At any one time, approximately 4.5 million people drive up and down Highway 101, one of the last remaining and longest U.S. routes still active in the state. Most of those drivers are traveling to and from business. About 30 percent of them are searchers, roadtrippers seeking the Holy Grail of roadtrippery: the story to beat all other stories they tell.
I totally made those stats up, but I’m sure a lot of these drivers are roadtrippers.
People have been in search of the ultimate roadtrip since roads began. Guys like Kerouac wrote books about it. National Lampoon has made movies about it. Heck, I kinda think the Crusades may have been just one elaborate excuse for an awesome guys-only medieval roadtrip.
But I’m one of those people. I’ve always believed that the adventure is not so much in the destination, but in getting there. So it was with that spirit I herded my three boys into the car for a roadtrip. Just me and my boys for a little bonding time, a “Diet? What diet?” eat what we want, take our time and see the sights trip. My husband’s job took him to Sunnyvale, and after a few days, he sent for us. Great excuse for a road trip.
I didn’t want this trip to be about the destination, because, frankly, Silicon Valley isn’t my idea of a whoop-it-up time. I wanted it to be about the road. I wanted to do all the things my husband is too time-conscious to do on our family trips: Stop by a roadside stand, turn off and see that weird highway attraction, eat chocolate until it leaves its melty goodness all over the dashboard.
For our trek, I took the 101, bypassing my usual coastal route. There really is no reason on Earth to do this. A large portion of the 101—which, as an easily lost individual, I’ve cherished for its simplicity and directness—is barren and empty. Much of it is devoid of any landscape worth peeling your eyes from the center line to look at.
So I drove hoping for something interesting to happen, something funny, or unbelievable, or worth telling friends about. Instead, all three of my boys fell asleep in the backseat, and I drove, uninspired, past miles of hills bleached golden by the sun punctuated by the occasional farm field.
When we finally stopped, it was in a little city called Greenfield with a big sign urging visitors to fill up cars and bellies. The sign said “restaurants,” of which there were plenty—just not the fast-food kind. I pressed on though because Jake said he’d “start hallucinating” if we didn’t eat right that second. We found a sandwich shop, which appeared to be located in an apartment complex. Grabbing our sandwiches, we headed to a high school near the highway onramp and spread out on the lawn. It was definitely not the road trip I had in mind, and I wondered what my kids were thinking about it.
Would they think, “Mom’s a road maniac who made us race through some small town hitting potholes at 35 mph?” Or “I can’t believe mom made us eat lunch on the front lawn of some high school next to the freeway?” Or even, “Mom doesn’t know what she’s doing without Dad around?” Then it dawned on me. That was the story. Granted, it wasn’t an exciting one, but it’s the start of many stories they’ll have and share.
In fact, they did share, with my husband, the minute we met up with him.
Chase: “We can’t tell Dad that.”
Jake: “Chase, Dad has to know.”
Jake: “Dad, Mom gave Sebastian soda in his sippy cup.”
(Actually, I only poured the ice from my soda into his cup.)
Chase: “And she gave Sebastian a whole ice cream cone.”
(I gave him an empty cone with a little ice cream on the bottom.)
After we left Greenfield, and before the snitch fest with my husband, there was more nothingness: nothing interesting to see, nothing extraordinary, nothing memorable. Yet it was a memorable trip, because after the beef jerky is gone, the Pringles are a mound of crumbles wedged in the crack of the car seat, and there’s a sticky puddle of Diet Coke on the floorboard, the fact remains that it was an experience we shared, an adventure we took together.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone doesn’t want to be there yet. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 25 – Jul 2, 2009.