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 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 day trip or 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. Younger siblings, nieces, or nephews are often eager to join. But if they’re too eager, you have to be careful, because they tend to squeal about it, literally, thus blowing your cover, and thus ending the gambit before it begins. Slip offs, by definition, are covert.
If the accomplice is too young, other adults will become alarmed at their absence. So you must choose wisely, grasshopper. Appropriate candidates can be solicited with a subtle raise of an eyebrow, or the advanced ‘furtive sidelong glance with subtle side nod’ combo move. Best, of course, is when no visible sign is required at all, because you both just know the game’s afoot.
If successful, your absence will not be noticed immediately. Instead, their realization emerges slowly, after you’re well away, and in the clear. They call out to you: “Hey, what do you want for dinner?” No response. They might then repeat, only louder. Still no response. They go to your chair, then your room, the barn or wherever you usually are. Nothing. They begin to suspect: “Did they…?” To confirm, they check the driveway. “His truck’s gone. They’ve slipped off somewhere.”
Sometimes their reaction 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, or at least, the preferred covert nature of it. In these cases, once your cover is blow, then an apology, bringing something back for them, or offering to include 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’ was a summer-time favorite. He always seemed to know of some out of the way little market. It was always a “market” or “tienda,” not a “store” or “shop.”
It was the kind of place that, although you’d never really noticed it before, it had obviously been there a long time, the edges of doors and countertops rounded over from use; a swamp cooler clinking softly somewhere in the back. It was the kind of place where they too called it ‘soda pop’ and all the customers, except you, were regulars. But you felt welcome anyway, if a little embarrassed, because he would introduce you, together with the obligatorily hair ruffle: ‘This is my grandson.’ It was never far away, but it took a while to get there, because he drove slowly. And for once, you as a fidgety kid welcomed a trip that was longer, not shorter.
Mundane tasks or errands are well-suited as cover for the slip off, added in as a covert waypoint(s) to the journey. “We’re taking the pickup in for an oil change,” my Grandpa would say. He’d sort of ‘broadcast’ this message, into the space of the house, knowing my Grandma was inside somewhere. Then a slight pause, listening, and finally, but quieter this time, as he pulled the door closed: “We’ll be back in a bit.” This would also enable him to say later, if questioned: “I told you we were going.”
It was all truthful. He did say we were going; we did get the oil changed, and we were back in a bit, that is, after stopping for a soda pop or maybe even a cheeseburger or burrito. 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. But getting caught later was ok–mission already accomplished.
Perhaps there’s a three-part hierarchy when giving in to 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 multi-day road trip, the holy grail, especially when combined with the spontaneity of the slip off. Just get in the car and go.
A girl I knew in high school had an older brother who was a real adventurer. The day after he graduated from college, he got on his bicycle and just took off, ‘for Mexico’ he said, with only the clothes on his back, his wallet, and a bag of dried apricots. That was one of the coolest stories I’d ever heard. Still is.
While realizing I’m following in the foot steps of Thoreau, Kerouac, William Least-Heat Moon, Twain, Forsthoefel and so many others, whose journeys were grander and far 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 manage about one 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.
‘Slow travel,’ you say? Hold my beer…