I Believe in Road Trips

I Believe in Road Trips

            When I was six or seven years old, I went on a road trip with my aunt and uncle, my cousin, and my brother.  Where we went, I cannot remember.  What I do recall is sitting in the back of a very hot car, learning how to blow bubbles with cold and creamy, bright blue bubble gum ice cream.  The frigid ice cream made the bubble gum so hard; it was like trying to chew pebbles.  My cousin, brother, and I giggled, laughed, and cheered each other on as we would engage every muscle of our jaws to soften that gum enough to attempt a bubble.  What resulted was wads of purple and pink, orange and green stuck to the roof of the car.  Our stomach muscles burned as we laughed until we couldn’t breathe.  I don’t think any one of us learned how to blow a bubble on that trip, but we three happy travelers made memories and bonds that molded our relationships as we rode along in the back of a car.  I believe in road trips.  I believe that road trips teach life lessons, link generations, and enhance relationships. 

            At the beginning of my junior year in high school, my grandma passed away.  My mom and youngest sister flew out to be with my grandpa as soon as we got the news, leaving my dad to drive the rest of us the 1100 miles to the funeral.  My dad worked the days and nights away getting ready to leave, and as soon as we started on our journey he said, “I haven’t slept in days.  You’re ready for this right?”  As a new driver, I was scared, excited, and determined to do my part to get my family there safely.  I drove comfortably along, watched the last bit of daylight disappear, and listened as everyone breathed the sound of peaceful sleep.  Going up a hill, our eleven-passenger van began to struggle as the incline grew steeper.  I reached to get some assistance from a lower gear.  Pushing the lever away from me, the engine screamed in high-pitched opposition, shattering the peaceful silence.  My dad, eyes now as wide as golf balls, bolted upright and threw his hands out to brace himself for whatever was coming.  “Oops,” I whispered sheepishly, as I fumbled around to find the right gear.  A lesson forever imbedded itself in my mind that night:  don’t shift the car into neutral when you are driving 65 miles per hour.

            I’ve learned all kinds life lessons as I’ve journeyed along all kinds of roads.  Roads that were buried with snow and hidden behind blankets of fog have taught me to pray with fervency and that continued breathing, in and out, in and out, is absolutely necessary.  A road-tripping car full of fighting, antsy, little boys has taught me the value of laughter.  I’ve tried the “reach back and swing for anything or anyone that will stop the chaos” method, but laughter is the only way to overcome the madness.  Life lessons learned on the road are the ones that stay with you forever.

            Road trips have the power to link generations.  I remember traveling somewhere with my grandparents in their motorhome as a young teenager.  My grandpa drove as my grandma and I played cards, told stories, and enjoyed the views of rocky hills and dried up riverbeds.  Our hearts were woven together that day as we journeyed along.

            On trips with my mom and dad, I became familiar with the voices of John, Paul, George, and Ringo.  My parents proudly listened to their own carful of “monkees” belt out the words “cheer up sleepy Jean, Oh what can it mean…” I have a distant memory of some girl named Catalina Madalina Ooka Sonna Donna Something with her hair and teeth pointing awkward directions.  I never quite got that one down, but these are all connections to a generation that wasn’t my own.  Now I sing Bono, Madonna, and Steven Tyler to my own children, and no doubt, they will hear it down the road and smile remembering the good times.

            I’m not quite sure why road trips have the power to solidify a relationship into something even more beautiful and firm than it already was.  Perhaps it’s that you have a captive audience that has nowhere else to look besides the road in front of them.  Maybe it is the deep conversation, goal setting, reflection, and life planning that so often happen in those two bucket seats in the front of a car.  I remember the first road trip Aaron and I took together as a married couple.  We drove to California.  I don’t remember much except for our new pet Beta fish that we affectionately named Afton.  What I do remember is feeling like that moment and all it encompassed was all I needed to be fulfilled and happy.  It set a precedent for our marriage and for our relationship.

            On the road, common distractions are often left behind.  I listen, I look, I search, I think, I feel, I touch, and I laugh.  I learn and I find deeper love for those I journey with.  I believe in road trips.