It’s Sunday morning, late September, blue sky, still feels more like summer than fall.  I’m returning home from our annual college reunion party at the Jersey shore.  One conversation on politics, mostly fun and games.  I’m from New Jersey, Exit 13 on the Turnpike.

It’s about a four-and-a-half-hour drive back home, the rural hills of Pennsylvania a world away.  Traffic is light, the Garden State Parkway relatively tame, people driving around the speed limit.  I find my way through the Raritan toll plaza, accelerating right, crossing the river, high above the inlet bay.  Stress level normal.

I’m on Route 287, 65 mph speed limit.  It’s mostly a three-lane highway, with entrances and exits every few miles, outlet malls, office buildings, weekday commuter traffic.

Traffic seems heavier than normal.  Suddenly a car comes out of left field, passing on the right.  Followed by another on my left.  I’m guessing 80, 90, 100 mph.  Teams of cars bounce between lanes.  Camaros, Audis, Merecedes, street cars racing.  A feral stray disappears and reappears at the same exit.  My eyes dart left and right, looking straight ahead through the rearview mirror.  I’m staying in the middle lane, praying I’ll be okay.

The escape route finally comes into view, veering off toward the left, Route 78 West.  Take me home.