I grew up riding in the backseat during a multitude of trips between Florida and Ohio. I can't remember ever not knowing that if you hopped on I-75, it would take you all the way from our house in South Florida to my grandparents' farm in Lebanon, Ohio. I've also always known the best towns, the cleanest bathrooms and the least scary hotels along the way. After not having taken that drive in about five years, I was super stoked last summer when I took my ill-fated trip to Bonnaroo (for more on that, click here), as it meant I would be on I-75 once again. I would spend all night and the following dawn cutting my way through the pine trees and "mountains" of the Smokey's on my way to Manchester, Tennessee. What I didn't expect, though, was the amazing sight that I'd roll across once I ventured off I-75 and headed west on I-24.
There, in the middle of the southern mid-west, nestled down into a valley between a handful of mountains, was a decent sized lake. It was blue and sparkling and covered in the kind of fog only 6 a.m. can conjure. Then, jabbing right out of the middle of the lake, was an island of pine trees. With the bright, summer greenness contrasting against the grey fog and blue of the freshwater lake, it immediately reminded me of the island from "Lost." The highway engineers seemed to know what they were doing when they built I-24, too, because they curved the four-lane road almost 180 degrees around the island. There's even a small pull-off look-out area so the gaping travelers don't collect the morning commuters into a massive accident. I've yet to pass through there with the time to pull off, but it's a tiny feat on my bucket list, that's for sure.
During my trip to Bonnaroo, I soon had to get off that highway and onto another one. Earlier this year, though, on my way to New Orleans, I had the chance to jump onto I-24, again. This time I was graced with its asphalt for a much longer journey. The road curves in and over, down and around, mountain after mountain. On each side of the road dark green pines jut up around you and at dusk, the golden sun glitters through. There's absolutely nothing about my description that isn't entirely cliche sounding, but that's exactly how it is on that section of I-24. The entire trip feels as if you're driving through a music video for a James Taylor or John Denver song. It is a well-paved, well-traveled country road and it is definitely one of my favorites.
If you're driving on I-24 and not listening to Old Crow Medicine Show, you're doing it wrong. Here's the song I pulled my title from...
If you like banjo, fiddle or songs about drinking/drugs/traveling, check out OCMS. Especially Live! This gig was pretty tame, but they can put on a rowdy show sometimes.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Chicago. I'll get there eventually.
Not every road I travel is a great road to take. While I tend to always been in a good mood while traveling, no matter how long the drive or flight, there are certain routes that I must take from time to time that drive me absolutely murderous. In the case of the journey between Cincinnati and Chicago, it’s definitely more of a suicidal kind of murder, though.
The drive doesn’t start out bad-it actually starts out quite nicely. Taking I-74 into the sunset can be quite beautiful thing. Once your retinas are sufficiently scarred, you can focus on the beauty of the burning orange sun as it sinks behind the huge green hills of Indiana. As a Florida girl, these hills always seems more on the “mountainous” side of the spectrum, but I’ve been corrected and assured many-a-time that, no, they really are just “big hills.” Once you’re past the hills, however, it begins to look a like Florida-flat. Straight, grey, worn down, flat roads. For hours. And hours.
Indiana is one huge cornfield. The only real break in the monotony is when you hit what my friends and I refer to as, “Turbine Town.” For ten long miles, the highway is surrounded by a massive farm of wind turbines. Shooting out of the ground like silver, anorexic pinwheels, the wind turbines sparked my interested the first few times I made the journey. Every time I strike across Indiana on a trip to Chicago, a try to count the turbines. They’re planted at such a strange angle, though, it makes counting nearly impossible.
The last time I drove through Turbine Town was at around 10 p.m. With no cities around, I knew it would be dark as all get out and my active imagination picture my little grey V-Dub zipping through the black field, lit up with swirling red lights. I imagined something along the lines (Okay, truthfully, I pictured something exactly like) an airplane control panel. Those long, steel arms had to have lights on them, right? Apparently not. The dead blackness held no spinning red lights- only a couple hundred blinking, stationary ones. It could have been beautiful, if I hadn’t pictured something ten times better.
It’s only ten miles, but after making the trek so many times, the ten times of Turbine Town begin to seem like a million. At five miles in I begin picturing the wind turbine’s arms stretching longer and longer, and possibly growing a foot, until finally, they stretch low enough that I can drive my car to the base of one of the turbines and get punted straight into Lincoln Park, Chicago. By eight miles, the feet are gone and the blades are ever longer. All I want to do is lay in the grass beneath the blades, like they’re a modern day guillotine. Sweet Farmer’s Hell, just put me out of my misery.
