Road Trip

I remember taking a driving vacation with my parents to the west coast back when Blake and I were kids. We had an old VW bus that Dad was prone to sticking his head out the sunroof of in order to take better pictures of the passing scenery. I specifically remember him doing this as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. It embarrassed Mom, the native Californian, to no end to have her husband so gleefully playing the part of tourist, replete with Missouri license plates on the van, camera strap around his neck, black socks pulled up to his knees, and shorts pulled up to his nipples. Now that's sexy. Dad, Susan, Blake, and I drove out to the east coast several years later and really honed our "look like a tourist" skills. We camped throughout that trip, in exotic east coast locations such as a parking lot in Jersey. That is what I call "roughing it." Many years later, when Mom decided to move back to California, I followed her out there in her Nissan pickup while she drove a car for Blake to use while he attended Stanford. A two thousand mile trip spent alone in a small, over-packed compact pickup isn't as much fun as it sounds, especially when driving through the Donner Pass during a blizzard at one in the morning with big-rigs flying past you like you were days-old road kill, harmlessly occupying an insignificant portion of the side of the road forgotten by the world of the living. Good times.

In college, several fraternity brothers and I road tripped from Columbia to New Madrid, MO on the date that all the experts predicted the end-of-the-world earthquake would happen back in 1992. We figured there was no better place to be than the epicenter to feel the earth-ending quake. We were a little disappointed that the cataclysmic event never occurred, but we did get on "Good Morning America", and were interviewed by several radio stations and newspapers. The same group of guys also took trips to Carbondale IL, Ames IA, and Rolla MO. Those memories are pleasant if not extremely blurry.

My Hannibal friends and I have taken more road trips than I could ever count. Many entailed simply driving aimlessly on back roads with no destination in mind. Several have been taken with the goal of visiting a friend who circumstances have caused to move away. A few have ended with a piece of furniture being defiled and/or burned. One trip saw Bill Herrin and I drive to Vegas and back in a 1984 Plymouth Horizon that was literally held together with duct tape and baling wire. How any of us survived these wild days on the road is a mystery to me.

Now my family gets subjected to my love of the road whenever we go on vacation. We have driven to Orlando, Colorado, Michigan, Baltimore, Chicago four times, and Kansas City and St. Louis many, many times. Thank God for portable DVD players. Actually, the kids are good travellers, as is my beautiful spouse (whenever she has managed NOT to lose her glasses in the ocean.) I am still trying to convince her to: 1. Let me buy an RV and 2. Drive out to see Blake and Meredith in Philly this Christmas rather than fly. (We could buy an RV for what we would spend on airfare for four people.) I'll let you know how it turns out.

After recently reading "On The Road" by Jack Kerouac (for the first time in my 38 years, sadly), I have been re-energized and I have re-dedicated myself to a life of discovery that can only be found on the road. I hope to get that RV (a small, used one will do) and set out on new road-tripping adventures soon. Don't be surprised if you hear a honk in your driveway or a knock on your door sometime in the near future. And when the road calls, you'd better answer. Or else you may find a flaming bag of poo on your front porch. "Shitter's full, Clark."