Kim Barlow was the perfect driver for the open road, indefatigable and unerring in her abilities. she hardly slept the whole way to Halifax. In the morning she would catch a few hours of rest and invariably wake up cranky and tired with a raspy voice and sallow bags under her eyes. I learned early on to avoid conversation with her until the wrappings of sleep fell away from her in the hot August afternoon. Barlow drove mainly at night to avoid the congestion of the highways and to keep the bus engine cooler. It was a depraved compromise because watching the rolling panorama of the country side sweep by is one of the main purpose of a road trip.
We got lost in every Twilight Zone hick town across the country. Entering the place was easy enough but finding the correct passage out of town became increasingly difficult as the trip wore on. Street names began to sound alike, the gas stations all looked the same, and everyone gave us the wrong directions. The ambient Edmonton curse of never being able to leave town moon-dogged our steps.
But whenever we finally plotted the proper course, Barlow kept to the road like a foxhound to the scent. She swerved only to avoid the sentient creatures of the night, raccoons, porcupines, gophers...Humans, however, had to fend for themselves. Later, her reflexes would be so well developed that she would instinctively swerve to avoid hitting falling leaves. Driving around in Nova Scotia in the autumn would prove to be a fun experience.
She also bonded with passing truck drivers at night by flashing them her high beams which, in the truckers world, means it is safe to turn back into their lane after they have cleared your vehicle. They would put on a mini-light show by way of thanks, a tiny flashing amber wink, or a full-blown pyrotechnic display of lights, an eruption of halogen fury.
Red Sovine would have been proud of her. Dean Moriarty could have taken lessons from her. Thelma and Louise would have fallen in love with her.
