I like to drive. Not just the twenty minutes across town kind of driving. I like the kind where you fill the tank, point the car toward somewhere several hundred miles away and know you’re going to be sitting behind the wheel for most of the day. Some people hear “eight hour drive” and immediately start looking at airline tickets. I start thinking about snacks.
Road trip snacks are their own food group. Fast food, candy and beef jerky all become perfectly acceptable nutritional choices when consumed somewhere along Interstate 5. I used to just walk into a convenience store and buy whatever hit my fancy, but apparently snacks now require financial planning. At current prices, a bag of beef jerky may soon require financing.
There are limits, though. I will never eat gas station sushi. I don’t care how long I’ve been driving or how hungry I am. There are certain risks worth taking in life, and raw fish from a refrigerated case six feet from the motor oil isn’t one of them. I would prefer my road trip not include an unscheduled visit to an emergency room somewhere in Redding because I decided to roll the dice on a California roll.
One of the longest road trips I’ve taken was from Eugene to Disneyland around 2013. That’s a lot of Interstate 5. Oregon eventually gives way to Northern California, Northern California keeps going considerably longer than seems necessary, and eventually you reach the part of California where traffic makes you question whether Disneyland is actually moving farther away from you.
I don’t remember every mile of that trip, but I remember the feeling of it. Hours behind the wheel, watching the landscape change while the destination slowly gets closer. There is something about seeing the transition happen that I enjoy. When you fly, you leave one place, sit in a metal tube for a while and appear somewhere else. When you drive, you get to watch the distance happen.
There is plenty of entertainment along the way. I enjoy watching the endless parade of drivers who apparently believe the left lane is a competitive event. Someone is always trying to assert dominance over the person ahead of them, usually by getting close enough to read the expiration date on their license plate sticker. Then there are the truck drivers, who have their own etiquette when passing one another. Cars go by with open windows and completely different kinds of music pouring out of them. For a few seconds you get somebody else’s soundtrack before they disappear down the highway.
I’ve spent enough time driving that I notice little things like that. Different license plates. Weird things strapped to the roofs of cars. Roadside signs. Small towns. Mountains appearing in the distance. Weather changing ahead of me. Occasionally there is a vehicle that makes me wonder how it is legally allowed on the same highway I’m currently using.
You would think someone who enjoys watching all of this would also be the kind of person who stops whenever something interesting appears alongside the road.
You would be wrong.
Historically, I have approached long road trips with a destination first mentality. If we’re going somewhere, then apparently my job is to get us there. Interesting viewpoint? Keep driving. Weird roadside attraction? Maybe next time. Beautiful place that would probably make a great photograph? We are making excellent time.
I’ve driven past a lot of things I probably would have enjoyed because stopping meant arriving later.
The photographer in me should really know better.
Photography has taught me that some of the most interesting things happen when you’re paying attention to what wasn’t part of the plan. A road trip provides hundreds of miles of opportunities for that, and I’ve spent a good portion of my life observing them through the windshield at 70 miles per hour.
I’m getting better about that. Not every interesting road needs to be explored and I don’t have to stop at every viewpoint, geocache or roadside attraction. If I did, a drive from Eugene to Portland could take three days. But making good time isn’t always the most interesting measure of a good trip.
Of course, road trips have changed a little for me over the years. Most people preparing for one check the oil, fill the tank, pack some clothes and make sure they have a phone charger. I apparently need to make sure the minivan’s server is operational.
MiniWAN means my van can have its own WiFi hotspot and media server because apparently at some point I looked at a perfectly functional motor vehicle and thought, “You know what this needs? Infrastructure.”
Lewis and Clark somehow crossed the continent without WiFi.
Amateurs.
Between the server, amateur radio equipment, GPS, cameras and assorted technology I tend to bring along, I’m probably one antenna away from needing to explain myself to Homeland Security. But that’s part of the fun for me too. The vehicle isn’t just transportation. On a long trip it becomes your little moving piece of home for however many hours you’re on the road.
And the person sitting beside you matters.
There is something different about spending hours in a car with someone you genuinely enjoy being around. You talk about important things and completely stupid things. You listen to music. You point out weird shit along the road. You eat food that you would probably make better decisions about at home. Sometimes you don’t talk at all, and that’s good too.
I’ve come to appreciate comfortable silence. There is a big difference between having nothing to say and not needing to say anything. When you can sit beside someone for miles without feeling responsible for filling the space, the drive itself becomes part of the time you’re spending together rather than something you have to endure before the good part begins.
Maybe that’s part of why I like long drives so much. For several hours, the number of things I’m expected to accomplish becomes considerably smaller. Keep the vehicle between the lines. Don’t hit anybody. Try not to run out of gas. Everything else can wait until I get there.
Of course I eventually want to reach the destination. I’m not driving eight hours just to turn around and come home. Disneyland is considerably less magical if you only see the exit sign before heading north again.
But I don’t think of the hours in between as wasted time.
Give me a full tank, an irresponsible quantity of beef jerky, something good to listen to, a camera somewhere within reach and somebody I enjoy sitting beside me, and I’m pretty happy.
We might even get where we’re going on time.
Unless I finally learn to stop when I see something interesting.