The odometer is well past 150,000 miles, and the 87 Octane is hardly an unfamiliar smell. Pages of the atlas are yellow and dog eared. The same playlist hasn’t stopped in the past 4 states. Turn it up, or turn it off. There is 2300 miles between here and this circle on the map. Thousands of sunrises have passed though the crack in the wind shield; each one bringing a new journey. These people have traveled just as they do now. Each fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and wanderlust.
Vagabonds, wanderers, nomads: each bonded together by an unspoken kinship. A brotherhood of travelers needing to roam. There’s no fixed address. No where to call home. Permanency brings with it dreams of new vistas; a sense of unease and tapping feet. Bags are packed. Phone calls made. There is a friend in every corner of the country with a free couch. Never stop exploring. These headlights have greeted LA, Billings, Jackson, and Merano. The taillights mourned Duluth, Souix Falls, Boulder and St. Louis. The rainforests of the Pacific Coast beckon. As do the rocky shore of the Northeast and bayous of the Deep South.
Those who pass by all have stories. Some hide them. Others keep running from them. Haunted by divorce, money, authority, vices. Where are they going? What stories are they writing anew? The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. Hundreds of exits passed and detours are voluntarily taken.
There is nothing uncomfortable about this three day beard. Nothing is strange with sleeping on top of vehicles to escape the coyotes. Bar food is easily digested. Motels are strangely comforting. The road is a home to outlaws and rebels; a haven for the adventurous.
Worn out wiper blades squeegee rain drops and bugs off of the windshield as storms passes. Steam rises from the pavement as the breeze fights it off. Zepplin and Metallica fight for radio play on the new radio station every three hours. Each toll booth mooches away more spare change. Acquaintances are created, and offers capitalized. Tune up for a few beers? The interstate allows faces to fade away, and matchbook phone numbers lost. Last night attempts to be forgotten. Amber waves of grain are passed in pursuit of purple mountains majesty. 2000 RPMs hum as the sun is chased west to the Promised Land.-Dillon, CO January 09
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