Cleaned the condo last night. Woke up at 5, cold shower (that icy water comes straight off the mountain), took out the trash, Stellar Brew for coffee and a blueberry muffin, then down 395 as the sun limned the White Mountains. I took a picture.
I had the road to myself. Resisted the urge to go full gas, holding 65 miles an hour all the way down the mountain to Bishop. Kept the window rolled down to smell the crisp air. Some guy came out of nowhere to pass me. I just let him go.
Back when our boys were young, Calene and I drove each summer to visit her relatives in South Dakota. We drove the southern route on 40 some years. Others it was the 70. Sometimes we took the blue roads, those two lane highways off the main thoroughfares. One constant was that early morning wake-up, putting the sleeping kids in their car seats, then hitting the road at 4 am to get 300 miles before the boys woke up. McDonald's for coffee. Then back on the road for a couple hundred more. Good memories.
I've driven through every state, even Alaska in the dead of winter. In college, I hitchhiked across the country. When I finally read Kerouac's On the Road, I wasn't as impressed as I was told I would be. Catching long rides with strangers isn't as romantic as he makes it out to be. There was certainly no Maria.
After Bishop, it's a straight shot down the 395. The elk refuge just past Big Pine lived up to its name, a massive herd eating grass and sprinting zoomies across the green meadow. I like the solitude of the drive but am eager to get back to Callie after a week away. The car feels too quiet. I turn on the music and play it loud. Pass Independence. Manzanar. The big peaks of the Eastern Sierra still loom on my right. Everything on the left is farms and high desert scrub.
It's been a long time since I've done a cross country road trip. Never seem to have a reason anymore. I don't even drive in Europe anymore, not like when I drove every inch of France covering the Tour. The boys are all grown. Air travel is easier.
But there's a rhythm to the road: planning stops, selecting just the right tunes, an early start and a midafternoon finish, finding someplace for a good meal. A 300-mile day seems too far early in the trip. A 500-mile day seems to short by the end.
395 becomes a two-lane at Ridgecrest. A sweeping left turn and 100 miles of white-knuckle driving to swerve into oncoming traffic to pass trucks and RV's. I call Calene and wish her good morning. She reminds me we have a late lunch with a niece once I get home. My brother calls from Washington, DC and I turn off the music so we can talk for an hour. Then it’s onto the 15, a major highway winding down into Southern California. The solitude is over. Weekend Las Vegas travelers crowd each lane. I have to pay attention.
The Rover smells of stale coffee as I pull up to the house. It's great to be back. 340 miles door to door. I love to fly but there's something magical about a road trip.