Chasing Sunsets

A couple days before my planned move to Missouri, I read Rembert Browne’s piece about the comforting solitude of an empty car and open road. He had dedicated his summer to visiting every state and conducting an eclectic treasure hunt as part of an extended series for Grantland, Bill Simmons’s short-lived collaboration with ESPN. While my descriptive talents will never reach the heights where I get an all-expenses-paid road trip, I was inspired to take a more mindful approach to my sojourn west.

The rental Rav-4 lies in the uncanny valley between the ultra-modern models with massive screens and navigation systems, and my “trusty” (beat up) “retro” (would start high school this year) Pontiac Vibe. A couple days prior, immediately after getting my final clearance stamp, a wonderful gentleman decided to put the final nail in the coffin for my bucket of bolts. He plowed into my Vibe with the excited hesitancy of a virgin teenager - he didn't really know what happened until after but he definitely caused unanticipated damage. While USAA waited to decide my poor car’s fate (and declare that he was at fault), I had to move my most valuable possessions in this most unremarkable of sport utility vehicles.

I made my final departure from Fayetteville after dropping off the last vestige of my life there-my router needed to be returned to its rightful corporate owners. Unbroken strip malls and stop lights petered out as a divider broke the road in two, and then before I knew it the freeway had appeared in front of me.

North Carolina drivers made sure I would remember their particular mix of aggression and inattention, as a landscaper in a white F150 tailgated me for ten miles in the right lane. He apparently didn't appreciate how I was driving five miles above the speed limit, and when he finally passed me he hit his horn like it owed him money. He got caught behind a semi a couple miles later, and I trundled past smiling cheerfully.

About three hours into my journey, I found myself motoring along without service, which seriously crimped my ability to nod pretentiously to dusty podcasts. My extended playlist (1324 songs and counting, from the 1600s to 2018) managed to play six Red Hot Chili Peppers songs in a row, from Dani California through Snow (Hey Oh). I scream-sang each one until I lost my way in a later verse through each, getting more and more hoarse as the Chili Peppers continued. I finally croaked out one last “Heyyyy ohhh” and realized I'd serenaded some 30 miles of Carolina back road. I had been guiding the wheel on instinct, screaming my soul into mediocre alt-grunge, and I couldn't feel happier.

On an extended journey, you don't remember the petty slights, the missed turn signals, or the aggressive lane-change-into-break maneuver. In the moment, you'll scream some obscenity into your empty (or full) car, maybe use a rude gesture or three, and passive-aggressively cutting in front of them given the chance. After another hundred miles though, you'll have had so many minor slights that flying into a rage over every one would be exhausting. What stays with you are the regional oddities- the Piggly Wigglies, the rolling hills and tunnels of the Smokies, multiple distilleries in Tennessee, and the worn but well maintained local general stores in Arkansas. Tennessee cops like to hide under overpasses, while North Carolina cops love their little blind spots behind corners. Arkansas state troopers watch the major highways, but you'll never see them for 40 miles of straightaway on a back road.

The most boring drive is an empty, straight highway with no other cars. Open road with no distinguishing features leads to potentially dangerous experimentation, which explains how I found myself on my third straight episode of Serial with my foot on the dashboard going 85 west of Nashville. I hadn't seen a car in half an hour, and I was picturing the gruesome murder I had heard three hours of exposition on, so I felt comfortable taking a couple risks. Thankfully, the Waze app probably saved me hundreds of dollars in a ticket by blurting over the soft, sibilant tones of Serial that there were police on the road in half a mile. My foot reflexively pedaled the brake, but on the dash I was contorted trying to both reposition my other foot and check my phone. My adjustment only complicated my position, as I suddenly cramped and froze in a Frank Wright zombie rictus. The police officer thankfully did not choose to follow me to check if I was all right.

As I closed on Fort Leonard Wood, the highways melded into winding back roads and the unbroken plains started to dot with farms, homes, and eventually churches. With all the different lambs of God I saw on my drive, I could have cooked a hell of a saag. The road would stretch forward, then curve and double back on itself like an indecisive teenager. I would alternately sprint the straightaways and drift the curves, blasting J. Cole’s Forest Hills Drive into the Missouri countryside. I slowed to reach the gate, pulled my window down, and gazed on my new home.

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