It could have been a simple and nice trip into the city. But with Chuck at the wheel, it became an adventure.

Now, I’ve been known to poke fun of my mother on occasion (all out of love, of course), but sometimes her husband makes her gaffes pale by comparison.

Let me set the scene for you. Chuck, my mother, Courtney, and myself were heading into the city on Saturday. To avoid traffic in the Midtown Tunnel, Chuck opted to sit in traffic on the Queensboro Bridge. Now, I always take the Upper Level, because it just seems to be quicker. Chuck, with his fear of heights, prefers the Lower Roadway. Does being just a few feet lower really make that much of a difference? Apparently so.

As we’re riding on the not-that-much-lower Lower Level, the topic of the so called Bastard Lane comes up. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the Bastard Lane is a lane on the lower level of the Queens-bound side of the bridge that is not only insanely narrow, but basically dangles off of the main part of the bridge.

Below is an artist’s conception:

Click on it to see it full size!

Anyway, we all commented how scary that lane is, and how it is best avoided at all costs.

We then proceeded to have a nice afternoon/evening in the city. The quote of the day came when I told Chuck that he would want to move to Hawaii after their upcoming vacation there. His response: “Nah, I love America too much.” Oh, Chuck!

After dinner it was time to head home. Chuck was driving east on 57th Street, and as we came up to the turn on to the bridge, Chuck kept going straight. (This despite the fact that he was in the turn only lane.) When my mom asked him why he didn’t turn, he said it was because that was the tun for the Upper Level. And, because of Chuck’s fear of heights, driving on the Upper Level is a thought that is simply too frightening to bear.

Can you guess what happened next?

Chuck turns on to First Avenue. He heads towards the Queensboro Bridge ramp there. I grab Courtney’s hand and whisper, “This is the entrance to the Bastard Lane!” She grips my hand tightly. We both wonder if we’ll ever see Eli and Sherlock again.

Chuck drives a solid 500 feet or so before he even notices where he is. Of course, when the realization hits him, he slams on the brakes, nearly causing the car behind us to sail right into us. Thankfully that didn’t happen, and Chuck is able to very slowly proceed, all the while cursing and yells things like, “I’m sweating like a bullet!” (Another Chuckism.) The rest of us are trying very hard to find the irony and the humor in the situation, but the fear is still very real, as Chuck is now driving with both eyes closed.

Probably.

Well anyway, we all made it over the bridge in one piece, at which point the incident became instantly more funny. Chuck continued to sweat profusely for the rest of the trip, and while I was admonished for not properly warning him about our impending trip over the Bastard Lane, my decision to withhold the information also retroactively became kosher once we all survived our harrowing adventure.

But let this be a warning to all ye who read it: If you find yourself in Manhattan and needing to take the Queensboro Bridge, don’t get on from First Avenue.