Word. Centurion Accordo from the late nineteen-eighties. Japanese. I am using it as the base for my new fixed gear (which I can't really build until I get back to school, but that's in a week so it's a fine) and it is in nice condition. However, this is not what the post is about.
So we head back towards 276 to come home. At the fork in the road between 276 E and 276 W, for no fucking reason at all, I take the eastern route, which is clearly not the way to get home. So we're heading towards New Jersey now, which is cause for alarm in and of itself. I think to myself, it's fine, we can just get off at the next exit and turn around. Oh wait- the next exit is in the middle of one of the highway knots that are totally unnavigable. Scratch that. I see a sign that proudly advertise I-95 somewhere nearby. So I follow that.
Within ten minutes I realize that we are lost somewhere in Northeast Philadelphia, charging down Roosevelt Boulevard (or, by its other name, the Daniel Faulkner Memorial Highway. Yeesh.) There are strip malls on every side, and we count three Boston Markets in a five minute stretch. One of the six hundred car dealerships we pass has a sign that says, "Gary Barbera loves the GREAT NORTHEAST!!!" Those northeasteners must buy a shit ton of cars, because there is no other reason for anyone to like that place.
I ask for directions twice, and only get good information the second time around. Following the signs, it takes another twenty minutes to finally reach I-95. We have been looking for the goddamn highway for about an hour at this point. Finally, we got onto it and barreled our way back past the real city, through southwest, and back to home. The point of the story: the northeast is a trap and one should stay the fuck away. Also, know your driving directions.
Don't associate with Gary Barbera, either, or anyone who associates with that place.
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