Motorway Madness

Hot air pumping through the vents, the bass pumping through the speakers. koRn warms me more than the heater, Jonathan Davis' voice gives me goosebumps. Bristol ahead. The sky is overcast, tinged with sulphurous light, reflecting back from heavy pregnant clouds. Orange; the colour of cities, the colour of pollution. Filthy ice piled at the sides of the roads. The car tyres catch the grit and it rattles against the underside of the car. Fresh grit, gritted teeth; the pace picks up, they drive too fast, too close to the vehicles ahead, hoping to shave those extra few minutes from their journey. Close shave, close call, closed coffin.

Maybe they think they will outrun the snow, maybe they're just sick of this endless motorway, this eternal road that leads to nowhere. Numbed, bored, motorway monotony; middle-lane morons, mesmerised by endless white lines. Powdered snow scattered across wing mirrors. Tailgaters; he follows, I follow; lemmings. ABS, airbags, crumple zones; false sense of security. Lulled drivers; lullaby; bye bye.

Service station stop. Doesn't matter which one you visit, they're all cloned from the same model; the fluorescent lighting, the smell of the toilets, the same overpriced shops selling the same inflatable neck cushions and selection of awful novels; the identical diners with the same array of stale food. Costa coffee speed hit; guilt trip advert says 'Tiredness Kills', so would working here. Leather massage chairs; laptop power points, stay, stay, stay; stay and spend. No thank you very much. Have a nice day. Get the hell out.

Ziggy released, fast and fleet, free from the confines of the car. His first real encounter with snow this year. Clouds of hot breath showing in the cold air, clouds of powder snow in his wake. I watch, half tempted to join him, to ignore common sense and just roll and wrestle, gallop and bound, to live in the now and the consequences be damned. More than half tempted, much more, but common sense and self preservation prevail; instead I content myself with throwing snowballs at him; he's too fast, of course, snatches them out of the air before I can score a hit, but hey, it makes us both happy for a while.

Back on the road, back in the car; broken or abandoned cars littering the hard shoulder, flashing yellow lights of AA break-down trucks; the fourth emergency service my ass; whichever overpaid genius came up with that particular phrase, I hope you get stuck on the side of a mountain, I hope your yacht sinks. Call the fucking £215 per year AA and see how far you get then. Maybe then you'll learn to give credit where it's due? The real emergency services, you know, the ones who actually save lives, and who do it for free? The Coastguards, Lifeguards, Mountain Rescue... Christ, even the S.A.R.D.A. dogs do a better job.

The M5 morphs into the M42; the Birmingham ring road; different numbers, same view. The screen-wash is freezing on the windscreen. Down to one jet; the other one has frozen solid despite the antifreeze. Leave the junction lights behind and the roads feel ominous, sinister. Black asphalt, black ice, still nothing slows. Chain-smoking out of boredom; I'd been smoking three cigarettes a day for weeks; I've trebled that already and we've another 150 miles to go yet. The other jet has frozen now, the ice forms crazy patterns on the glass.

Away from the road the world is monochrome; the moon is just off full, its bright white light casts shadows and lights the trees at the edge of the motorway, revealing stark black branches topped with ice and snow. Christmas card parody. Anti-Christmas. Antichrist Superstar on play. Blue flashing lights ahead, sirens wailing in strangely fitting counterpoint to Manson's voice. Cats eyes leaving trails on the edge of my vision, new lane layout confusion; yellow lights mounted on every other cone. Everything feels distant, surreal. M42 becomes A42; the only discernible difference is that the road narrows to two lanes and the road signs become green instead of blue.

East Midlands Airport ahead; the runway starts directly next to the motorway. The planes come so low over the traffic they seem about to land in the road. Bored enough to wonder how that would look, not quite bored enough to will it to happen. It did happen years back, Sal's dad was a doctor then; he got a police escort to Derby Hospital via Sheffield to pick up blood. I never did quite work out why they didn't just put him in one of the police cars, would have been faster than his Morris Minor; to this day he's chuffed about legally breaking the speed limit.

Castle Donnington on the left; home of the 'Monsters of Rock' and 'Download' festivals. Memories of dancing shirtless in the rain and mud, memories of dancing in the dust; so many good bands, so many years of good gigs, 'Donnington, we salute you!'.

More motorway. M1 for the next 40 miles; the lights of the Nottingham to Derby conurbation spread out to either side; Midland urban nightmare. The Mid-Lands; the middle of the country, as far from the sea as you can get in all directions.

Snowing again; without the screen-wash the wipers are struggling, salt smearing the windscreen. Visibility becoming invisibility. As the snow gets heavier and the flakes get larger we're in Star Trek and hitting warp drive. Make it so number one. Number one is not impressed, she rolls a cigarette and steers with her knees.

Snowflakes and headlights, strobe effect; shapes loom into sight, resolving into recognisable objects only at the last minute. The road is as white as the lines that divide the lanes, only the cats eyes for markers now and the cats won't see for long. Blind cats. The blind leading the blinded. In the Land of the Blind, the one-eyed Queen is Cat.

Leaving the motorway behind, cutting through Derby city centre. Christmas lights strung overhead. Culture shock; cars and people, people everywhere. Hoods up, collars up, heads down. Iggy Pop's image on the back of buses advertising insurance; WTF? Sell out, guess I should be grateful he hasn't got his dick out. Dick insurance, get your cock insured with us. Cocksure. Surely not?

A few miles of country lanes, half remembered roads and landmarks. Flashing lights round the hand painted sign at the end of the drive, beautiful old farmhouse ahead. ANdi wakes, fixes her make-up in the mirror; I try to fix my smile in place and hope it holds, hope it lasts until it's safe to cry again. Turn the pc off and get out of the car, go inside and play at happy, play at happy Christmas.

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(Photograph and writing by Danny Darke. For more information about the author and any of his other works, please visit the website at dannydarke.com Thank you!)