The Interstate highway system has not always been there. It was only after World War II that President Eisenhower, recognizing the need for improved movement on our roads, designed and set in motion the system that we all take for granted today.
Before that, there were a lot of different roads that crisscrossed the country in something of a random pattern. The legendary Route 66 was one of them. It is probably the most recognized of the National roads, running from Chicago, down to Saint Louis and then west to Santa Monica, California, connecting all of those states and cities along its path. There was a television series about this road and even a song about it that named most of the major cities and towns that it passed through on its way west. That was the road I took when I drove to California a very long time ago.
I bought my first car in 1963 while I was on leave from the Marine Corps and was in Columbus with my family. This car was a little 1963 Austin Healy Sprite, the type of British sports car that was very popular at that time. I had made the trip back and forth between Columbus, Ohio and where I was stationed in California a number of times by then, traveling by bus (73 hours), train (72 hours), airplane (much quicker) and automobile (56 hours if you hitchhike).
This time I was really happy to be able to drive back to California in my shiny new sports car. It was a very strong feeling of freedom and adventure. I had no radio to distract me, no watch to worry about and no schedule to keep. It was just me, the open road and beautiful summer days.
Route 40 runs from Columbus to Saint Louis, where it meets Route 66. That was my route. No GPS, no maps, just road signs and the highway. I slept in the car when I was tired and drove when I was not.
By the time I reached the mountainous part of California, I was pretty tired, exhausted actually, and sleep deprived.
Guard rails that were commonly used back then served more as a reminder not to drive off of cliffs, rather than an actual barrier designed to keep it from happening. They generally consisted of semi-sturdy reflector posts with a steel cable strung between them.
Sometime in the middle of the second night I was flying along at probably 50 mph or so, when I
suddenly woke up. There was one of those reflector posts directly in front of me and nothing beyond that, other than several hundred feet of nothing. My reflexes were good enough to jerk the steering wheel to the left and miss that reflector, with only the right rear fender striking it lightly, barely removing a little paint.
As you can imagine, it was the most exciting part of the trip. And my first near death experience.
I did get back to base alive, as you may have guessed by now, and at 48 hours and 10 minutes, it was a full day faster than the bus or train. Both alive and in record time. A great combination.
But I really should have taken more naps along the way.
