This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2014, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
I left St. George early Sunday afternoon. The sun was bright and high, as was the hope in my heart that I would make it home in time for my granddaughter's birthday party.
I had to solve a math story problem. With 293 miles between the parking lot of the hotel and my driveway in Herriman, it would take some serious tactical driving to get home in 3½ hours.
In broad terms, my plan was to fly as low as possible under UHP radar so as to merely flirt with getting stopped/cited/Tasered/booked without any of that unpleasantness actually happening.
Note: I've done it before, and it actually works, although only slightly better than it sounds.
Here's how: I drive 9 mph over the posted speed limit, run directly behind a large rig whenever possible, try to find a blocking car to run interference ahead of me, and I never (ever) drive faster than 106 mph for longer than a mile at a time, and then only to pass some *@$%$ bumping along in the left-hand lane.
Also, I prepare well. Lots of caffeine. Snacks. Emergency diaper. Plenty of rock and roll. This last one is extremely important part.
My personal Interstate 15 playlist consists of 290 minutes of carefully arranged Zeppelin, Stones, Credence, Scorpions, Heart, with a 30-minute wind down period of Stevie Ray Vaughan and ZZ Top.
I can tell what kind of time I'm making based on which song is playing as I blow past a particular town. Traveling south, Holden is "Jumpin' Jack Flash," Cove Fort "Rock You Like a Hurricane," and Manderfield "Barracuda."
Anyway, on Sunday I buckled up, tuned in, jumped on the freeway and … went nowhere.
I hadn't reckoned on Sunday being the last day of the UEA four-day "Get the Hell Out of Town" weekend, or more specifically "Going Home Tired and Cranky."
From St. George to Provo was 286 miles of plodding gridlocked motorhomes, semis, fifth wheels, vans, buses, boats, and any other conveyance crammed full of bored, irritable children and visibly livid parents.
The left-hand lane was corked up with drivers moving just fast enough to ignore "Slow Traffic Must Keep Right" without actually getting the hell out of anyone's way.
Most of the time the view was limited to the back of some family troop carrier with luggage stacked against the rear windows.
I was stuck behind one for a dozen miles while a listless teenage girl stared back at me from the back window. She could tell I was frustrated because she put a sign written in Magic Marker against the window.
"Think this is bad? Disneyland totally sucked."
Periodically the rolling gridlock would crest a hill and everyone could see a five-mile-long caravan of the damned ahead, all stacked up behind some idiot who thought he had the left-hand lane entirely to himself.
There was a particularly awful 10-mile stretch between Parowan and Beaver, which was how far it took for a car pulling a camp trailer to pass a motorhome. If the driver of Utah 051-XXX arrived home alive, it's a testament to the human capacity for restraint.
By Fillmore, Pink Floyd's "Young Lust" was playing, which meant I was 11 tracks behind my time. That's when I realized I needed help.
With a few meaningful glances between us, I teamed up with a young couple in a Lexus, two filthy elk hunters driving a large Dodge Ram, and an older guy in an Escalade.
We blocked, gunned, and shouldered for each other, doing an amazing amount of broken field running through the pack. It worked.
Thanks to them I got home just in time to see my granddaughter blow out the candles.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.