Vast
Today, I made it from Tulsa to Amarillo, mostly on Rt. 66. It was an unexpectedly interesting ride: Rt. 66 has all but petrified into the earth. It’s actually quite difficult to follow, sometimes it ends, often signs are nonexistent. If you’re in a car, not a problem, because you can have your co-pilot refer to the little map you probably have indicating where it dodges in, out, and around I-40. On a motorcycle with a GPS with software designed by a masochist who simply stopped progressing as a UX designer in the early 2000’s, you’re pretty stuck. You have to eyeball it. I got lost a few times, but there were a few wonderful moments.
A couple of thoughts I had while plunging straight into the flat, flat, flat land of Texas:
First is that Texas is vast. You can see to the edge of the horizon in a way that I don’t recall ever being able to do, unless I’m looking out at the ocean. You can see things rising out of the horizon as you ride. Explain that, flat-earthers. Every little house I see pass by activates a little emotion about the fact that someone lives there, and this is their life. I’m blown away by this.
Second is that everything is temporal. No, for real. In the morning before I got on the road, I talked with Katy and she told me that she was thinking a lot these days about how temporal life is. Among other things, one of her dad’s friends passed away. That’ll definitely get you thinking, when someone passes away. That the thing that is right there, like a fixture, will someday not be there. It’s unsettling to wrestle with, and yet, it’s healthy to dip in and out of that line of thought periodically. I think it prepares you. The conversation I had with her stuck in my mind today, and as I watched artifacts of a previous life, now corroded and eroded along this legendary highway, it became even more of the theme of my ride.
When Rt 66 was built, it was a symbol of post-war hope, shuttling folks westward out of the Dust Bowl looking for a different life. Bright spots of all kinds popped up along its berm offering food, fuel, amusement, maintenance, lodging, and the like. When you ride it now, you can see it: you can imagine the life that once appeared there. I pulled off to the side of the road now and again when I saw some weird, interesting artifact of old Rt. 66. I wanted to let my imagination go, envisioning the ghosts of people who travelled my exact path decades and decades ago. Since most of the traffic now is on I-40, Rt. 66 is mainly open, so when you pull to the side, you have some quiet, compared to the interstate. I really enjoyed these meditative breaks on the way to Amarillo. I’m definitely just about out of the middle, and the climate is changing. I’ll be in New Mexico tomorrow, for the part of the trip I’ve most looked forward to since day one.