When I got off the highway, Waze told me I had only about fifteen miles left. I'd be at my friend's house by seven. Despite the app-directed forays away from the highway, the drive had been easy. I'd caught up with a friend, touched based with my husband and daughters, and listened to the first few chapters of Beartown. I even had a bag of sourpatch kids to keep me company. (That's my sugary little secret.)
But then the snow squalls interrupted my smooth sailing. At first, it was just a little hard to see. The oversize flakes swirled around on the road in front of me, but didn't stick. After a few miles, though, the squalls kept coming. (BTW: What constitutes squall and what constitutes real-deal snow? Maybe Vermont has different ideas!) Ten more miles. Going down and around a curve, I stepped on the brake and listened to the noise my car makes when it has no intention to stop.
The speed limit was 50, and Waze reported that I should arrive at 6:58. Since I couldn't see or stop, I kept it well under that posted speed. I just kept an eye on how much farther I had and my thoughts on the dinner and wine that was waiting for me. 6:58 came and went, but I made it there--just might have broken a sweat in those last few miles!
Sometimes the hardest part--in so much of what we do--is the last stretch.