The eternal query—where does the rubber meet the road?—was definitively answered at the witching hour last night. It meets the road in Beckley, West Virginia. And in East St. Louis. Let me explain.
We’ve embarked on the quintessential road-trip, my friend Beth Rera, her young son John, and I. We’re traversing the nation, literally, from coast to coast over an eighteen-day period.
I’d been charged with delivering some horses from the East Coast to the Santa Barbara area of California. I also picked up a job to ship some furniture from Middleburg to its owner in Albuquerque, and some stuff’ for the return trip back east. It’s sort of the tale that creates road legend, this nearly 6,000-mile journey crossing the spine of the U.S.
We’re stopping along the route westbound with friends (I-70 route, primarily) and eastbound at several commercial horse hotels (I-40 route.) It is a three- to four-day journey no matter what, each way, with forty-five-plus hours of driving in each direction. I like to think of it as a twenty-first century variation on Steinbeck’s Travels With Charlie. Beth likens it to a version of Thelma and Louise minus the man-hating aspect. John considers it the opportunity of his seven-year life: the ultimate show-and-tell for the first-day of school next month.
I’ve been preparing for the trek for months—belaboring my packing list, borrowing rudimentary camping gear (while in California we’re going to avail ourselves of a bit of time in Monterey, Big Sur, Yosemite, Sequoia, Hollywood, and, maybe, Muscle Beach), gathering crumbs of information about favorite stopovers, must-see landmarks, and the best West Coast hiking trails.
I got the mares, Ali and Kit, ready for the road by putting them on electrolytes, gathering health papers, and accounting for nearly a week’s worth of home hay, feed, water, and bedding, trying at all costs to keep them comfortable and hydrated on the arduous drive. Ali is a lovely Oldenburg broodmare in foal to an East Coast stallion; Kit is a young Thoroughbred field hunter going to her new owner in Solvang, just north of Santa Barbara (Santa Ynez Valley Hounds). I got my truck (a new-to-me diesel Road-Master) serviced and updated, and had my trailer inspected and readied for a hard ride. Tires were triple-checked, maps were loaded, directions were printed, and we were on our way at 0230 on Tuesday afternoon, July 26.
I left lengthy instructions for horse/dog/cat/chicken/tomato, and house-plan care with my mom, and off we went, blaring Led Zepplin’s Ramble On as our theme song as we waved bye to the East Coast, hello to the left coast. Don’t forget about the gooey center. The first leg of our journey was due to take eighteen-or-so hours, from Flint Hill, Virginia to lifelong friends Mo and Jeannie Trail’s farm just south of Kansas City. We settled into a soft routine, us band of travelers. I took seriously driver’s rules on music choices and loaded my favorite CDs. Beth consulted her AAA triptiks as we idly chattered about our upcoming highlights, while John quietly sketched in his travel journal a beautiful Blue Ridge view (the slice you see on Route 211 looking west-back-to-east as you climb the Massanutten range). The weather was fine, the truck purring along with its 5k+ payload, and the road clear.
The Rubber Meets the Road
I-81 was clogged, as usual, with semis and summer vacationers, but I-64, when we hit it at Lexington, Virginia, was blessedly empty, save for a few big rigs we fell into a pattern of cat-and-mouse with. They’d thunder past us down the long inclines and we’d sail past them on the ups. The horses rode without a peep. At the first stop, I hung Ali’s haynet and water bucket at the back of her front-facing box-stall, as the pair seemed content to travel head-to-head. I gave them both a snack at each stop (sloppy beet pulp) and they’d tucked into their dinner with relish around 6:00 p.m. Both were sipping from their buckets and staying alert but relaxed. I was happy. They were happy. John was happy. Beth was happy. All was well. All was quiet. Until it wasn’t.
Just east of Beckley, I felt rather than heard a jolt that widened my eyes. Instinctively I began to ease right as I investigated the damage in the rear-view mirror. I saw one of my left trailer tire treads trailing down the interstate as I slowed to a crawl, hazards on as I assessed the options. There seemed to be signs for an exit a couple miles ahead, but it’s hard on your trailer’s good tire (a horse trailer has two tires on each side) to run it too far solo, so I headed for a level, grassy verge a few hundred yards ahead. I carry a ramp champ roll-up trailer jack, and I’d gone for the overkill with not one but two brand new spares. I quickly assembled the tools and hurried a little against the light but steady traffic buffeting us as we worked on the left side of the rig. When the lug wrench refused to budge for Beth, I shooed her aside and put my shoulders into it. Nothing. I stepped on it with my full weight. Still nothing. As we pondered the predicament, into the fringes of the picture floats an apparition to make any stranded traveler smile. One of West Virginia’s finest—a road patrol truck with smiling (and muscle-bound) Mr. Waltman pulled in behind us, protectively angling his state-issue truck to protect our work area, lights rotating and hazards flicking. He limped over to our sad semi-circle and offered to help.
