Roger Pires January 19, 2012
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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Takes two to travel
We both looked forward to that first day. In what must’ve involved the realigning of several planets, my wife landed a job in the same building where I work. Not the same company, mercifully. I mean, there’s spending quality time together and then there’s being chained at the ankles. But spending our workday in a common venue meant the unimagined luxury of commuting together.
Over the years we’ve both starred in our own personal renditions of the Commuting Follies. Our careers have taken us to every dark corner of the GTA, from Whitby to Waterloo. We needed a second income just to pay for gas and 407 fees. So when Lady Luck smiled on us, we began counting the benefits: the money we would save in gas alone could finance a trip to the Bahamas; we wouldn’t be driving both vehicles into the dust; and, of course, there would be an extra hour-and-a-half a day to enjoy each other’s company. But as always, the devil’s in the details.
Visions of carefree commuting vanished with the first light of day one. Or should I say, the pre-dawn gloom. My wife’s schedule dictates that we wake up an hour earlier. Not a problem for her. She turns in about the time the rest of us turn on the TV. She wakes up with all synapses firing. I need a gallon of coffee to be able to tie my shoes. Surprisingly, the bathroom schedule was easy to navigate. She had showered and dressed while I was still slurping my first cup of the black juice.
Given my state of semi-consciousness, it was decided that she would drive the morning shift and I’d take the return trip. This configuration not only ensured we got to work alive but also on time. When it comes to speed, I’m well beyond my years. Whenever we take a family trip, we calculate arrival time at our destination based on distance and who’s at the wheel. If dad drives, pack an extra movie for the DVD player.
The fun began when we remembered that “her” van was in the shop. That meant we would have to take “my” van – the team bus. It was bestowed with this honorific based on our ability to pile copious amounts of hockey equipment into it and still be able to chauffeur the gear’s owners safely and legally home. Which in turn would explain the assortment of air fresheners placed strategically around the vehicle. The old beater is a product of the last millennium and has more nicks than the Athens phone book. We can’t decide if it’s brownish-green or greenish-brown. In the murk of a drizzly dawn, the thing looks like it’s seen action in Afghanistan. It’s as pretty inside as it is outside. The seat covers match the paint job with a few coffee stains thrown in as a personal touch and the floor mats are a collage of candy wrappers, Coke cans, and last week’s newspapers. Since this is winter, the reluctant chauffeur was deprived of the joy of finding live bait under the driver’s seat. Given that I’m the proud owner of the vehicle, I had to go out and start it.
The first rule of commuting is: the driver gets to pick the radio station. I hadn’t even thought of that one. If what’s generously termed a stereo receives more than one station, I’d never know it. The FAN 590 is the sole resident of the radio dial – all sports, all the time. My sleep-deprived brain is programmed to hear about the Leafs’ latest loss. My morning driver is not a sports fan. Our new soundtrack consists of A Little Taste of Nashville and Life 100.3. I just read my newspaper wishing I were on a train to Istanbul.
The second rule of commuting, at least in terms of our dynamic duo, is the trip home takes a heck of a lot longer than the trip there. The pace falls somewhere between leisurely and stationary. I like to simulate the feel of driving from the comfort of my living room. If I didn’t have to reach the pedals, I’d put a Lazy Boy in that thing. Despite my driving habits – or because of them – my passenger naps most of the way home. So it’s goodbye Country Jamboree and hello Prime Time Sports. The world makes sense again. Well, we survived that first day and several more and we’re still talking to each other. But I do miss guys talking sports in the morning and she misses the daily pleasure of riding in a clean vehicle. Which brings us to the third rule of commuting with your better half: be careful what you wish for.
