Rather than write about one of my current cars I thought I would re-post an article I published in Cincinnati Profile Magazine two years ago. It is a story I recounted to my youngest son as we were driving home from a weekend of cars and fun to celebrate his birthday in Indianapolis. It is a story of when I was young, right out of college and taking the ride of my life. It is a story that convinced me that all young men are Born to Be Wild.
A
couple of weeks ago my youngest son, Josh, and I took a road trip up to
Indianapolis. Indy is a great city with lots to do. We enjoyed wandering
through the Indianapolis Museum of Art and took in a soggy Indianapolis Indians (http://www.milb.com/index.jsp?sid=t484)
baseball game.
While
these were well worth the trip, the real reason we were there, though, was
because of cars. The Indianapolis Motor Speedway had created a great weekend for motoring enthusiasts. The premier event was the
Indianapolis Grand Prix (take a look at how these cars run)
which, if you have never been, is actually a whole series of races leading up
to the main event.
The
grand prix may have been the featured event but also as part of the weekend was
the Celebration of Automobiles, a Councours event that featured over 100
classic cars ranging from the early Brass Era up into the muscle cars of the
1960s. If you’re interested, you can see posts on my daily classic car blog ofthis event beginning here.
Also
while we were there we wandered through the IMS Hall of Fame Museum
which not only has dozens of actual winners of the 500 on display but a lot of
other amazing cars as well. We were told that at any time there are over 75
cars on display in the museum. While we were there they were having a special
exhibit on the Turbine Era of the Indy 500. I will eventually be posting
pictures and stories of the museum on my daily blog.
In
all this was a fun road trip weekend and a great opportunity to spend time with
my son. On the ride back as we talked about a variety of things, Josh said that
someday he would like to pack up and take a road trip across the country. As we
talked about that memories of my various cross country drives began to flood
back.
Get your motor running.
I
was recently out of college and one of my old film professors had called my
parents’ house looking for me. It seems he and a couple of friends had gotten a
grant to shoot a documentary about dolphin research. Back in college I had
helped my professor work on another documentary and as that production moved
forward I began taking on more roles and doing more and more work. Ultimately I
had even helped to write the script, did some of the photography, did a lot of
lighting and sound and even helped him in the editing room. So when he and his
partners were looking for someone to help them they gave me a call.
Since
they had given me some advance notice before shooting was to begin I decided to
take a leisurely drive across the country and see some of the places I had
never visited. I loaded up my 1977 European built Mercury Capri and I went over
maps, since this was way before Google Earth, plotting my path with care.
My
brother and his wife lived just outside of Denver, they still do, and so it
would have been logical for me to take the I-70 route straight across the
country. Unfortunately they would be gone when I would travel through the Mile
High City so I decided to head a little bit south so I could visit a friend who
was in Oklahoma City at the time. I would take I-74 to Indy then head west on
I-70 but only until I got to St. Louis. There I would hit I-44 into Oklahoma
City.
There
my plan was to take I-40 through the Texas panhandle and Albuquerque and much
of Arizona before leaving the Interstate system and heading north to spend a
day or two in Las Vegas. Then it was I-15 on to the spaghetti of blacktop that
is LA.
Head out on the highway.
The
trip started well and I made it to Oklahoma City in about 14 hours with stops
for gas, food and, well, various other necessities. I had left early in the
morning and with the change in time zones arrived at my friend’s house just in
time for us to go out and get something to eat. And drink.
Yes, we were 20
somethings and so after we had dinner we went around the corner to a bar that
featured a real live Texas bred country band. If you have ever seen the movie The Blues Brothers there is a scene in
which the band plays a bar where the people like both kinds of music, country and Western.
I think this was the place where the filmmakers got their inspiration. It may sound unbelievable but I swear that 20
minutes wouldn’t go by that the band wasn’t playing The Eyes of Texas. What made it worse is that everybody in the
place, except me, knew the secret clapping rhythms needed to accompany the
band. It was a strange night.
The next day,
notice I didn’t say morning, my friend showed me around Oklahoma City. It was a
nice city, not at all what I expected. In our studies of U. S. history back in
high school and college we learned about the rush to settle the land but the
incident that etched onto everyone’s memory was the Dust Bowl.
This is what I was expecting but not what I saw in Oklahoma City. I saw a city
much like Cincinnati in many ways. Instead of it being flat it rests in what is
known as the Sandstone Hills region of central Oklahoma. This was about as far
west as I had ever driven and I was greeted with my first pleasant surprise.
After seeing the
city and resting up a bit I headed out I-40 West for what should have been
about an eight hour trip to my next planned stop, Albuquerque, NM. The trip, I
thought, would be pretty boring as my route was to take me through western
Oklahoma and across the panhandle of Texas. This was the real infamous dust
bowl region and I could see why it had suffered that plight back in the 1930s.
But instead of
it being arid and windblown, I ran into snow. Sure, it was January but I hadn’t
expected snow to fall in the Texas panhandle. But snow it did. It wasn’t a
blizzard by any sense of the imagination but it was sticking to not only the
grass but also the road, accumulating perhaps two inches. It brought traffic to
a crawl.
