Thursday, July 23, 2009

Road Trippin'

There’s no better cure for the summertime blues than a road trip - hitting the highways with a destination in mind, plenty of snacks at the ready and many, many miles between where you are and where you want to be. My summertime road trip, like any good story, has a beginning, middle, and an end.

The Beginning
It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday night in Concord. My traveling companion is Sam, my fourteen-year old son, and our destination is Charleston, West Virginia. Sam’s soccer team qualified for a three-day tournament in the Mountaineer state, a good enough reason for a road trip as any, I guess. We need to cover close to 900 miles by Thursday, but true to road trip form, we start with a detour. Tonight’s goal is Baltimore, where the Red Sox play the Orioles tomorrow afternoon. Charm City and the Camden Yards bleachers here we come!

The sun starts to set as we leave our driveway for the six-plus hour drive south. Sam’s under strict orders from his mom to engage in lively conversation to prevent me from dozing off. We chat well into southern Connecticut, covering such topics as “Hidden High School Dangers” (girls, study habits, girls) and “Celtics – Better with Rondo?” We stop for a quick stretch and a snack, and as we return to our car, a man stands by my door, clutching a cellphone, a wallet, a pen and paper. He launches into a breathless explanation about needing $38 for a fan belt, and if I’d just give him the cash, he’d take my address and mail me the money the next day! So simple! I smell a scam and slam the car door with nothing more than, “Sorry pal. Can’t help you.”

Time trickles by, and after five hours, we stop for ice cream in southern Jersey, and I eat a Nutty Buddy while running wind sprints in the parking lot to stay awake. It’s past midnight, and as we cross into Delaware, Sam is asleep. The rain is falling, and I really should stop, but Baltimore beckons. We arrive after 2 AM and head to our room. We walk in, half-asleep and behold not a hotel room, but a magnificent, sprawling suite – living room, dining room, full kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms and what appears to be a room dedicated to a hot tub. We’re too tired to ask questions, and we sleep. Road trips are full of surprises, including getting the entire twenty-first floor for $87 a night! Thank you Baltimore!

Wednesday arrives, and after a lengthy exploration of our digs, we watch the Red Sox rally to tie the game in the ninth and beat the O’s in extra innings, the stands packed with vocal Boston fans. We return to our high-rise palace after dinner, resting up for more road tripping tomorrow.

The Middle
It’s Thursday morning, and we drive towards West Virginia. We listen to the radio, the Christian Ministry of Family on one channel and an expletive-filled rap song on another. We pass a reminder to, “Stay Alert for Maryland’s Wildlife,” and moments later see a five-man crew cleaning up a large dead mammal of some sort. “I think I just saw a dead mountain lion,” Sam says. Road trip irony, for sure.

We’re on Interstate 68 West, past towns like Flintstone, Wolfe Mill, and Friendsville, the landscape filled with sharp vistas and forests that stretch forever. We see a replica of Noah’s Ark (under construction) and sets of immense crosses in clearings. If this isn’t God’s country, the locals are doing their best to make a case for it, that’s for sure.

As we head south on Interstate 79 into West Virginia, Sam is engrossed in a movie, and I listen to music. I pass a rusty pickup truck carrying a dozen old washing machines, and as I speed ahead, one of the washers falls into the road and bounds down the highway, cars swerving to avoid it. Sam doesn’t see a thing and my retelling gets a tepid, “Wow, cool.” It’s sad when runaway lethal appliances elicit no emotion from teenagers.

Billboards now line the highway. We see signs for casinos and gambling addictions; we see advertisements extolling the merits of cash for gold, litigation, coal mining and Tudor’s Biscuit World, and we see lots and lots of billboards for virtuous and not-so virtuous living, the church billboards locked in a one-to-one battle with signs for adult entertainment establishments.

We fly past Morgantown, Big Chimney, Big Otter, and Mink Shoals, the highway cutting right through mountainside after mountainside, until we arrive in Charleston. From here, we’ll spend the next four days shuttling between the soccer fields and the hotel, passing towns with riveting names like Hurricane and Nitro. Imagine having the confidence to name a town after an American Gladiator from the ‘80s? Kudos, West Virginia!

During these hour-long drives to and from the fields, I conclude that for every church-related sign and cross cluster I see, I spy another for a strip club, my favorite a Barboursville establishment enticing drivers to stop in for “Amature Night.” Something tells me they’re looking for dancers when they really need someone who can spell.

We celebrate the 4th of July, our fifth day on the road, at a minor league baseball park in downtown Charleston. The game’s rained out, but we’re the lucky recipients of a Senator Robert Byrd statuette, his enlarged head casting an august visage on the soaked field. Back at the hotel, I find myself alone, outside in the pouring rain, watching a soggy fireworks show in the skies above Charleston. I’m ready to go home, taking Sam and Senator Byrd with me.

The End
My wish is granted, and the steady downpour cancels Sunday’s games, so we leave for Concord, driving straight home. Before we leave West Virginia for good, we stop for gas and snacks. I also snag a case of Yuengling beer, not sold in New England (for reasons I cannot fathom), and as we stand in line, the young man behind the counter says, “Sir? Sir! It’s not 1:00 PM yet. Sir, it’s not 1:00 PM!” I nod, thinking maybe the fella’s bragging about his newfound skill at clock reading, but it turns out no one, no matter how condescending, can purchase alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. I return the beer to the cooler, and Sam gives me a look that says, “Where’s my ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt when I really need it?”

Our route home takes us through Maryland, up Pennsylvania to New Jersey, then through the Bronx, into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and home to Concord. I think we’ve run out of things to talk about, having covered O’Shea family history, the sinking of the Lusitania and why Plankton is funnier than SpongeBob before we even make it to the outskirts of Harrisburg.

It’s now been almost twelve hours, and we’re punchy. We cram fistfuls of Doritos and Cheetos into our mouths, our fingers and faces stained with the sheen of pretend cheese as we imagine sleeping in our own beds. We barely speak for the last hour, the both of us staring at the road ahead, content in the silence.
We arrive home exhausted, this last leg more than thirteen hours of steady driving. We’ve covered over 2,000 miles, visited nine states, ate more fast food than recommended, snagged a mini senator, and tried to break local Blue Laws. It’s been worth it, but we’re more than happy to be back in Concord. Road tripping is fun, but there’s no place like home.