The Road Traveled

The American Interstate Experience

Let’s face it. The road less taken has always been the more interesting, the one that yields more pleasures and surprises hidden around its many turns. But that’s not to say that the shortest distance between two points offers nothing but ease and convenience, with the getting there the ultimate goal; it’s just that the pleasures that the road traveled puts forward are harder to find. After crisscrossing the country now for years on American Interstates and loathing most of it, I’m only now beginning to understand what endures within these fast roads, these mighty carriageways of commerce.

The freeway in America as we know it did not exist a little over fifty years ago. The post-war economic boom led to the financing of automobiles, which made buying a car an affordable enterprise for many families. US soldiers returning home from Europe and the South Pacific, likely marked by some sort of wanderlust after seeing some of the world abroad, came home to start families, and took those families out to visit grandma, or to see the sights of their country. The Interstate Highway Act of 1956, also performing a security and defense measure during the Cold War, enabled motorists to use a dense but easily navigable web of freeways to reach their destinations. Technological advances in containerization and refrigeration meant that perishable goods, such as produce, could be transported via truck in any season. As a result of this and the wartime requirements for metals and the refitting of ships, shipping and rail transport declined, and the giant trucks that spilled onto the new Interstates ensured that folks in Indiana could enjoy Florida oranges in January. This heralded the renaissance of interstate commerce.

The “free” in freeway means that it is a road free of interchanges. Traffic enters and exits a freeway without stopping; it slows down to leave and accelerates to enter. There are no traffic signals on a true freeway. Interstates, as the name implies, are immense freeways linking states to one another, the longest of which traverse North America. (With an almost silly irony, many of America’s freeways exact a toll, with several traffic-clogged arteries in the east the most notable and priciest.) It’s not difficult to see why few have waxed poetic over these roads; they are about as romantic as bowling. Surely if Jack Kerouac had set off across I-80, On The Road would have been an unbearably dull read. Furthermore, that most enduring of film genres, the American road movie (usually involving a convertible and two or more individuals looking to find themselves, and heading in a general east to west direction), would mean nothing without the backdrop of Monument Valley through which old route 66 passes, since the advent of interstates, a minor road.

What is most disturbing about driving such roads is a uniformity that borders on true obsession. The Interstate is America’s pilgrimage to, and through, consumerism, just like New York’s Times Square, with its billboards, blinding lights and stock tickers, might be its Mecca. I would wager that there are few exits in the country that don’t have a McDonalds less than a mile from the freeway. I’m also certain that every one of these franchises has erected at least one billboard, perhaps with a super-closeup of a BigMac to get the driver salivating, a few miles prior. The church steeples that pierce the sky along the country roads of America are replaced by those ubiquitous golden arches on the interstates. Personally, my stomach turns at the thought of so much culinary convenience, but then fast food has never been my speed. If you’re looking for quiet, sitdown dining, something romantic, ethnic or with a wine list, say, keep driving. Fast food giants Burger King, Wendy’s and KFC, guard the freeway offramps like cholesterol sentries. This is where you’ll surely find some pimply-faced kid look at you like you’re some creature from a comic book, repeat the order you just gave, and then get it wrong beyond comprehension. This will require a trip inside if your order was screwed up in the drive-thru. The traveler will also find an alternative to fast food, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how they differ, except that at these establishments you can get someone to come to your table to deliver your heart attack on a plate. These include the thousands of truck stops (do any of them have no-smoking sections?), and indistinct chains like Stuckey’s, Appleby’s, Chili’s, Bennigan’s and the homophobic Cracker Barrel. The worst of these places have a kitschy lobby with shelves stacked with jams and preserves, fudge, peanut brittle, apple butter, fruitcakes, cheese logs, multicolored licorice, wood-carved bric-a-brac, sno-globes, and a selection of Christmas ornaments (“Greetings from Kansas!”) year round. Each establishment suspiciously smells of pine-scented air-freshener.

The homogeny of the interstate exit landscape is also expressed in its petrol. Shell, Amoco, Sunoco, BP, Mobil and Exxon utilize the same towering signs that lure hungry travelers to the restaurants. Most of these gas stations now have convenience stores where one can buy lotto tickets, a cold soft drink, warm hotdog and overheated coffee for the road. Many have video games or video blackjack, the latter of which seems to lure chain-smoking truckers, though cash payouts can only be found in Nevada. Places of accommodation include the imaginatively-named Super 8 and its crafty competitor, Motel 6, who make the traveler thankful that all hotel rooms look the same in the dark. Holiday Inn, TraveLodge, Red Roof Inn, and Best Western round out the A list.

