The rough napkin math says I’ve driven at least twenty thousand miles for work in the last year. Probably closer to thirty thousand. Across ten states on everything from unmarked two-lanes to eight lane metropolises. I’ve seen everything road life has to present. Lot lizards at truck stops, cars ablaze outside of Baltimore, janky antique pickups in rural Mississippi. Shooting stars at one am, hurricanes, stunning golden hours bathing Virginia mountains. The good and bad and interesting and strange. It’s all transitory, disappearing around the corner just as quickly as it first came into view.
The highway and the infinite potential it provides have been a cornerstone of American culture since probably the 50s, when ninety percent of households owned at least one vehicle. Countless movies and songs and cultural manifestations. Driving is embedded in our vernacular. It’s in the rearview mirror, now. Getting the show on the road. Asleep at the wheel. Down the road. Middle of the road. Putting the brakes on. My way or the highway. No other country is manufacturing more naturally-aspirated eight cylinders. Do most people need a V8, technically speaking with respect to towing ability? No. But do I want one? Do we all want one? Fucking absolutely. The power adds optionality, potential. It doesn’t even have to be used, but knowledge of its presence adds dimension to the drive in ways only Americans seem to understand and appreciate. (I don’t want to hear about the Italian sports car manufacturers. Most Ferraris are not in Italy, and most Italians can’t afford them, anyhow.)
Driving in America is tantamount to owning a gun, respecting the flag, apple pie, college football. Every American man has on his bucket list a cross-country road trip. The U.S. has almost seven million miles of highway, and an uncountably infinite way to traverse them. But my time upon them has not been akin to the vacationer or vagabond. I’ve been tied down by strict guidelines. Problems arise if I am late. Lots of money begins to be lost. My nights are pissed away, too, on exhaustion and bad hotel beds.
Never veering far from the highway is no way to see this country. Standing on the side of the interstate, you can’t tell if you’re in Louisiana or Florida or North Carolina or Pennsylvania. Every major exit has the same four gas stations and five restaurants. It’s all made for the traveler-not the lingerer. The whole thing requires(?) consistency. Fifteen minutes at sixty miles an hour perpendicular to the highway must be achieved to find whatever “local” means. The oldest homestead, or largest rocking chair, or tallest trees, or peanut festivals are never next to the Burger Kings which are drowned out by interstate jake brakes.
To drive across America is an option for everyone. To really see America is a dream for only the wealthy to achieve.
Discovering the country is to have the luxury of time. Back roads, avoiding the interstate... can't do when you have a week off before going back to the grind. You don't have to be wealthy, unless, you know "time is money".
We are approaching burgerpunk with every new article.