My mother was bombing down Highway 37, between American Falls and Rockland, Idaho, in our sky blue Chevy Suburban. She was looking at us in the rearview mirror, screaming over (rather than turn down) the third repeat of "Help Me, Rhonda." She was bellowing away about her dream of "loading up" the entire family and hauling us to Disneyland in CAAAALIFORNIA! "We're going to do that this summer. (Help me Rhonda, Help, Help me Rhonda) You just wait until you see Mickey Mouse in person. (She was gonna be my wife, and I was gonna be her maaaan) You kids have no idea what it's like in California! (Help me, Rhonda) We went there on our honeymoon. We'll make it a road trip! There's nothing like a road trip to Caaaalifornia!" (Help me Rhonda, ya! Get'r outta my heart!) Despite my mother and the Beach Boys yelling in the front seat, I was pre-occupied with my blue slush puppy. I figured that even Rhonda couldn't help this "dream trip" happen but my mother liked planning it anyway and I liked fantasizing about the fact that a 13-hour road trip to Anaheim (in light of the suburban needing lot of gas and my dad needing a lot of Marlboro Reds) would be good for about six slush puppies and, if I was lucky, a bag of beef jerky the size of my head. Just about the time I was visualizing how I would pack my 30 pounds of road trip supplies into my C-3PO backpack, My 7 year old sister Sherrie belted out from the backseat, "Uncle Ken says that all you get outta goin' cross-country is bladder control and a chapped ass." I couldn't hear my mother's reaction over the broken-record ending of "Help me, Rhonda, Help, Help me, Rhonda, help me Rhonda" but I imagine she made her defeated, huffing-sound and went right on thinking about California as she gazed out the side window. My sister turned and gave me a sly grin and I made a tacit promise to pack my C-3PO backpack when I got home anyway, just to see what would fit, in case Rhonda came through.
It took 7 years before I made that road trip to Disneyland (funded by my mother, who may be a dreamer, but is an eleventh-hour princess) and it wasn't with my family, but on a school bus with 20 other graduating Seniors from Rockland High School. My recollection of the trip is nebulous at best, but I do have vivid memories of someone getting car sick before we got out of town; someone gambling all of their spending money 13 minutes inside the Nevada border; an argument over co-ed seating arrangements; and driving through San Diego with our Idahoan faces pressed against the bus windows--in utter amazement--at our first sight of a man ambling down a street wearing only a speedo (Although I've always suspected he might have been wearing a pair of socks as well, if you know what I mean :) ). I wanted to see the Fighter Weapons "Top Gun" School at Miramar more than Shamu the Killer Whale; My cousin Scott bought a leather jacket and a bull whip from a short, spidery-looking man with a stutter and a limp in Tijuana who told us we had German-looking foreheads. ...Good times.
I was reminded of my affection for road trips most recently as my friend Tracy and I took her daughter Zoe to the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. Enter, the first rule of road trips....role assignment. First of all, a Captain (most likely the driver....me) will emerge, telling everyone to hurry; checking the directions; calculating wind speed; and programming the playlists. Secondly, the Captain will appoint a "navigator" who is usually the unknowing soul who called 'shotgun' before realizing that they would be appointed co-captain/navigator/coffee lid confiddler and keeper of the trash (Tracy was the victim). Thirdly, the sleeper. Every road trip has the person who can sleep through the driving rain, three consecutive plays of Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue", and an hour sitting in construction. (Zoe slept for five hours) This person will, however, wake up the minute their name is mentioned in a gossipatory context.
The second rule of the road trip is the stages.
- The Ramp-up Stage: (Mercy, the planning! Then the reality of leaving the morning after grad-night....two trips to Walmart, dunkin donuts coffee to wash down the Tylenol and Rolaids)"
- The "Woohoo-Exciting" Stage: (Me exclaiming, "isn't this sooo much fun" and snapping pictures with my blackberry before we're even on the highway. This sentiment was not shared in quite the same way by the other two occupants. They humored me.)
- The "Settling-in/Quiet" Stage: There's iPods, books, directions, VMI orientation schedules, snacks. So much to do.....until hour four.
- The "Munchies" Stage: The food! It's not a road trip without one or more types of certified road trip food: Diner food (pie and coffee)....truck stop food (chicken strips, radioactive dipping sauces, and hot wings double-bagged!)....fast food (Now it's stopping at restaurants I can't find in Canada....Arby's and those places where you can get 10 burgers on the run for $5 and fries that you'll find in every crevice of the car after you get back home)...convenience store food (Cheetos, pepperoni sticks, strangely shiny hot dogs, and slush puppies)....day-old cooler food (soggy motherly sandwiches, string cheese and potato salad that just "ain't right" after the first day).
- The "Antsy" stage: AKA make-a pit-stop-or-I-might-chew-out-your-throat-in-annoyance stage. This included the required Dunkin Donuts refresh....which turned out to be a near-failure as the gentleman on the intercom exclaimed in broken English that he was sorry but he could not hear me "a ball or a bit." Or at least that's what it sounded like. We ended up with something that had caffeine, were grateful, and went on our way.
- The "Bonding-Vault-Confessional" Stage: I love you man. No, I love YOU man. Nobody is anybody until to someone they're a somebody. The good conver...the admissions... dreams....THE VAULT. First rule of road trip is don't talk about road trip!
- "The Wall" Stage: You're tired. You're seeing the phantom black dog. This is the stage where road-trippers show their true colors. Novices (pussies) will calmly explain to the occupants that it's safer to drive rested and make an unscheduled stop at the closest motel. Middleweights doze off and aptly respond by slapping themselves; convulsively shaking their head like a Saint Bernard; rolling down the windows; or turning up the radio. Heavyweight Champions of the World bring their A-game and properly hydrate, caffeinate, and sometimes methamphetamate. Sound tough? Never judge a road warrior, life is hard on the unforgiving blacktop.
- The "Giddy" Stage: There are only a few activities (and substances) on the planet that elicit the official, heavily-adult condition called, "the giggles." Your stomach will hurt from laughing because the mocha machine just blows dry powder in your face at a gas station at 3 a.m. You're buying fireworks and pepperoni sticks in your brand-spanking-new, matching V.M.I sweat suit and your friend's clothes are inside out (but she still has enough pride to tease you about being in the "Happy Hands" Club in high school.) Had to be there? Ya, those jokes come from this stage.....you'll hear the stories but won't understand the hysterical seizure of laughter that ensues. AWK-WARD.
- The "Arrival Pride" Stage: You might look like you got hit by a Mack truck, but you rolled yourself there on air and rubber....with blunt determination, superior navigation and God's good humor. "The trip went fine....shut up, point me to the shitter and get me a drink that properly burns."
- The "Gifting" Stage: My favorite!! I have a "Little House on the Prairie" moment...picturing Mr. Edwards trudging through a whiteout to see the Ingalls' with a pillowcase full of worthless junk. I line the presents up on my bed and decide who I like the most! Shot glasses, thimples and Gettysburg chocolate bars for everyone!!!!!
After my own decent number of adventures, I'm still not sure where Uncle Ken got his "chapped ass" theory. Some things, after all, are better left unexplored. As for the rest, we can always plan a road trip!!!
