And then, once the vehicle of choice was bursting at the seams, so much so that the unlucky driver's visibility was shot to pieces, Dad would holler for everybody to go the bathroom and get to the car. Go the bathroom first. Have you gone to the bathroom? No? Before you even take one more breath, before your heart makes another single life-saving contraction, get to the bathroom and try. Oh, you went fifteen minutes ago? Not good enough, go try again, and don't come out until you've made some progress.
I'm unable to pinpoint a specific time on a family road trip when my father became nervous about his children completing this activity. I know my parents were always anxious to make the trip as short as possible and make the fewest amount of stops that they possibly could, but I feel like the urgency with which my dad demanded that we use the facilities before beginning our journey--and at every stop along the way--stems from some sort of monumental catastrophe which occurred at some point during an innocent family road trip gone horribly wrong. But for the life of me, I can't recall such a catastrophe, so maybe it was the fear of disaster that kept my dad constantly on our backs about it.
Once everybody had tried to go to the bathroom, and everybody was squished into the car in whatever room was leftover after the luggage had eaten its fill, Dad would get in, and we would wait for Mom. And wait. And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Good grief, what is she doing in there?!
And finally, after what felt like an eternity of elbows being "accidentally" jammed into ribs and "get your feet out of my footspace" and "we don't have enough room!" and Dad probably already wanted to pull his hair out, Mom would come rushing out of the house with even more bags. Filled with lunchmeat and bread and carrot sticks and some sort of beverages. And all the kids would groan a little, because we were all secretly hoping that the travel lunch would be forgotten, enabling us to stop for lunch on the way. No luck this time. Curses.
And after Mom got in and got settled, and we were all finally fitted into the car like sardines in a can, Dad would ask again if we had all gone to the bathroom, and would inevitably receive a chorus of children groaning "yeeeeees!" in response. Then Dad would tell us to bow our heads, and he would say a prayer for a safe journey. And then we would be off.
And usually we got about three miles before somebody remembered another life and death necessity that was still sitting on the kitchen table, and Dad would be forced to turn around and go back to retrieve the neglected item.
And finally--finally!--roughly two or three hours after the time we promised ourselves we were going to "be driving away", we would, actually, in fact, drive away. And the switch from frantic, chaotic flurry to peaceful, quiet relaxation was uncanny, to say the least. One moment, squirming and squabbling and kicking each others' feet out of our designated footspace, and the next moment, quiet, and slight snoring, and soft music drifting from the car speakers.
And me? I would try to stay awake as long as possible, especially if we were leaving early in the morning, because everybody knows that sunrises from the interstate during a road trip while you are squished into a space too small for you is about the most beautiful thing ever in the whole world. But eventually, the steady hum of the car motor and the gentle rocking motion would be too tempting, and I would be lured into a sweet state of oblivion, drifting away into dreams under the watchful eye of the sunrise.
That's what I remember about road trips when I was younger.
But the dynamic of road trips is very different nowadays than it used to be back then. We are all mostly adults now and road trip veterans, able to get up and get going much faster and pack much smarter...even though I still pack too much most of the time. The whole family no longer travels in one vehicle (what a relief), and the childish bickering...well, it's still there, but we have a better sense of humor about it nowadays. And Dad's illogical fear of catastrophic accidents during a trip is considerably less than it used to be. He only asks us if we've used the bathroom two times before we leave now. Three times, tops.
There is a lot of democracy involved during road trips. Oh, not everything is brought to a vote, but if somebody is not satisfied with something, you can bet your buttons that they are going to complain loudly and make everybody else miserable until whatever it is is fixed. But people are different, and sometimes it's hard to be democratic. Somebody wants to listen to rock music, but somebody else has a headache, somebody else has a new CD that they love that everybody else hates. Somebody is always too hot while somebody else is too cold. Roll the windows down, it's too windy, roll them up. Somebody is hungry for Subway, somebody else wants hamburgers, somebody else wants steak. Let's stop to stretch our legs, no, we should press on.
Recently, however, I did something I've never done before. Something that changed the way I view roadtripping. I went on a trip...by myself.
First of all, you've got to understand that I wasn't just like, "I'M SICK OF YOU ALL! I'M LEAVING! PEACE OUT, LOSERS!" I didn't ditch my family because I couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. I got time off from my work, made plans, and the rest of the family couldn't go. So I went alone, not at all sure what I was doing or what I should expect. I was flying (driving) by the seat of my pants.
I would be lying if I said I didn't find it liberating.
All of a sudden, there was no democracy, because there was only me. I was my own dictator. The big kahuna. The top dog. I wanted to listen to oldies? I listened to oldies. I wanted to listen to one song twenty-two times in a row? By dog, I did just that. I wanted to stop to take a picture of the sunset? I stopped. I wanted all the windows open at once, making everything fly around in a simulated hurricane inside the car? That is exactly what happened. I didn't have anybody saying "roll up the windows" or "turn down the music" or "I'm going to throw the ipod out the window if I hear that song one more time" or "stop talking to the other cars on the road, it's freaking me out" or "slow down, you're going too fast, you're going to kill us all, you fool". The power of the road was mine, and I wielded it like the weapon it was.
But with great power comes great responsibility, dang it.
I left early in the morning (because, obviously, the sunrise is one of the most essential parts of any road trip). And just like old times, the sunrise tried to gently lull me into sweet oblivion. Only this time, I was responsible, the driver, the navigator, the one in charge. Sleep? That's cute. It was stay awake, stay aware, STAY ALIVE! Suddenly, road trips had just become much more serious than before. No more fun and games, one wrong move and you're dead or stranded or lost or worse.
So I had to tell the sunrise to take a hike. Get lost, man, I'm trying to not die over here. Coffee was my wingman and helped me make it through the 12 hour trip in one piece...or...what was supposed to be a 12 hour trip. I think I might've made it in 9. And don't judge me, I was trying to make it before dark because I was afraid of driving through the mountain passes at night. (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it).
But I made it to Colorado, oh beautiful Colorado, and back again in one piece. And actually, the fact that I made it back surprised even me. Not that I made it back alive, but the fact that I decided to come back at all. Colorado is unique. If you've ever been there, you know that it has perfected the art of hypnosis. It makes you want to stay, and stay forever. It makes you hate everywhere but there. And I'm pretty sure the only reason I came home at all was because the cloud of smog from the pot-smoking hippies was interfering with the hypnosis that is usually more than one can resist.
The worst part about road trips is when they're over. When you pull back into the driveway and look at the house and realize that it's all just a memory now, and you have to shift gears and try to remember how to go to work and have appointments and schedules and responsibilities again. When all that stuff that you so gladly threw to the wind when you raced out of town suddenly slams back into your face, you remember instantly why you love road trips so much. And you start planning your next one, before the car's even had a chance to cool off. And that planning, that anticipation, it's enough to live on, enough to sustain you until you can throw off the bindings and take to the road once more.
Road trips. There are many different kinds, many different brands. Go in a group, go with one other person, go by yourself. They all have things in common, they all have pros, and they all have cons. The good news is, no matter which one you choose, you can't really go wrong. Because if you're like me, the road is always beckoning, always calling, always summoning, gently yet earnestly. A fleeting glance at an open road is nearly enough to make you lose your mind with longing. And when your day finally arrives, when you finally answer the call and throw yourself headfirst into the journey, none of that extra stuff matters. The music, the food, the sleep or lack thereof, the windows, the temperature...that's all fluff. The open road is in front of you and the world is at your back. The rest fades to gray.
That, friends, is where freedom and joy become one and the same.
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