and highways that get me where I need to go. It takes longer, but I adapt to the slower pace. Time is a luxury I have in abundance since my retirement.
My daughter lives in Encinitas, 25 miles up Interstate 5. She makes the half-hour drive frequently. It takes me twice as long, chugging along on old 101, the coast highway. Past scenic Torrey Pines State Park, past a stretch of open coastline, then through the string of beach towns where I grew up. A scenic and familiar drive, I see the rhythmic flow of the ocean from shoreline to horizon, hear waves crashing and seabirds clamoring, inhale the sharp minty scents of pine and eucalyptus, taste the salty sea air.  
Bud’s Louisiana Kitchen was a back-road reward. Once a minutes-away, mid-city favorite, it moved to a sterile, off-the-radar suburb, out of sight and mind. Years later, I was referred to a physical therapist for a running injury. Mapping a route via surface streets, there was Bud’s, in a new and more accessible location, just a few blocks from my destination. Now it’s back in the repertoire. Had I zipped up the freeway to my appointment, I would have missed it.
Yesterday I met a friend for lunch at a midpoint between our houses, halfway not in distance but in drive time. Her twenty-plus miles on the freeway and my eight over hill and dale each took 25 minutes. But my roundabout path passes by Old Town, where my favorite jacaranda is just coming into bloom — a serendipitous sight worth the extra time.

Alice lowe

Alice Lowe writes about life, language, food, and family in San Diego, California. Her essays have been widely published, including this year in Bluebird Word, Bloom, South 85 Journal, Change Seven, Words & Sports, Tangled Locks, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. Her work has been cited twice in Best American Essays and nominated for Pushcart Prizes and Best of the Net. Alice has written extensively on Virginia Woolf’s life and work and is a regular contributor at Blogging Woolf. She’s a peer reviewer for Whale Road Review. Read and reach her at www.aliceloweblogs.wordpress.com.

Headshot: D.E. Strandberg

Photo Credit: Staff