eus is a good friend. Several times, we have joint dispatched (and no, that does not mean we destroyed doobies together). So when he called and asked if I’d bring our West Fork switching puzzle (a.k.a. Inglenook) down the South Miami for Miami Railfest, I said “Yes”. See, that’s one of my few faults. I say “Yes” without thinking. Another fault is when I give my word, I stick to it.

This is because, sure, I was up in Port St Lucie, running the Western Bay on Saturday, and he needed me on Sunday. Port St Lucie should be right next to Miami, right? It’s all part of that metro area, right? They both sit right on the turnpike. But when I looked at the map after agreeing, I noted that St. Lucie is at Exit 149 or so, and RailFest was at Exit 18, I realized it was two hours away. On the other side of Maimi.

Even though I had a hand-drawn pirate map of how to get there (basically, get on the Florida Turnpike here, get off there), I would have a loaner GPS I’d pick up at the Western Bay session. But when we tried to set it up, no go. The unit couldn’t pick up the internet. So it was old-school.

Given that, I bombed out of the session after the clock stopped and didn’t hang around for the debrief. Hit the turnpike and everything was dandy… for almost an hour. But then it got dark and traffic started to build. Soon it was bumper to bumper. Now, realize that I’m in a Mini Cooper with five feet of model train layout jammed in, propped up on the back of the passenger seat. Seeing out the right side is restricted. And in the dark, even worse. None of this is helped by the fact that the Florida Turnpike is modest and discrete in some of the freeway tangles. No overhead signs and last-minute-warnings painted on the actual highway (which is impossible to see when you are riding the bumper of the car in front of you (open up the space to read them? Sure. And then someone cuts in in front of you and you’re back to square one).

All I know is that I’m fighting for my life. At the last second, I nearly got diverted onto 95 South. I had to do a nearly-blind lane change into faster traffic on the right. But my joy at avoiding 95 was dashed when I was, without warning, dumped into Maimi surface streets in a dodgy part of the city, with me in a cute Mini, with a cute train shirt and five feet off layout jammed in with me.

I just tooled south, thinking maybe I’d surface-street my way out of this, but then I realized I was at 147 NW, and if my reasoning was correct and I was aiming for south Miami, I’d have nearly 200 blocks to traverse. In the dark.

I manage to spot a sign pointing to I-95 to my left (east) and hooked an impressively suicidal looie to get on the beam for it. When I came to the overpass, I was so, so tempted to take 95 North and just sod the whole thing off. But I had given my word and all that bullshit, so I went up the southbound ramp, right into four lanes of bumper-to-bumper, slow-rolling Miami drivers.

I manage to add to my night’s list of accomplishments (i.e. idiot moves) by calling Zeus one-handed and asking for directions. Of course, since I didn’t know where I was (simply 95 South) he couldn’t offer me much. But he did tell me that the Turnpike was also known by 826 so I should look for that. Great.

Taking a chance, I took a toll road west, reasoning a toll road should be able to give me distance west to intercept 826. And, no shit, it ended in about a mile, dumping me into who knows where. Unlike the orderly grid of the poorer areas I’d recently fled, these were artfully curved and meandering, meaning that under dark skies I lost bearings. Also, I have this thing where I sometimes think I hear problems with a motor bearing me along. Used to think I’d hear a rattle or sputter from Cessna engines. And since I’d just had an oil system overhaul in the Mini, I was growing more and more certain that something, indeed, was amiss.

So yes, I’m totally lost in Miami, riding around in the dark, my engine making off-putting sounds, and really needing to pee.

I saw a hotel and fell back on my only card – pulled in and parked in ATM parking, leaving my car to radiator hum as I went inside and ask for directions. The woman at the desk was hopeless. I simply asked how to get to Florida Turnpike. Didn’t know. Um, 826? Didn’t know. Blindly, I asked which way was west. She didn’t even know that. At that point, I felt like collapsing onto the lobby tiles, wailing in despair in a growing puddle of piss.

But then she asked one of the luggage-luggers. Since the lobby was crowded (a tour group had just come in and all the reservations were lost, apparently), we stepped outside. He told me to just drive out onto the facing street and turn right (which was west, so bearings recovered). It would be a few miles but there would be my missing turnpike. He also gave me a valuable hint – when going south, there would be a confusing junction – just stay to the right and follow the signs for WEST 826. “But I need…”. He waved it off. Yes, it said west but it would go south again. Okay, so I’d follow these instructions. I jumped into my car and headed out, only realizing a block later that I should have taken a pee while I had the chance. Dammit.

Two miles later, I was certain my engine was giving me a slow surge, as if starting to bind up in preparation for a head-gasket explosion. I could no longer stand it – pulled into a gas station and popped the hood. Checked the dipstick. Well over what I needed. Looked at the hot engine before me and thought, “Okay, I’m going to trust you on this.” And so out we went.

Found the Turnpike. Hit that junction and yes, he was right – even knowing what to look for, I damn-near missed it. I don’t think there was a mention on the sign for the Turnpike. But the road swung south and suddenly, I was in the 20s on exits. Went to the right lane, recognized everything I’d written on my pirate map. Got off, drove west on 152, saw where the show would be, found my hotel easy, checked in. Went up to my room, totally done in. A two-hour drive hand turned into a four-hour ordeal.

Exhausted, but woke up several times that night, haunted by nightmares of dark streets and shuddering cars.

I’ll cover Railfest in the following blog. However, I must add that after I left the show (early, at 3pm, since nocturnal navigation was provably no fun) I drove home on the Turnpike watching the roadsigns with blistering intensity. While I did not get lost, I hit a deluge sixty-five miles from Orlando, which slowed me down and made driving just as nerve-racking as the evening prior. I just clung to the tail lights before me and tried not to drift off the road, defoggers going all the way. Got on I-4 for the final angle into Oburg, with the overhead signs announcing an accident several miles ahead. But my main exit to the 408 was also several miles ahead. Holding my breath (which helped the defogger), I rode along in the right lane, ready to dive off to any local surface streets if needed. Almost there. Almost there. And there was the 408 off ramp and there was the traffic jam, tail lights glowing like a lava flow. I manage to use the narrow Mini wheelbase to wiggle off the ramp. Managed to make it home after that.

So, yes, I really do love model railroading. Just not driving. Or rain. Or bad highway signs. Or Miami drivers. Everything else but.

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