Even when it ends, you still feel like you’re the midst. There are just less red blinking lights and more blackness. If you stop for gas at the promised, “always clean restrooms,” you open your door to the smell of cow manure. If you’re delirious at that point, you may not realize the reason for the smell. It is due to the dairy farm said restrooms (that are in a BP, and are truly always clean) share a parking lot with. That explains the massive cow out front.
More blackness. More nothingness. And then you hit Chicago. Like that last Smacksgiving hand-to-cheek action, you don’t see in coming until you’re slamming on your brakes to avoid rear-ending a semi, a motorcycle or ten million Lexus SUVs. You’ve made it to the east side of Chi-town- just an hour of sitting in a six-lane parking lot until you reach your hotel. Unless it is baseball season…in which case, you’re an idiot for not coming prepared for a freeway tailgate party. Cause, buddy, you’re parked ‘til October.
PS-Here's a playlist of songs from people that I love or who rock my world. Just a snippet of the few dozen songs I listened to on my way. Starting with the mellow sunset and ending with anything that would keep me awake and pounding on my steering wheel.
*If you click on the little rectangle in the video window, you can scroll through the list of songs.
The drive doesn’t start out bad-it actually starts out quite nicely. Taking I-74 into the sunset can be quite beautiful thing. Once your retinas are sufficiently scarred, you can focus on the beauty of the burning orange sun as it sinks behind the huge green hills of Indiana. As a Florida girl, these hills always seems more on the “mountainous” side of the spectrum, but I’ve been corrected and assured many-a-time that, no, they really are just “big hills.” Once you’re past the hills, however, it begins to look a like Florida-flat. Straight, grey, worn down, flat roads. For hours. And hours.
Indiana is one huge cornfield. The only real break in the monotony is when you hit what my friends and I refer to as, “Turbine Town.” For ten long miles, the highway is surrounded by a massive farm of wind turbines. Shooting out of the ground like silver, anorexic pinwheels, the wind turbines sparked my interested the first few times I made the journey. Every time I strike across Indiana on a trip to Chicago, a try to count the turbines. They’re planted at such a strange angle, though, it makes counting nearly impossible.
The last time I drove through Turbine Town was at around 10 p.m. With no cities around, I knew it would be dark as all get out and my active imagination picture my little grey V-Dub zipping through the black field, lit up with swirling red lights. I imagined something along the lines (Okay, truthfully, I pictured something exactly like) an airplane control panel. Those long, steel arms had to have lights on them, right? Apparently not. The dead blackness held no spinning red lights- only a couple hundred blinking, stationary ones. It could have been beautiful, if I hadn’t pictured something ten times better.
It’s only ten miles, but after making the trek so many times, the ten times of Turbine Town begin to seem like a million. At five miles in I begin picturing the wind turbine’s arms stretching longer and longer, and possibly growing a foot, until finally, they stretch low enough that I can drive my car to the base of one of the turbines and get punted straight into Lincoln Park, Chicago. By eight miles, the feet are gone and the blades are ever longer. All I want to do is lay in the grass beneath the blades, like they’re a modern day guillotine. Sweet Farmer’s Hell, just put me out of my misery.
Even when it ends, you still feel like you’re the midst. There are just less red blinking lights and more blackness. If you stop for gas at the promised, “always clean restrooms,” you open your door to the smell of cow manure. If you’re delirious at that point, you may not realize the reason for the smell. It is due to the dairy farm said restrooms (that are in a BP, and are truly always clean) share a parking lot with. That explains the massive cow out front.
More blackness. More nothingness. And then you hit Chicago. Like that last Smacksgiving hand-to-cheek action, you don’t see in coming until you’re slamming on your brakes to avoid rear-ending a semi, a motorcycle or ten million Lexus SUVs. You’ve made it to the east side of Chi-town- just an hour of sitting in a six-lane parking lot until you reach your hotel. Unless it is baseball season…in which case, you’re an idiot for not coming prepared for a freeway tailgate party. Cause, buddy, you’re parked ‘til October.
PS-Here's a playlist of songs from people that I love or who rock my world. Just a snippet of the few dozen songs I listened to on my way. Starting with the mellow sunset and ending with anything that would keep me awake and pounding on my steering wheel.
*If you click on the little rectangle in the video window, you can scroll through the list of songs.
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