Although I have owned a driver’s license for only 6 years, roads have always held a special place in my heart. Despite this passion for the asphalt, I did not learn to drive until I hit my 20's . Growing up in Brooklyn, New York , one had to deal with various obstacles including the efficiency of the New York City public transportation system and high insurance rates. While lethargy played a small role as well, it was merely convenient to take the train or bus to where ever I was going. I had no intention or real desire to drive anywhere. Thinking back, I wonder, why and how did I become so interested in roads? Then I realized it was the lure of the Mother Road that set my engine running.
When I was younger, I gave directions and acted as my mom or godparents Captain Navigator; a superhero of sorts with the ability to not only get people to their destination without getting lost, but also discover new and mysterious roads. I am still determined to this day to find that road or portal. Additionally, for years I held an affinity towards the 1950’s and its popular culture. During which time, I did some things that could be perceived as abnormal. They included watching episodes of I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver and Back to the Future parts 1 and 2 about as many times as there are days in a year. That is no exaggeration. Furthermore, I would go to the bookstore, hide behind a shelf and wipe away drool from the pages that featured either a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible or a 1954 Buick Roadmaster. I always thought riding in vehicles such as these would transport me back in time (just like the Delorean) and enable me to search for answers while driving down that open road listening to Elvis and Hank.
In 2005, I decided to board an airplane to New Mexico. After graduating from college two years earlier and doing nothing but temp work, it was time for an excursion. Earlier in the year, I began reading about historic roads such as Route 66. After reading more about it and seeing there was going to be a car show out in a part of the country I have never dreamed of going before, I figured this was a good time to cut loose from my daily activity of do-nothing-but memorize Marty McFly’s dialogue with his parents. So, I booked rooms in Tucumcari and Albuquerque and said to myself “head west, young man.”
On a connecting flight from Dallas to Amarillo, I met Bruce Cude. I told him about my dream to travel down Route 66 and that I had never been in the region before. After the flight he asked me if I had a car and I said I planned on traveling by bus. Not only did he drive me into town, but he gave me my first taste of Route 66. As we drove around, he would point out certain places like the Golden Light Café and a bunch of tattoo parlors on Sixth Street. (Along the way, he provided a little personal background history; he relocated to Amarillo after spending most of his life in Carlsbad, New Mexico.) While looking around, I realized I made it. I finally became a member of the 66 fraternity.
Even though I wanted to travel the route some more, Mr. Cude had business to take care of in his office. So, he dropped me off by the bus depot and we parted ways. After a nice burger at a nearby restaurant, I went over to the Greyhound station to pick up my ticket for Tucumcari. The station itself was rather parochial in size and not an ideal place to sit around and wait for a bus. Nevertheless, it was a new experience and I wanted to soak it all in. After picking up the ticket and sitting down to wait for the bus, I encountered various people from different locales and walks of life; some were traveling from Arkansas while others were going as far west as Stockton, California. Additionally, there were a few people going to just get away from their present situations, while others were going to meet some friends and family.
At around 8 P.M., the bus arrived and picked all of us up and the journey began. A half hour later, while I was lying comatose listening to "Take it Easy" by the Eagles, a huge boom took place. Thunder down 66! After riding past Vega, (25-30 miles west of Amarillo), I saw lightning in a shade of orange one will not see in New York or anywhere for that matter. The remaining hour and a half is a blur, as I shut my eyes from the long day. As we hit the depot in Tucumcari, the driver hollered “Everybody for Tucumcari, get off.” If possible, the driver would have loved to thrown us off as he had a long drive to Flagstaff, Arizona awaiting him. I got off and took a cab ride over to the motel I was staying at. After all the thunder from jet engines, Mother Nature and a grumpy older bus driver, wouldn't you know that the place where I would be staying at would be called the Pow Wow Inn.
