When the calendar rolled over to 2015 and the Northeast was frozen in the icy grip of a polar vortex, I didn’t really expect to see any part of Route 66. I mean, sure I’ve always fancifully thought about it but never in a real “I should do this now!” sort of way. But here you have it – my motorcycle boots on Route 66 in Illinois.
Life is mysterious and full of possibility. Gotta take a leap of faith now and then.
Not only did I see the part of the eastern leg of Route 66, but I found myself standing next to the sign at the western terminus on the Santa Monica pier in the springtime. Again, when January showed its face I didn’t expect to be in the warm California sun during the year either.
Being impulsive has its perks.
Route 66 holds mythical sway over my imagination. Now that I’ve traveled a small length of it, I want to know more. The road seems to hold the ghosts and dreams of the people who went before you, the people searching for something, searching for themselves. There are images burned in to our collective consciousness that I need to see with my own eyes. I need to know the Mother Road.