Shrieking down the Taconic

Well, well, well. What an adventure it was.

Driving home from Yorktown last evening - it began pleasantly enough. There was a fresh breeze in advance of an incoming thunderstorm, cool enough so that you could turn the AC off and actually open the windows without becoming instantly saturated with sweat.

And even the death-luge that is the Taconic Parkway wasn't badly congested.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Taconic - between its origin point near White Plains in Westchester County, heading north to where it intersects Interstate 84 - the Parkway alternates between wide-open, 3-lane highway with lovely green views and ample shoulders for emergencies, to 2-lanes of white-knuckling, soil-your-pants winding turns, cliff walls to one side of you, sheer drop-offs on the other- with only a ticky-tacky erector-set barrier (see photo) separating you and your fellow travelers from certain death - while driving 90 miles an hour in traffic lanes designed for those little cars that Shriners ride in parades, surrounded by already balance-impaired Westchester housewives in Navigators and Tahoes, yapping on cell phones, and 300-year-olds driving the largest possible Oldsmobile they could find, busily trying to find that pesky center line again.

As you can see - it's an adventure.

I should also explain that there are very few exits or pull-outs on the Taconic. It is a very strict and business-like little road, with little room for frivolous activities like flat tires or bodily functions. If you want a rest stop, use the Interstate, it seems to say.

Anyhoo - I had left work a little early to get ahead of the weather. A few sprinkles and splats of some very fat rain drops on the windshield as I headed north for home, but nothing serious.

Then as I approached the exit for Route 55 to Poughkeepsie, the sky began to darken very quickly and the NPR radio station i was listening to was suddenly broken into by the Emergency Broadcast System - you know, that annoying "Scrawk --- scrawk ---scrawk--" - which I hoped to be a test, but knew better from looking around me.

The EBS alert stated - in an unsettlingly mechanical, recorded phone lady response system voice - that a tornado alert had been issued for Dutchess County. Conditions were ideal for the formation of a tornado.

Okay - meanwhile - the wind has picked up to a degree that the trees on either side of the parkway are whipping and thrashing like the audience at a Sex Pistols concert. And the sky continued to darken.

The EBS alert continued by saying that the center of the fast-moving and powerful storm was expected to pass through Poughkeepsie around 5:50 pm, then through Pleasant Valley around 5:55, heading north-northeast towards Milan and Amenia - essentially following the Taconic's path.

I glanced up just in time to see the Pleasant Valley city limits sign - and to glance at the clock. 5:54 pm.

Jesus H...............

The skies opened and rain slashed down - the winds whipping and jerking as I tried to stay focused on the road. It became darker and darker still - my headlights barely able to cut through the gloom and rain - yet you could see that others on the road were accelerating to get somewhere - anywhere - just to get off this damned road. I succumbed and found myself doing 80 miles an hour, knowing the Millbrook exit was just ahead.

As I crested the last hill before the exit and ...oh my God. The rain abruptly ceased. The wind immediately died. And the sky turned a vile, greenish gray and black.

My heart almost stopped.

As anyone who has been through a tornado knows - there are a few sure-fire signs that you are about to get your ass kicked by a funnel with an attitude. The main three had just happened simultaneously.

I've survived three of these bad boys in the Midwest. I was about to apply everything I had learned but not practiced for a very long while.

I raced for the Millbrook exit, knowing that - at a minimum - I could hide under the overpass at the exit. But no. There was no place to safely stop - no shoulder under the overpass- and cars continued to whiz through. Then, just in front of me, two Oldsmobile Flotillas just stopped and were parked under the overpass by their fossilizing operators.

Heart racing - I sped past them - heading towards the storm - looking frantically for a safe place to pull off.

The colors in the sky continued to lurch around each other in a circular pattern, looking everything like a devil's milkshake - puke green colliding with leprous gray green, with a smattering of eternal darkness thrown in for fun. Rain had begun to fall again - blowing in sheets sideways across the road.

I finally saw the lights and signage of a roadside store - fresh poultry, eggs, venison. Whatever! I'm stopping there.

I slammed the car into a spot, grabbed my backpack with my laptop and phone in it (you're welcome employer, I saved the laptop) and dashed through the rain towards the entrance.

As it turns out, I had always wanted to stop at this particular shop - albeit in more ideal circumstances.

Two ball-capped, portly, bib-overalled gentlemen stood on the broad covered porch near the entryway, cell phones clasped in hand - watching the show.

