I love me a road trip, and in my forty years behind the wheel, I’ve driven some beauties. One of these is Pacific Coast Highway or California 1. While the number of reasons I’d never reside in the Golden State are many, I don’t mind visiting. When that happens, I try and take in at least a section of this scenic roadway. Whether it’s down near San Diego or further up around San Francisco, coming around each hill and seeing the vista of Pacific coastline opening up before you is miles and miles of oohs and ahhhs.
Another is Route 66, the Mother Road, connecting Chicago to Los Angeles. I’ve stood at the Chicago terminus, and I’ve seen many of the quirky roadside attractions on several meandering drives through the Southwest. For me, something like The Great Meteor Crater near Flagstaff is a “must see” sight, but when Andrea and I drove through, she was not as enthused, “Meh. It’s a big hole”.
Another key picturesque drive is Highway 1 south out of Miami to the Keys – the Overseas Highway. This was one drive Dad most wanted to do, and Andrea and I managed to make that trip a few years back. While we were non simpatico on the tourist kitsch peppered up and down Route 66, on Florida Route 1, she and I were in perfect sync. I had a Buffett playlist going and we were totally grooving on the slowed down, coastal vibe.
I also have a list of my least favorite drives. The Capital Beltway tops this chart with its perpetual rush hour traffic. I-85 running up the spine of Virginia comes to mind, also, with its heavy load of semi-trailer traffic. Because of the dearth of amenities and gas stations, you better plan your pit stops carefully.
The current bane of my existence is the stretch of I-65 between Mobile and Montgomery. Apart from twin span bridges north of Mobile over some wetlands, there is absolutely nothing of interest on these 169 miles of north-south asphalt running through central Alabama. Plying this stretch was the worst when I would come home from Auburn and the intervening decades have not improved its mind numbing monotony. It's past sunset as I crank out these words so I'm at least spared the view of miles and miles of endless pine trees.
On a southbound run, I once picked up a hitchhiker on his way to find construction work in Florida in the aftermath of Hurricane Andrew. I was driving the ‘Stang those days and this punk kid spent the entire time he was with me slamming my ride and bragging how his uncle’s cousin’s Camaro was better. Maybe he sensed my annoyance or saw my raised eyebrow when I looked his way because he requested I drop him off at the Poarch Creek Indian Reservation 57 miles shy of Mobile.
One of the few times I got popped for speeding was on I-65. The state trooper was in a foul mood when he pulled me over along with another car. He accused the both of us of street racing down the Interstate. Firstly, I wasn’t. Secondly, I wasn’t in the ‘Stang on this trip. I was in an early ‘80s, boxy, four-door, four-cylinder Corolla. That car was kind of cool in its own way, but it was never a legit roadster - Trooper Dude was trippin'.
In yet another vehicle, I was enroute back to Birmingham after visiting with the redhead down in Mobile. It was winter, and the entire state had just gotten a hard overnight freeze. Somewhere along the route, I hit a patch of black ice and did a few 360s before skidding off the road. After checking my shorts, I was able to deduce the Blazer was still upright. Cool.
Not so cool (it was frigid, actually) was the hike to the nearest pay phone about a mile up the road. After a shivering search through the Yellow Pages, I managed to get hold of a tow service to pull me out. As the driver was hooking me up, he pointed out several places on the hillside where the Blazer’s tires had dug into the muddy embankment. “Dang, son, you should have rolled this rig at least twice.”
I still hate this stretch of Interstate, but I’m forced to concede there’s at least some good juju worked into its asphalt.
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