This wasn’t my
first trip to Texas. I had flown to Houston my senior year in college as part
of the Society for Collegiate Journalists conference. I hadn’t liked Houston,
too industrial, too dirty. I would later visit Dallas (stay out of the
airport), San Antonio and Austin, parts of the state I do like. But none of
these other cities were like the panhandle, especially in snow.
People who don’t
regularly drive in snow have no idea how to handle it. Remember, this part of
the country was flat enough on which to play a game of pool with the only
elevations being the overpasses of the highway. On those overpasses, though,
the Texans who were on the road were skidding and sliding around. I, in my little
rear wheel drive Capri, weighed down with my life in the hatch, easily went in
and out between them as I managed the obstacle course created by their
automotive incompetence.
The snow added a
couple of hours to my trip and also added unneeded anxiety as I had to remain
on edge against a sliding Texans. Eventually I worked my way out of the snow
and continued toward my destination.
As I crossed
into New Mexico the sun was setting and the sky was moonless and clear. It
seemed for a while as if I was the only person on the road and eventually my
bladder was thankful of that. Having to relieve myself I just pulled off to the
side of the road rather than wait for an exit. I put on my blinker and walked
away from the car to do my business. That’s when I finally looked up.
Though there was
no moon the sky was exploding with light from billions of stars. Growing up in
the suburbs, even going camping as a kid, I had never seen anything like this.
It was one of the most spectacular things I’d ever seen and wish I could today
find the slides I took with my camera. They’re packed away in boxes like the
rest of the photos from this trip, now no more than crated memories.
I got back in
the car with renewed energy and sped the rest of the way toward my destination.
I became aware that I had been climbing for a while and soon in the distance
saw at glow coming from over the horizon. As I got closer I realized what I was
seeing was the very life of Albuquerque shining in the moonless night.
Topping a crest
I began descending into the city, tired and hungry. Through the help of the
American Automotive Association, better known as AAA, I had gotten books which
told me of the best places to stop and the best things to see. I had pinpointed
a hotel that they said was both good and affordable and since it was right off
the highway I had chosen it for my night’s rest.
After I checked
in and took my overnight bag into the room, I returned to the desk to ask the
clerk, a nice, kindly grandmother of a woman, if there was someplace within
walking distance where I could grab a beer and a burger. She directed me to a
joint right across the street.
I accepted her
referral and without even looking at the name on the façade, I soon found
myself sipping a cold beer at the bar while waiting for my burger. Suddenly the
lights dimmed and the music got loud. Just as my burger was served I saw
several pair of shapely legs wearing stiletto heels parading along the bar top.
I managed to pull my food and drink out of harm’s way and watched as about a
dozen strippers started flashing their wares. Yes, the nice, kindly grandmother
had sent me to a strip club.
I have to admit
that the burger was pretty darn delicious.
The next day I
hung out in Albuquerque, exploring the city. I loved it. I had never seen
anything like this place. Though my brother and his wife lived just outside of
Denver, in the mountains within tasting distance of the Coors Brewery, the
landscape of this place was very, very different.
It made me
wonder why certain people famously passed through this wonderful city. Perhaps
the first of those was the legendary motion picture director Cecil B. DeMille.
DeMille, who, along with his co-director, Oscar Apfel, and the cast and crew
were heading west to shoot the Western TheSquaw Man
in 1914. Prior to that movie Westerns were shot in New Jersey and occasionally
as far west as Kentucky. But legend has it that DeMille’s producer, Jesse L.
Lasky, wanted to shoot in an actual Western town. He chose Albuquerque since it
had been featured in a number of dime novels.
Supposedly when
the train stopped in Albuquerque there was snow on the ground. A quick decision
was made to stay on the train and head as far west as the line ran. It stopped
in a quiet little burg called Hollywood.
Perhaps the most
famous person to skip past this city wasn’t a person at all but a cartoon
rabbit named Buggs.
I’ll tell you this much, I was glad I didn’t take a left turn at Albuquerque.
Looking for adventure.
After exploring
the city and, of course, checking out the Rio Grande, I had another good meal
at that quaint little diner across the street from my hotel and got a good
night’s rest. My next planned stop as I traveled along I-40 was only about five
hours away in Flagstaff, AZ. Why there and not on to Las Vegas or even LA? Well
there was method to my madness.
I got up early
and had an enjoyable drive into Flagstaff where I once again checked into an
AAA recommended hotel. I then began exploring, not only the city but the
surrounding region. I drove up US 190 through the Navaho reservation and picked
up State Route 64. My goal was to drive up to the south rim of the Grand
Canyon.
While stopping
at a small store, one of the locals asked me where I was heading. When I told
them they laughed and said my car would never make it. One older gentleman
offered to drive me up and show me the south rim. We hopped into his ancient
Ford pickup truck and proceeded up through roads that became rutted until we
reached that spectacular, breathtaking natural phenomenon. Since the tourist
sites were set up on the north rim, this was a sight few people got to see.