The next morning, after asking the front desk lady where the Route 66 Festival was going to take place, I began walking down the Mother Road. It was 93 degrees and I dressed for the weather: a tank top with jeans shorts and running shoes. As I was approaching the car show and festivities I encountered two gentlemen at the Buckaroo Motel. One was grey-haired with pale blue eyes that hailed from Wisconsin and had been a resident of Tucumcari for about 15 years, while the other was another local from Arkansas. As a person who does not normally talk to people from out-of-the-blue, this was a pleasant surprise. From guns and roads to our hometowns, we were able to converse freely while enjoying the clear blue sky on Route 66 and the home cooked odor of asphalt. The experience showed me that as an American, no matter what the person’s background was, everyone has a story to share about their journey.
After glaring at some of the auto beauties, I took a stroll down 66. As I looked around, I felt an aura. It felt as if I was reliving an experience from another lifetime, which I could not pinpoint. As for that Saturday afternoon, I was enjoying myself so much that later on I painfully realized that I forgot to put sunscreen on. Consequently, my legs and arms were as burnt as a hamburger sitting on the grill for hours at a backyard shindig. After the festivities, I walked down 66 in the soaking sun looking for a supermarket to find a cure to this painful ailment. Alas, I hit an Alco’s and bought some aloe. (How about that Mr. Kerouac another verse to your poetic ride, aloe at Alco’s.) It did not help much, but in my mind it did the trick.
A couple of days later it was time to get back on the bus. However, before I left, I met a couple of people at the depot. One was a gentleman in his early 30’s with blonde hair who was heading back to Oregon, while the other was a young lady with brown hair and blue eyes from Missouri (or “Misery”) who was heading to an unknown destination. I asked her, "why don't you know?" Miss Blue Eyes explained, "I want to see where I am supposed to go, God brought me here for a reason and I want to fulfill his plan." What impressed me most about her response was the fact that she seemed to find herself even though she did not know where the bus would leave her. This faith in the unknown and in God forced me to start reevaluating my lot in life. I started to believe that life is all about the journey and that the road is not merely asphalt or concrete macadam; it is a path that will cause one’s self to see and experience things like never before. While my first experience on 66 in New Mexico was special, it was the second time around that completed my love affair with the route. The biggest difference was, this time I was finally able to drive on the Mother Road!
After heading back to Brooklyn, I knew it was time to get that license. I was tired of going to places where I had to rely on cabs and buses just so I can move around. In July, after taking several lessons, I joined the vast community of drivers. Nevertheless, I was not sure what to do with it this feeling of mobile freedom. For the next few months, I drove in spurts on the streets. However, after moving to Houston in February, I got the motor running. My Godmother told me to get behind the wheel in her 1995 Saturn and drive on Highway 6. As the comfort level increased, she sent me onto the intersection of Interstate 610 and U.S. 59 in southwest Houston. While I was extremely nervous, I was feeling good. As I cruised down 59 I began thinking about my experience on Route 66 and felt it was time for another encounter. So, in September 2006, I flew to Arizona for a 10-day vacation.
Throughout the whole plane ride, all I can think of was “Boy, I am excited about the chance to coast down 66, my dream road.” This was an exciting moment, as it marked the first time, in which I was able to drive on vacation. After staying in Phoenix for a couple of days, I trucked across Interstate 17. While I was battling the steep curves and inclines, all I was thinking about was what it will be like driving on a road that so many before me had. Upon reaching Flagstaff, “I Saw the Light;” a sign that read “Historic Route 66.” After turning right heading towards the motel, America’s Best Value Inn - granted it was not the El Pueblo Motel, but still it was on 66- it felt as if I was coming back to visit an old friend. Shortly after unpacking, I got back into the silver 2006 Chevy Cobalt rental and coasted thirty miles west on Interstate 40 to Williams. As I drove through downtown Williams, I witnessed a town that clearly had seen its better days. Nevertheless, I felt an aura. As I looked at the coal mines and small businesses that continue to run I transformed into Jack Kerouac's alter ego Dean Moriarty. A wave of emotion swept through me as I felt like Dean trying to unfold a new page in life's book.
The biggest thrill of traveling on "America's Highway" is not only seeing the various 66 signs, but the structures and businesses that Michael Wallis gently explains in his ode to the Mother Road. That euphoria hit its climax when I entered Cruiser’s Café off W. Route 66. From jukeboxes, to 66 memorabilia to the blasting of 50’s rock and roll, I felt like I entered heaven.
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