Road trips

Is there a bigger freedom we're allowed in this country?

Freedom

Nothing sparks the imagination quite like a road trip. In our American car culture, the inherent freedom of jumping in the car and hitting the road is fundamental. Happy Independence Day to all! We have a freedom in this country to do what no citizens of any other country in the World has—the combination of size, expanse, open road, and the freedom to explore. Sure, you can drive across other countries that are much smaller in size and scope. There are also larger expanses of land than the continental United States—but none have the combination we have.

Vacation

I have explored all 50 states—most of them multiple times. I’ve driven every island of Hawaii. The one state I’ve explored but not driven extensively in is Alaska. I’ve seen Alaska by boat, by small plane, and on foot. One day I’ll drive it. The exploration of the US began in my childhood. I’m forever grateful to the wanderlust of my parents. Growing up in San Diego, we explored the Western US in our Ford Country Squire station wagon—up and down the coast of California. Yosemite, Point Reyes, east to Vegas, Salt Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, Colorado, Texas, and New Mexico. Once we had moved to Connecticut for my dad’s work, we were able to road trip throughout New England and all the way down the Eastern seaboard to Florida and Georgia. Then relocating again to St. Louis, we explored the Midwest extensively. By the time I was a young adult, traveling by car was in my blood—an inherent desire and privilege.

The Ultimate road trips

Through university, I road-tripped with friends from Dallas to Mardi Gras, Spring breaks in Florida and the Texas Gulf Coast, and Colorado for ski trips. Then I was introduced to Ultimate Frisbee. This game that taught me so much that I’ll talk about in later essays, also kept the road warrior in me alive. Carloads of young men with a couple hundred dollars collected among us for gas and food and entry fees, bombing down the highways to make it to Saturday’s first tournament game. Driving all night, bleary from the beer and the weed wafting throughout the car’s interior. Keeping the driver sober (relatively) and surveilling constantly for state troopers. Because of self-funded Ultimate tournament trips, I’ve packed an RV with an entire team of 14 sweaty and spent players. I’ve hitchhiked from Dallas, Texas to Santa Cruz, California. I’ve played in a tournament in New Mexico that we literally had to win in order to have enough cash to get back home. Win, we did. Once we were out of college and had jobs, we were able to graduate to flights in order to expand access to the tournaments we could play in across the country, but we never lost the should-we-go? We-have-to-go! Fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants, arrive-at-the-last-possible-minute attitude.

Working for a living

My business career was a continuation of the same theme. Of course, I chose a traveling job. After trying, succeeding then failing at a career in investment banking, I landed in the sports and event business. Sitting behind a desk wasn’t going to work for me for very long. I traveled the entire 1990s both summer and winter—24 beach volleyball events and 18-20 pro ski racing events per year. I was the onsite Master of Ceremonies and event announcer as well as an operations crew member and event producer. For several of those seasons, I drove a brand-new Chrysler minivan provided by our title sponsor Chrysler Plymouth. Typically, I had two brand-new Arctic Cat snowmobiles in tow. We traversed the country from Mammoth, CA to Sugarbush, ME and all points in between that had snow on them. Tahoe, Mt. Bachelor, OR, Traverse City, MI, all the ski areas in Colorado and Utah, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, up and down Vermont and New Hampshire. Driving interstates in snowstorms. Summers were Hermosa Beach to Clearwater—sometimes in a 24-foot Mack box truck and sometimes in a plane and rental car.

And always there was beer

And guess who sponsored all of those events—winter and summer—every single weekend? Beer and liquor companies. That’s the world of sports. And I was in it to win it. Anyone who has road-tripped has heard it—the familiar choo-kah of a pressurized can opening, gas escaping in a gasp. The ubiquitous cooler in the back seat. Road sodas are as much an attitude as they are the cold comfort between your legs while driving. See Freedom in paragraph 1. It’s hard to get drunk while road-tripping. I’m not saying it can’t happen—it did to me many times. But that outcome usually came at the end of a long day of driving after you’d reached your destination. Professional (alcoholic) drinkers like me know how to pace. I knew that a 12-hour drive demanded a cold 12-pack. A six-hour drive—you do the math. One beer per hour whilst slinging the rig down the road demanded full attention to the task. Driving and drinking. And peeing. If you didn’t want to stop, out came the empty Gatorade bottle. You didn’t need to eat, and you didn’t require water. Everyone knows that beer provides all the food groups.

Were these experiences formative to my eventual decision to get sober? I have mixed emotions about that. My memories are full of times when I had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. By the end, I was using a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black like a horse tranquilizer, knocking myself out at the end of each stressful day. But I don’t put these dozens—maybe hundreds—of cross-country adventures with road sodas in that same category. I got pulled over on an interstate by troopers plenty of times over the years—not once did I get so much as a sideways glance about whether I’d been drinking or not. I’m not sure what luck or magic or higher power I was carrying at the time—it doesn’t matter now. Those days are over.

Sober RTs

I still love road trips. In fact, I’m taking a 12-hour solo trip tomorrow to see my folks. My music and book on tape and a big box of Cheez-it extra toasty and a bag of jerky and a few bottles of water. There are a lot of reasons why I practice recovery and stay clean and sober. Many of them go without saying. Many of them I’ve already written about in previous essays. It’s so good. One solid fear I have that is at least one motivation to stay sober is that I know how lucky I was—drinking and driving all those years. I know that it would take just once, and I’d make a fatal mistake behind the wheel—for me or for someone else—or both. My freedom to make good (and bad) choices would be over.

Thank you Lord

A vivid memory I have from one year sober. My mom and dad were visiting me in Denver. We took in a Rockies baseball game at Coors Field. It was a gorgeous summer evening as we drove home from the stadium—a route that I’d taken dozens of times over the years before while hammered. As we approached a large intersection with a green light going about 45-50 MPH a woman was suddenly in the crosswalk in front of me. She appeared in an instant. She and her shopping cart were square in front of my bumper sixty feet away. I slammed on the anti-lock brakes and came to stop a mere 10 inches from her. She looked up, gave me the vacant glare you see so often in those living on the street, then she continued across the crosswalk causing several other cars to dodge her. I took a deep breath—as did my mom and dad. The only thing that came out of my mouth was: “Thank you God for my sobriety.”

Happy 4th of July. You are free to go about your business. Only because of the brave men and women who have fought and lost their lives protecting those tenuous freedoms. I am grateful beyond measure.