My new Navaho
friend told me all about the land and his people. I was fascinated. I took half
a dozen rolls of Kodak Ektachrome and two rolls of Kodak Plus-X film. I was
like a kid in a candy shop. As it got later the gentleman returned me to my car
and invited me to join him in the back of the store for dinner. I don’t know if
it was an authentic Navaho meal but it sure wasn’t Cincinnati chili.
I rose early the
next day because I wanted to be on my way to my next stop, Las Vegas, where I
planned to spend a couple of days. I drove west on I-40 until I got to Kingman,
AZ where I turned north onto US 93. This took me through the high desert on a
clear, bright day, toward the Colorado River.
Along the way I
experienced something very strange. I’m not a UFO freak or a conspiracy
theorist in any way but I saw something in the sky that totally baffled me. It
was flying in the endless blue sky at a good pace like any jet but then I
blinked and it was suddenly gone. I blinked again and it returned. This
occurred several times until I finally lost track of it. My only guess, now
looking back at it, was that I saw an early experimental stealth aircraft.
Either that or E.T. was returning to Roswell.
For me, the
highlight of this leg of the journey wasn’t arriving in Vegas with all of its
glitz and kitsch, it was doing something that is no longer possible: driving
over Hoover Dam.
Considered one of the greatest engineering marvels not only in this country but
in the world, Hoover Dam, originally known as Boulder Dam, took five years to
construct and created the nation’s largest volume reservoir, Lake Mead.
After taking the
tour and seeing the river that created the Grand Canyon having been harnessed,
I continued north through Henderson and finally into Las Vegas. I checked into
the wackiest of Vegas hotels, Circus Circus.
It was everything that I had hoped for and more. So was Vegas. This wasn’t my
first trip to Vegas as I had attended the National Association of Broadcaster’s
convention my senior year in college.
At that
convention I managed to hit a lucky slot machine for a couple hundred bucks and
then multiplied it at the black jack table when I went on an amazing string of
good draws. Hoping to repeat that I had a few bucks set aside to gamble and,
believe it or not, won a bit more before quitting.
Vegas then isn’t
the same as Vegas today (the carpet at Circus Circus back then was inlaid with
faces of clowns – talk about scary) and I managed to get coupons and feast on
as many of the cheap buffets and one dollar shrimp cocktails as I could handle.
I also checked out a bunch of the different casinos (though I didn’t gamble
beyond that first night) and some of the museums around town. But after my two
days, I was ready to go.
In whatever comes our way.
The drive from
Vegas to LA is a pretty straight four or so hour shot south on I-15 to I-10
west. I had traveled cross country (at least the 2200 or so miles from
Cincinnati to LA) at a leisurely pace. No, I hadn’t done what Sewell J. Crocker
had done in his Model T Ford back in 1903 but I had made the trip and seen many parts of the country I had never seen
before.
I managed to
make that trek several more times before returning permanently to Cincinnati to
get married and raise a family. With each of those journeys I took my time and
followed some fun routes, seeing some magnificent country. The first trip back
I took the route down the middle of the country along I-70 to spend a couple of
days with my brother. That trip was interesting because I had decided to drive
straight through from Denver to Cincinnati but ended up stopping in Kansas City
when I heard the Royals were in town. It was my first and only visit to their
baseball stadium.
One trip back to
LA I decided to follow one of the longest stretches of road in the country, US
50. Beginning in Dover, MD, this highway travels through Cincinnati and into
St. Louis where it picks up much of the path of what was once the Pony Express.
Today much of this route runs in conjunction with I-70 though there are some
lengthy places where it splits. I didn’t take all of those and sadly ended up
missing Dodge City but I did drive a good chunk of this iconic road to its end
in Sacramento, CA.
Another route
was the now gone but never forgotten Route 66 which officially ceased to be in 1986. Dubbed the Will Rogers Highway, this
stretch of over 2400 miles of highway ran from Chicago all the way to the ocean
in Santa Monica.
There is the
southern route, along I-10 through Phoenix and along the Gulf Coast. There is
the northern route, best taken in summer, on I-94 to Billings, MN and switching
to I-90 into Seattle, then down I-5.
As my son Josh
and I drove home from Indianapolis, I remembered and shared these stories and
more. He thought my stop in Albuquerque was pretty funny and my meeting the old
Navaho gentleman was one of the coolest things I had ever told him. As we
pulled into the driveway I could see the wheels in his head turning, how he was
plotting and planning a way to drive the country and see many of the sights and
appreciate all of the different cultures.
It really is
amazing how large our country is. I once mapped it out and figured that the
distance I drove on that first trip was about the same as if I had driven from
Moscow, Russia to Lisbon in Portugal. If you calculate the trip from New York
you would have to do another 600 miles east. And if you were to go from the
Northeast part of the country, say Portland, ME, to the Southwest, say San
Diego, you would travel over 3100 miles. And to paraphrase Dr. Seuss, “Oh the
places you would see.”
You do not have
to travel across the country to find adventure in your car. There are lots of
places near us where you can go. Or you can just hop in, aim in a direction and
drive just to see where you end up.
Yes, there is
adventure to be found driving through this country of ours. I’ve done it and
was glad I did. I have a feeling Josh might actually do it. Why not, he, like
his father, was Born to be Wild.
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