By Tom Robotham
Seven years ago, I wrote an essay reflecting on a sudden anxiety attack I’d had while driving over the Delaware Memorial Bridge. The attack was wholly unexpected. I’d driven over that bridge countless times, without a thought. This time, I felt as if I were on the verge of passing out.
The experience was so traumatizing that on the return trip, I took the Cape May ferry rather than drive over the bridge again.
Once on the other side, I felt home free. I knew I still had to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, but that didn’t scare me since it’s neither high nor steep. And when the time came, I drove the 20-mile span without incident.
Over the next few months, however, my driving anxiety grew worse. It even got to the point where I dreaded going on local highways.
Again, this was baffling. I’ve been driving for 52 years and have never had an accident. Moreover, I’ve driven all over the country, from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to the Los Angeles Freeway, where, if you signal that you want to change lanes, drivers will speed up to block you from doing so, as if showing courtesy were a sign of pathetic weakness. I’ve long regarded Hampton Roads as even worse than L.A., what with all the young bucks who weave from lane to lane on the interstate or ride your bumper, even though the passing lane is wide open.
Over the years, these things often irritated me—but I never felt nervous or afraid. Not until that moment on the Delaware Memorial. In the years since, my general driving anxiety has eased somewhat. I’m comfortable on highways once again, as well as bridges if they’re not high or steep. Recently, for example, I drove over the Wright Memorial Bridge, across the Currituck Sound, without apprehension.
On the other hand, tunnels now scare me. Entering them, I feel as if I’m being buried alive, and the underwater crossings going to the Eastern Shore are especially bad because they’re two-way. There’s something unsettling about seeing an 18-wheeler hurtling toward you and knowing that one slip of the wheel could end in an explosive crash.
Until recently, though, none of this interfered with my life. Day to day, I drive to ODU’s campus, nearby stores, and local restaurants. Often, I’ll go for months without the need or desire to leave Norfolk.
In mid-June, however, things got complicated when a former girlfriend and I reunited. The last time we were together, she lived in Virginia Beach. Now, she lives on the Eastern Shore.
Often, she’s happy to make the nearly two-hour drive to my place, but I recognized early on that I couldn’t expect her to always come to me. Balance, after all, is essential in any relationship.
With this in mind, I tried to psych myself up: You can do it. Every time I did, though, my demons would fight back, conjuring images of tunnel walls closing in on me and blinding headlights coming at me.
Then one day something occurred to me: I seemed to remember reading years ago that some bridge-and-tunnel authorities offer drive-across services. A quick Google search revealed that the CBBT does indeed—for free, once you’ve paid the toll. The site stated that they prefer 24-hour notice, and there was a number to call for reservations.
I felt encouraged but also a bit apprehensive. More specifically, I felt embarrassed. It’s one thing for a little old lady to be afraid of bridges and tunnels. But a reasonably healthy man in his sixties? It felt emasculating.
After a few days, though, I went ahead and called. The woman on the phone was friendly and nonchalant. “When you get here,” she said, “just use the far-right lane in the toll plaza and tell the attendant that you’re here for a drive-across. Then pull over and someone will come meet you.”
When the day came, I arrived about 15 minutes before my appointed time and did as I’d been instructed. Within a few minutes, a guy approached my car.
“Hi, I’m Chris,” he said. “Ready to go?”
Chris and I chatted on the way over, and I told him I’d driven over the span many times on my own but that it suddenly started making me nervous, especially the tunnels.
“Oh, I understand. You have nowhere to pull over if something goes wrong. A lot of people feel that way. On weekends, we get eight or 10 requests a day.”
Once on the other side, he pulled into the parking lot next to the toll booth, handed me my keys and said, “Have a great day.”
Feeling enormous relief, I got back into the driver’s seat and headed up Route 13 to Onancock, about 50 miles north.
My girlfriend lives in a lovely house on the water, with a spacious back deck—a serene setting if ever there was one. Sitting there reminded me that life is so much richer when you have the freedom to get out of town at will. I love my Ghent apartment, but sometimes it’s good to have a change of scenery.
For years, I lived by that idea. Often, on impulse, I’d just jump in my car and take off for the mountains, the Outer Banks or even New York and Vermont. And I almost always enjoyed the drive, whether with my family or by myself, alone with my thoughts, my music, the scenery and the open road.
After three blissful days with my girlfriend—who’s wonderfully understanding of my anxieties—I made the trip back home. Once again, I was apprehensive: Maybe Chris was an exception. Maybe the next driver will be an asshole.
Nope. My return driver was a great guy named Maurice, who trains new emergency-service employees: the folks who’ll come to your aid if your car breaks down on the bridge. Like, Chris, he said he’s met many folks who drove for decades without worry, then, out of the blue, had a panic attack on the bridge or in the tunnel.
“Do you have a lot of regulars?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. I guess you’ll be one soon, as well,” he said.
“Maybe,” I told him.
The truth is, I miss the sense of freedom that comes with jumping into my Subaru, spur of the moment, and taking off. Sometimes I even dream of driving across the country, and becoming reacquainted with America, as John Steinbeck did when he was in his sixties.
For now, though, I’m profoundly grateful for the drive-across service. I hope that I won’t become permanently dependent on it. Instead, at the moment, I see it as an interim measure, with men like Chris and Maurice as therapists who help people to learn to walk again after an injury.
“You can use this as much as you want,” Maurice said. “It’s available 24/7.”
That was deeply reassuring—because the road is calling, and it’s nice to know that along the way, there are people ready to help if you need them.