As interstates don’t inspire the poet, they likewise don’t promote the quiet meander or leisurely drive. These are the playgrounds of trucks, huge, rattling semis reeking of diesel exhaust that strain going up hills and barrel down each downward slope like spring waterfalls. One is constantly checking the rearview mirror for these monstrosities, most of their drivers in a caffeine-fueled rush to drop off their load and pick up the next one. Truckers belong to a tight community – an extended family – that infuriates we drivers of cars with only four wheels. You see, we’ve yet to develop a system of road communication that allows us to spread jokes, report on road conditions, signal a lane change is safe, or to warn for police waiting in ambush. The car driver merely goes his own merry little way, the loud radio commanding more speed; he’s the one who invariably falls into a speed trap coming down one of those long hills on Route 80 through Pennsylvania. The trucks thunder on laughing.

But for all their lack of charm, their utility and impotence, interstates have an upside, in fact, several. First, and least surprisingly, they are incredibly quick. In no other continent is it possible to travel 2900 miles from coast to coast – through four time zones – on one continuously paved road. It’s even possible to do the whole I-80 in three long days – starting at the Hudson River in New York and ending in San Francisco – of manic sleep deprivation or crazed discipline. 1775-mile long I-75, linking Florida to the very north of Michigan and into Canada, opened up the Sunshine State to hundreds of thousands of sun-hungry vacationers from the Midwest, not to mention nearly as many octogenarian golfers in plaid pants. Other notable stretches include I-5, a traversal of the American far west, connecting San Diego, California to Blaine, Washington, the only road that can take a Canadian straight to Mexico; and the mammoth I-90, a 3111-mile stretch of concrete linking Seattle with Boston.

Second. Interstates, despite the heavy volume of traffic they carry, are the safest roads in the country with the fewest accidents per mile. Motorists who keep a respectable number of car lengths between their vehicle and the one in front (optimally 1 per 10 MPH) will have time to stop should the front driver hit the brakes. One beauty of the freeway is that without intersections collisions are less likely.

Third. Though they rarely angle close to the great natural wonders of the United States, they will at least get you close to many quickly and in one piece. The Grand Canyon wouldn’t be so grand if it had rowdy 18-wheelers tearing along its rim. Interstates have opened up the country to many eager (as well as plenty of downright lazy) travelers. In the twenties, it used to take my great-grandfather over two weeks on small tracks to reach Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park from his home state of Ohio. Now the trip can be done in two long days. However, it’s lamentable that interstates, delivering more passengers more quickly, have contributed to the overcrowding and polluting of the nation’s National Parks and Monuments.

Furthermore, interstates allow the traveler to reach his destination relatively free of distraction. There are few quaint villages with picturesque churches in view to tempt the driver off the road. These massive roads speed by and reduce the wonderful diversity of the country into a series of dull and unimportant exits; they are convenient if your aim is Montana, and the Black Hills, Mt. Rushmore, and Wall Drug are not on your to-see list. In some cases, one is thankful the interstate speeds traffic through. Exits in the Bronx and south Chicago I imagine don’t get many folks seeking out caramel corn. (Though you might find bargain hubcaps.)

Lastly, and this is not to be overlooked, traveling the interstate in its wonderfully blissful tedium can stir in the traveler something altogether deeper. Lawnmowing is the only other somnolent activity that I can think of that can similarly awaken the imagination. There is nothing like a bland and repetitious landscape, a brisk yet comfortable speed locked by cruise control, and those never ending white stripes to fire up the place in one’s soul where ideas are generated, plans and promises are made, and even a new self-awareness may be achieved. The blacktop lanes of the freeway are like no other Muse I know, inspiring, for example, the very idea for this article. No such ideas have ever struck me on the subway. If you want to slice through the rarified air of northern California, rush round the traffic tangle in Beantown, or hear real country music in Great Falls, set the stereo on scan, put foot to pedal (the right one), and get out and drive the open road with the rest of us.


Sean Hickey