In the early 50s of the last century Jack Kerouac chronicled his journey with Neal Cassaday across America. On the Road (originally Gone on the Road) became a classic spawning a multi-genre industry of road trips—most with the implicit intent of “finding America and, in the process, finding oneself.” As a result, Kerouac today rivals Ernesto “Che” Guevara as a dated but resilient icon of every disaffected generation since. But he was not the first. Such epic journeys and the chronicling of them have been the stuff of history since The Iliad and probably before that. Now, I am to add to this rich depository. My own cross-country odyssey starts in about one hour. This long-destined and fate-induced journey, this final relic for me of youthful exuberance and adventure, this homage to my heroes, this wrenching of roots, begins today as I say farewell to Huapai and hello to Red Beach. I admit it has not quite the lustre and mystique of the aforementioned On the Road or even the more recent Easy Rider (it’s hard to complete with the majesty of a Harley when you drive a Peugeot) but you have gained voyeuristic pleasure from observing my foibles before, so this is a simple plea for your patience and perseverance again. My next Fryday will be written from a new location, a new home, layered with all the excitement that is omnipresent, indeed mandatory, with the New; tinged with the sadness at the loss of the Old.
Whither goes, asked the Sage; hither came the quiet answer.
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