Road Trips
I've never been on a true road trip, not the kind where you're on the road for days traveling long distances, or where you stop in little towns to see giant balls of yarn or visit whaling museums. Not the kind where you have adventures and drive with the windows down and the radio blaring. Road trips to me are about the trip itself, not wherever you're going—you're taking your time, enjoying the sights, exploring the route.
I have gone on long car trips, though. Those are different. They're about the destination, and the trip itself is something annoying you have to get through to get wherever you're going.
Georgia to Indiana, Indiana to Georgia. Indiana to New York, New York to Indiana. These are the routes I've ridden over and over. As a kid I built myself a comfort station in the back seat of our family van, my dog Max on the floor, my pillow against the window, snacks in my bag, my feet up against the pile of luggage surrounding me like a cocoon. My brothers would watch movies in the middle seat, but I'd tune them out and spend the ten hours with my books, resenting the intrusion of pit stops and questions from my mother.
A few years ago Michael and I rode with my parents down to Georgia—they were going to a friend's wedding, we were taking the opportunity to visit one of my best friends. My mom wanted to turn the car trip into a road trip, picking a random restaurant on the road that turned out to be a biker bar, stopping in Chattanooga to walk along the river and get ice cream, a visit to a park with a Civil War memorial. It annoyed Michael because he just wanted to get there—he wanted a car trip. But can I blame my mom? Don't you get more out of a road trip?
On our drives to New York to see Michael's parents I sometimes try to get him to stop at places we see along the road: the Cuba Cheese Shoppe, the Mark Twain Study. We don't ever stop, because in his head he's running a timer to see how quickly we can make the trip. And maybe if we actually did stop I'd be regretting the time lost. But shouldn't we be experiencing, not rushing? Isn't it a bad thing to always be on a timer?
I have gone on long car trips, though. Those are different. They're about the destination, and the trip itself is something annoying you have to get through to get wherever you're going.
Georgia to Indiana, Indiana to Georgia. Indiana to New York, New York to Indiana. These are the routes I've ridden over and over. As a kid I built myself a comfort station in the back seat of our family van, my dog Max on the floor, my pillow against the window, snacks in my bag, my feet up against the pile of luggage surrounding me like a cocoon. My brothers would watch movies in the middle seat, but I'd tune them out and spend the ten hours with my books, resenting the intrusion of pit stops and questions from my mother.
A few years ago Michael and I rode with my parents down to Georgia—they were going to a friend's wedding, we were taking the opportunity to visit one of my best friends. My mom wanted to turn the car trip into a road trip, picking a random restaurant on the road that turned out to be a biker bar, stopping in Chattanooga to walk along the river and get ice cream, a visit to a park with a Civil War memorial. It annoyed Michael because he just wanted to get there—he wanted a car trip. But can I blame my mom? Don't you get more out of a road trip?
On our drives to New York to see Michael's parents I sometimes try to get him to stop at places we see along the road: the Cuba Cheese Shoppe, the Mark Twain Study. We don't ever stop, because in his head he's running a timer to see how quickly we can make the trip. And maybe if we actually did stop I'd be regretting the time lost. But shouldn't we be experiencing, not rushing? Isn't it a bad thing to always be on a timer?