I’m always on the lookout for the opportunity, or even the flimsiest excuse, for taking a road trip, even a short one. Can I fit one in this weekend? A meeting at work just got cancelled–does this mean I can take a rare mid-week trip? If so, maybe we should just go ahead and leave right now. “It’s 11 PM? So we’ll drive through the night” I say confidently, but really as a kind of trial balloon, while avoiding eye contact with my wife. “I’m OK with this” adds my daughter, whom I can always count on to be a “proud co-conspirator” (her words). And thus with an unstoppable coalition, we’re soon on our way.
My training began early in life, with my Grandpa, who schooled me on the nuanced art of slipping off, a shorter and more local version of the road trip. To ‘slip off’ is to basically sneak off to some nearby destination, in a stealthy yet nonchalant way. Co-conspirators are always nice to have along. One’s own siblings, children, nieces, nephews or cousins are often eager to join. But if they’re too eager, their squeals of joy will certainly blow your cover. And if they’re too young, other adults will become alarmed at their absence. So you must choose wisely, grasshopper. Appropriate candidates are readily solicited with a subtle raise of an eyebrow and a quick sidelong glance, or maybe no visible sign at all is required, because you both just know that it’s time to slip off.
If successful, your absence will not be immediately noticed by others. Instead, the realization that someone has slipped off emerges slowly. They call out to you: “Hey, what do you want for dinner?” No response. They might then repeat, only louder. Still no response. So they go to your chair, then your room, the barn or wherever you usually are. Nothing. And they suspect. “Did they…?” To confirm, they check the driveway. “His truck’s gone. They’ve slipped off.”
Sometimes their realization is positive: “I’ve got the house to myself.” Other times, they may be slightly annoyed, calling or (these days) texting “Where R U?” and thereby abruptly and officially ending your slip off. In these cases, bringing something back for them, and including them next time, are advised.
Normally, one doesn’t slip off anywhere too far, nor for anything too exotic. With my Grandpa, slipping off for a ‘soda pop’ as he called it, was a summer-time favorite. He always seemed to know of some out of the way little market. It was always a “market,” not a “store” or “shop.” Although you’d never really noticed it, it was the kind of place that had obviously been there a long time, with the edges of wooden doors and countertops smooth and rounded over from use; the kind of place where they too called it ‘soda pop.’ It wasn’t far, but it took a while, because he drove slowly. And for once, you as a kid welcomed a longer journey, not a shorter one.
Mundane tasks or errands are well-suited as cover (more like excuses, really) for the slip off, added in as a covert waypoint to the journey–“We’re taking the pickup in for an oil change,” he’d say into the house, knowing my Grandma was inside somewhere. “We’ll be back in a bit.” And we were, after slipping off for a cheeseburger or burrito on the way home, of course. Later, when I didn’t eat much for dinner, and even though she already knew the answer, my Grandma would ask “I guess you and your Grandpa done slipped off earlier?” Busted. Again. But getting caught later was ok–it was slipping off that mattered most, and that mission had already been accomplished.
Perhaps there’s a three-part hierarchy for wanderlust: the slip off, the day trip, and the road trip, each with its own requirements and merits. The slip off is decidedly spontaneous, inexpensive and schedule-friendly. No downside here. The day trip, by definition, involves a little more up-front planning as to where you can get to and return from in a single day, so the spontaneity is less. But because it’s farther away, you get to see some new places, and maybe even a change of scenery/geography. And then there’s the road trip, which for me is the holy grail, especially when combined with the spontaneity of the slip off.
While realizing I’m following in the foot steps of Thoreau, Kerouac, Forsthoefel and so many others, whose journeys were far grander and more eloquently recorded, my recipe for a road trip would be something like this: 1) at least one week, 2) a small crew of proud and curious co-conspirators, 3) a full tank of gas, 4) detailed, printed maps–because every good road trip must include at least some locations beyond the reach of GPS, and 5) a general destination or route in mind, but with no commitments to stick to that route, nor to how fast or slow we’ll travel. Unfortunately, I can usually only fit in about one of these per year, but the plan for the next one is already set: to make the slowest and most circuitous road trip ever taken, by car, from Dallas to Lubbock.