Knoxville to Houston

Madroad driving men ahead -- the mad road, leading around the bend into the openings of space towards the horizon Wasatch snows promised us in the vision of the west, spine heights at the world's end, coast of blue Pacific starry night -- nobone half-banana moons sloping in the tangled night sky, the torments of great formations in mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onward, illuminate -- The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass -- orange-butted west lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in black space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher -- the level of the world, low and flat: the charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road, as I look. From here to Elko along the level of this pin parallel to telephone poles I can see a bug playing in the hot sun -- swush, hitch yourself a ride beyond the fastest freight train, beat the smoke, find the thighs, spend in the shiney, throw the shroud, kiss the morning star in the morning glass -- madroad driving men ahead. Pencil traceries of our faintest wish in the travel of the horizon merged, nosey cloud obfusks in a drabble of speechless distance, the black sheep clouds cling a parallel above the steams of C.B.Q. -- serried Little Missouri rocks haunt the badlands, harsh dry b rown fields roll in the moonlight with a shiny cow's ass, telephone poles toothpick time, "dotting immensity" the crazed voyageur of the lone automobile presses forth his eager insignificance in noseplates & licenses into the vast promise of life ... the choice of tragic wives, moons. Drain your basins in old Ohio and the Indian and the Illini plains, bring your Big Muddy rivers thru Kansas and the mudlands, Yellowstone in the frozen North, punch lake holes in Florida and L.A., raise your cities in the white plain, cast your mountains up, bedawze the west, bedight the west with brave hedgerow cliffs rising to promethean heights and fame -- plant your prisons in the basin of the Utah moon -- nudge Canadian groping lands that end in Arctic bays, purl your Mexican ribneck, America.

Cody's going home, going home.

-- Jack Kerouac, Visions of Cody

I'm not sure if my 16-hour burst from Tennessee to Texas fits the standard image of a road trip ? the carefree, leisurely romp that allows for various stops and visits with locals in small towns. It did, however, fit in with the marathon stretches Kerouac and Neal Cassady put in during their time on the road. I left Tennessee early that morning knowing I had an ambitious day ahead of me, but somehow I never thought it would take me the entire day. Somehow, in looking at the map, I must've translated nearly 1,000 miles into 14 hours ? leaving at 8 a.m. Texas time, that would've put me in at 10 p.m. A bit lofty, but doable, with breaks. Maybe I read the map wrong, because in the end it came closer to 1,100 miles. And maybe I was figuring it with no breaks in the driving, because I certainly needed several. Or perhaps I really thought Houston was maybe four hours, at most, from New Orleans, but I don't think I was that stupid.

Because in the end, it was midnight before I strode ? exhausted up the walk at Meg's house in the hot Texas night. When I think about Houston ? about the bright white concrete aglow in my headlights, the overhead green exit signs shimmering and blurry in my tired eyes ? I count it among my most tiring experiences. I was fatigued to the point where I didn't trust myself and my sense of direction ? putting me dangerously close to being unable to trust other, more important skills needed on the road, like depth perception or the ability to keep your eyes open. I had Meg's directions next to me; I'd studied them over and over. Yet, when I reached the outskirts of Houston and the surrounding Tollway, I took the first exit for it I saw (though she'd specifically told me not to, that I'd come to another one closer to her house). As a result, I entered the beltway at roughly the 2 o'clock position and had to follow it clockwise (south, then west, then north) around to the 9 o'clock position. Had I remained on I-10 through Houston, I would've come to the tollway closer to the 10 o'clock slot and followed it south for a few exits. And I had to pay three $1 tolls every few miles instead of just the one.

Looking back now at my journal entry, I don't know why I said I made it with little strain. Either I was kidding myself, or the years have enhanced the memory of the final push more than the overall drive. But I clearly learned from it because I kept my promise not to force any similar stretches for the duration of the trip. I had other high-mileage days and other long days from start to finish, but I paced myself better with those, not putting a strain on myself or the car. I did, in fact, spend a night in El Paso rather than trying to go from Austin to Silver City. I checked into a reasonable hotel just off the interstate, watched Sex And The City for the first time (just weeks after it premiered, though I didn't keep up with it), and enjoyed a good night's sleep before a comfortable, short two-hour drive the next day.

One thing that remains as a glowing omission from that summer as a whole was my bypass of New Orleans. Stupidly, I didn't actually bypass it on the freeway; instead, I decided if I wasn't stopping to spend time there, I might as well drive through it on I-10. At 5 p.m. Bad idea. The rush-hour traffic tied me up for at least an hour, and I saw virtually nothing, except the Superdome. Why I thought I'd gain anything or have more to say by viewing the city at (what I thought would be) 60 mph I don't know. I chose not to visit New Orleans because I was alone and I knew no one there. It just seems like a city that, for someone like me, calls out for a shared experience. In July 1998, I was only 10 months into drinking age and had never been to a bar ? or even drunk ? alone. I'm also not the most outgoing person, so even if I had spent a night in the city and hit Bourbon Street on my own, I wouldn't have made any friends in doing so. In fact, my first solo bar experience came later in the trip.

Having gone to New Orleans 17 months ago, I do believe it is a place best experienced in good company ? at least for me. It's the kind of city you want to have a friend beside you, both to take in the whole experience and to fill in the gaps when you can't remember what happened the night before. Call it the drinking buddy system.