Road Trip
Stumbling Through The Other America
Between my first and second years of college, I drove across the country and back with Carl Koechlin (my wonderful kid brother), Laurie Black (my high school girlfriend), and our friend Ross Haver. I turned 19 on the last day of the trip. Carl was not quite 17. (See photo of Carl and me.)
I spent the first several weeks of that summer working (and saving money) as the “Assistant Maintenance Man” at the Montclair Golf Club. (Mostly, I swept and replaced burned-out light bulbs). I quit abruptly in July. (I imagined that my unexpected departure would disrupt the rhythms of bourgeois life in a small but meaningful way.)
We (Carl, Laurie, Ross and I) traveled in my parents’ 1970 Ford Galaxie Wagon – “on its last legs,” their mechanic had declared. (It had 82,000 miles at the start of our trip -- a hint about the accelerating decline of the US auto industry.) The Galaxie got 14 miles to the gallon (another hint). Our only media was a lousy AM radio. The best of the twenty songs we heard over and over: James Taylor’s “Handyman,” Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “Just a Song Before I Go,” and Boz Scaggs’ “Lido Shuffle.” Elvis died while we were on the road; thereafter the music was better.
We were out to have a good time. I also had a grandiose idea that, like Jack Kerouac or Woody Guthrie or Alexis de Tocqueville, I’d discover some Truth about America -- and/or about myself.
We visited Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks, and Banff. (Glacier and Banff are still among the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.) We encountered a few free-range bulls as we slept outside the gates of Glacier. We crashed with ambivalent hosts in Chicago, Portland, San Francisco, LA and Lawrence, Kansas. We drove the Pacific Coast Highway. We were terrified by the blackest sky we’d ever seen, rushing toward us, above Route 70 in central Kansas, while local radio stations listed counties that should “be prepared for tornadoes.” (I hope the folks of Russell and Ellsworth Counties are OK!) We ate a lot of cheese sandwiches and a lot of Fig Newtons. We splurged at Pizza Hut one evening in Calgary, Alberta, and we ate a ton of fantastic (and insanely cheap) Mexican food during our 10 days in California. We pulled over for a picnic lunch outside of Las Vegas to see what 113 degrees felt like (*very* hot, FYI). Early on, our sleeping bags were soaked in a torrential rain; in my memory, they were damp the rest of the trip.
We laughed a lot. We were often bored. Sometimes we couldn’t stand each other. But mostly it was an incredible adventure – like we were sailing across the ocean. It was a great thrill to be away from the suburban East Coast world we knew so well, and it was a blast to encounter all kinds of sights, scenes and people that had, until then, been beyond our imagination. We didn’t really know what we were doing, or what we’d do if something went wrong. That – in retrospect, at least – was a thrill.
On the long drive home, Ross – who had family in Ohio, I think – would regularly say: “Just wait till you see: the pigs in Ohio are as big as refrigerators.” I can’t say if Ross was telling the truth. If these uber-pigs exist(ed), they were not visible from the Interstate.
There were lots of good surprises along the way – odd and otherwise wonderful characters and beautiful scenes. I’d started to construct my story of the Other America – the America I was sure I’d “discover” along the way -- well before I’d actually encountered it. It turns out that the people – the actual human beings – we met along the way were different and more complicated than I’d imagined. Their mission in life, it turns out, was not to be characters in my crappy coming-of-age–on-the-road novel. An early lesson that people know their own stories better than I do. So, listen.
A great trip. That’s how I remember it, anyway. One more thing for which I am very grateful.
Every spring, as the end of another long academic year comes into view, I think: When this is over – when I’ve said my good-byes and submitted my grades - Katherine and I should find a used, oversized station wagon (or, maybe, an El Camino), throw our shit in the back , and head West. Who knows what we’ll find.
“…all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see.”
Jack Kerouac (On the Road, Part 2, Ch. 6)
p.s. In 2017, I drove from NYC to Austin with my then 26 year-old son, Alex. I’m lucky to have had these adventures with two of the people I love and enjoy most.