Long ago I used to pride myself on the ability to keep pushing long after a wiser man would have called it a night, bulling my way through big yawns, drifting attention, and "microsleep" to reach a pre-chosen destination instead of flexing my schedule and itinerary to accommodate what was reasonable to accomplish.
One afternoon it almost bit me and could have taken an innocent bystander with me. (Yes, afternoon. We buttociate these problems with late hours, and indeed I maintain that after midnight everybody's an impaired driver; but if you've been ramrodding it too hard for too long, your body can demand sleep at any hour.)
I knew I was getting tired but thought I was alright to the next city, or at worst just a cup of coffee from alright. I dreamed that I was driving in my sleep, and woke up to realize that I had been doing exactly that, somewhat to the distress of the semi coming down the lane I was in, which was mostly his side of the center line, not mine.
I cranked the wheel hard to the right, watched him in my mirrors to make sure we'd *all* survived my idiot-butt atbreastude, cranked up the radio, rolled down the windows, sat in an uncomfortable position, deliberately kept my head and eye focus moving, found a safe place to pull over for a nap, and, fitfully over the years, began behaving more responsibly when operating large dangerous machinery in proximity to others.
Sometimes when it gets late and you've been up too long doing too much, you need to pull up short and make your excuses from the pay phone at a motel. Getting there late beats not getting there at all.
--Joe
