Addison Road

I just want to say first off, that I am reluctant to even post today after Zack’s piece. If you’re here to read that, please continue below. It’s beautiful and you should read it and meditate upon it today. However… I have a lot of time on my hands today, and I need to blog.

Yesterday after church… and a budget meeting… I made this drive. Erica had toyed with the idea of coming up with me, bringing the kiddos. June had suggested that their place was well set up for kids (which it is) and that they would have fun. After much consideration (lost income for Erica… transplanted children… etc…) we decided that we’d get through it faster and more effectively if I were solo.
I have been trying to remember the last time I took a road trip by myself. I think the answer is… never. I think the longest drive I have ever made solo is to San Diego to join my wife and kids already at her folks place. It’s been a while since I’ve made a seven hour drive at all, much less by myself.

It was fun. And murder on my back. I downloaded Broken Boy Soldiers by The Ranconteurs from iTunes. It was my grapevine music. It… um… rocks me. Jack White is a force to be seriously considered. I downloaded a fresh batch of Open Source podcasts. The discussion and recollections of writers who experienced 9/11 firsthand was a great reminder of the real people who witnessed an event that the rest of us watched on tape. Zack’s essay sealed the deal.

You see weird things when you travel alone. I saw a Cessna 172 riding on the back of a trailer, wings removed and strapped underneath it. It’s single propellor was spiriling casually in the wind as it travelled down the freeway, ten to twelve feet from my passenger side window. I saw a group of kids and parents returning from some sort of baseball event in the parking lot of an In-N-Out Burger. They were gathered around the back of one of the SUVs, playing a baseball game on the drop down screen. They must really, really like baseball.

After night falls, you start playing the game that all travellers doing 80 or above on the 5 freeway play, called, “Guess which headlights behind you look like a Ford Crown Victoria and can tack an additional $200 bucks onto your trip.” It’s a fun game, sweeping the nation, really.

By about 11pm, I had gotten through Sac Town and gotten on the 80 towards Reno. I called Stick to let him know of my progress and ask if there was a 7/11 or something where I could purchase the deodorant and toothpaste that I forgot. He mentioned that there was a Wal-Mart right near where I was. As I entered, it took about 1/2 a second to realize that I was the only white face in the joint. Now… I not only “don’t mind” people of other ethnicities, but I kind of gravitate towards them. When Erica and I were in Cabo last year, we avoided whitey like the plague. Some of our fondest memories of that trip are hanging with the locals.

So, why is it that we’re so painfully aware of when we’re you’re the only one of your “kind” when you are in your own country? Nothing happened to me. No one even gave me a sideways glance. What’s our problem? Lame. Maybe I’ll just blame it on the drive. And also George W. Bush, because he hates black people and because everything’s his fault, apparantly.
All the way up, I was mildly euphoric. The central California valley has never, ever looked as beautiful to me. The sun turned the fields golden red. I was keenly aware of the other drivers, wondering what they were up to. Some of them were obviously going on (or more likely returning from) vacation, with their kayaks or mountain bikes mounted to the tops of their cars.

But the reason for my euphoria was the fact that I doubted very highly that most of them were going to do what I was going to do. I was armed with a hard drive filled with 90 gigs of our blood, sweat, and tears, and I was going to get it mixed. That reality made me feel very much like I had snuck away from my real life for a brief instant.

At which point does your pretend life become your real life? Stay tuned.