I said, "Man - I think I got off the Taconic just in time - this looks pretty bad."

Billy Ray Jim Bob - the smarter of the two, I was to learn - responded. "Yeah - I wouldn't want to be on the road right now."

Bobby Earl, who was only smart enough to handle two names, piped in, " I dunno what the big deal is - you see a tornado - you run for cover. Buncha wussies, pulling over."

I was like, Hello! Wussy here! Standing next to you! Judging you - and you're losing!!

Then it began - hail - the final sign you are likely to get sucked up to Oz in the next few minutes. And rain - oh, the rain - we were approaching biblical. Hail as big around as nickels - larger than marbles. My poor car, I thought.

You could see trees being stripped of their foliage by the hail - horses in the field across the way huddling under the battered trees for shelter.

Three more cars had sought cover in the lot - all being judged quite loudly by Bobby Earl as being first class wussies.

Billy Ray Jim Bob quickly put a stop to his escalating stupidity by sending Bobby Earl in to shut off the AC and to retrieve the police scanner radio.

The he turned to me and said, " We do have a basement here, if need be."

A comforting thought. Me and Bobby Earl in a dark place underground. Wheeee.

The others in the parking lot remained in their cars - their eyes wide as the hail pummeled their vehicles.

Bobby Earl returned with the radio - the police band was buzzing. "Trees down on Acacia Lane"...sqweeee ... "Motorists trapped...fallen trees on vehicles..." ...squawwwkkk...."Officer needs assistance.."" "Flooding..." "Stranded cars..."

I was very happy at this moment to be a weather wussy.

I called home to let B know where I was, that I was going to sit out the storm before continuing home, and to please send the search team here if he never saw me again. I'd be the one in the collapsed building's basement, likely fighting off Bobby Earl's repressed tendencies.

...wait.........just threw up a little...ok...yup...bleah... continue....

As we watched the storm rage and parking lot flood - the hail continued for another five minutes. Billy Ray Jim Bob went into the store to lock down the gun shop. Yes - the GUN SHOP. This was where I chose to stop.

Combination gun shop, tackle and bait, fresh poultry and game - freshly killed, as advertised - with shelves full of Italian risottos and delicacies, truffle and olive oils, fresh pasta and soy milk. It was the summing up of Dutchess County in one roadside store.

Rednecks, weekend yupsters and Westchester wannabes - driving their Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs to deliver their children to the nearest private school so they won't have to muck in with the locals. And oh - wouldn't it be lovely if we could pick up some quail eggs, prosciutto and live ammunition on the way to have our Valium refilled at the Rite Aid?

But I digress. (Don't I always?)

With the crackle and buzz of the police radio behind us, Billy Ray Jim Bob and I kept craning our necks out to listen for the sound of an approaching freight train - one we hoped we would not hear.

Meanwhile, I was being treated to a dissertation from Bobby Earl on the improved traction of warm tires over cold ones - which we wussies had brought upon ourselves by stopping our cars, instead of continuing on our way - only pausing to ask me if I ever watched NASCAR, because you know - before those cars start racing, they zig-zag a bit to get those tires warm and BAM! they're off like a shot.

Managing not to look too shocked and repulsed, I managed to reply, "Really? How interesting."

He took this sign of approval much as a dog appreciates a pat on the head and continued to explain how lighting actually comes from the ground.

The storm raged - the hail finally abating. As I mentally prepared to resume my journey home, I figured I should show my appreciation for the shelter, so I purchased a fresh chicken from Billy Ray Jim Bob. I made a mental note to stop again if the chicken was good.

A few minutes later, I dashed through the rain to my car - lightning still zapping everywhere around us - and continued the ride home.

Driving westward, the worst of the storm eventually passed.

The roads were only visible through tire ruts in a carpet of green and brown - leaves and branches shattered by the hail. Snowdrifts of icy hail lined the roadside.

Entire intersections were underwater - yet brilliant minds of the future continued to race their second-hand Saturns through at full speed.

As I crept home - avoiding fallen trees and submerged roadways - the fog and steam resulting from ice and water being suddenly thrust on roads on an 85 degree day made it difficult to even see in front of you - let alone get anywhere near the speed limit.

Finally, as I crossed the Kingston Bridge across the Hudson - the river reflecting the still-tortured skies above - I sighed a sigh of relief and patted the plastic bagged carcass next to me and said, "not today, little chicken, Not today."