“They’re stuck,” Beth said, somewhat needlessly, motioning to me still hopping fruitlessly on the tire iron, Mr. Waltman took matters in his own hands, big as a kite, strong as an ox. With a deft turn of his wrist he loosened the lugs one by one, then helped lift the heavy spare. Encouraged by our chatter, Waltman told us his story. He’s over 70, born just five months prior to the wide release of the polio vaccine. He came down with the debilitating disease as a child, fighting a variety of health issues through the years, including the limp. Today, in semi-retirement, he finds great pleasure in riding the roads of his native West Virginia, helping motorists in need. He was interested to hear of our far-off western target, saying he’d just gotten home from California himself ; he’d gone to the college graduation of a niece from Cal Poly. You could see pride ripple over his creased face, deep black rills softened by the fading sunlight. We parted friends, thanking him profusely, later excitedly discussing how lucky a break to have had practically a circus strongman show up like some sort of highway angel at just the right instant. We chalked it up as one bump the road and pressed on west.
One trailer professional and a truck mechanic had personally checked out the rig not seventy-two hours previous, verifying that everything was in tip-top shape for a hard pull. Waltman explained that the blacktop was hard on tires, especially in the heat. That even brand-new tires can shred if placed under just the right (or wrong) stress—a particularly bad bump, say, or a bit of debris, maybe a long stretch of sun-baked pavement that raises the surface temperature to far higher than the ninety-degree day.
A little later we stopped to load our plates for dinner-on-the-go. I relinquished the driver’s seat from Lexington to just west of Louisville and took a catnap, not really sleeping but at least resting my eyes for ninety minutes. Beth reported weary eyes at 1:45 a.m., and I shifted back left. I loaded some quieter tunes while Beth and John dropped right off to sleep. Diet Coke became my drug of choice (chased with celery sticks) and I felt pretty good about seeing it through until morning. But as we neared East St. Louis (in rural Illinois), I felt that now-recognizable tug on the rig and looked back just in time to see another tread flapping in time with our movement on the left side.
This time we were exactly at an exit, with a brightly-lit truck stop shimmering like an oasis. I slowly limped into the diesel lane and hopped out. No sooner had I started pulling out the jack than a trucker just finished refueling asked if we needed a hand. Two tired female road-haulers with horses on the rig and hours to go before our stopping point, what do ya think? Yes, sir, thanking you kindly, sir. We got that tire changed quickly and hit the road again, mulling our options with now zero spare tires and a right-handed pair of now-suspect tires.
Beth called US Rider (a sort of AAA style service for horse haulers) but they could offer little choice other than to hunker down and wait until morning. The mares were being so good, I hated to needlessly keep them on board so I pressed on, crossing my fingers that we could make it the final 300 miles to Kansas City. We called Mo Trail at daybreak, verifying that he had a good tire place in his neighborhood, and I ordered a full new set of tires (two new ones to replace the ones that were shredded and two other new ones for a matching set. The two spares could go back to spare status.
End of the First Leg
We arrived at Mo’s farm at 10:00 a.m. on the dot, nineteen-and-a-half hours after our departure. Mo said it was great time, considering our unexpected stops. I popped a Benadryl to guarantee a midday rest and got the mares settled into a paddock. I set up the trailer for later tonight while Beth showered. She and Mo took it to town, and I took a power nap. Jeannie Trail set up a play-date for John with a neighbor kid, and we all recharged for tonight. Our plan is to depart around 6:00 p.m. for Alison Brown’s farm just north of Colorado Springs (south of Denver).
States Traversed:
(Beth and John) New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland. (Plus Betsy) Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas.
Observations:
The U.S. stimulus package is hard at work tearing up the interstate system, nationwide.
The power-stroke turbo compression factor is well worth the price of admission.
West Virginia’s roads are beautiful if arduous.
Reflections:
Clapton and CSN (and sometimes Y), unplugged, are excellent road companions at 3:00 a.m.
We’re following the setting sun, with the full moon at our back for the first half of this journey, coinciding with Ludnasadh. Powerful. Maybe that was the magic from last night.
Next up:
I think the long-haul is eminently do-able, so we may bail on the Utah stopover and truck straight through instead—Monument (Colorado Springs)-to-Solvang (Santa Barbara) on Wednesday night/Thursday morning. It will give us an entire extra day to frolic on the Pacific shore. I think the promise of whale-watching has John convinced, too. Veto power goes to Kit and Ali, however. They are currently contentedly munching away in a grassy paddock. They both drank deeply and had a nice roll. If they load well tonight, and eat their dinner/breakfast, I think we will push through to California to arrive Thursday instead of Friday.
To be continued….