My car is my sanctuary. It is my entire universe as I make yet another road trip to Los Angeles from Northern California. This particular ship of the highway was a 1980 Peugeot 505 with the most comfortable seats I've ever used. "I was a free man in Paris" as Joni Mitchell would say and there was nothing more liberating than a road trip.
The preparation was part of the magic, traveling light was paramount. One didn't want to be encumbered with massive amounts of baggage when just an overnight bag would do. When packed and ready the feeling of euphoria and freedom was overpowering. Not having to think about work, relationships or day to day responsibilties for a couple of days was emancipating and powerful. Soon it would be just you, the car and the road. Alone with your thoughts with plenty of time for self examination and introspection.
My companion was AM radio, more specifically, KGO-AM out of San Francisco. These were pre-internet times and most of my in-depth knowledge of national issues came from the pages of the San Jose Mercury News or the talk show format on KGO. Whether the host was Ron Owens, Jim Eason or Bernie Ward made no difference, the discussions were always lively and intelligent.
It is October, 1991. I went to visit an old friend down the coast in Santa Margarita and then return home the next day. The trip down was pretty straightforward, 101 all the way to Santa Margarita. The return was far more interesting. I would take 101 north a few miles to Atascadero and cut over to Morro Bay via Highway 41. From there I would continue northward along Highway 1 hugging the coastline all the way to the Carmel Highlands. I remember stopping at the Northridge Mall in Salinas on the way down 101. I needed a new jacket and figured that this was the perfect time to pick one up since the mall was located right next to the freeway. A few minutes spent there was actually a time-saver for me as I wouldn't need to make a special trip for the jacket at a later time. I picked out a black number with lime colored day-glo highlights. Light enough but with a thin liner for warmth. Perfect. Not too light and not too heavy. I brought it up to the counter and forked over my hard earned money and was out of the mall in a mere twenty five minutes. Back in the Peugeot I was almost relieved to be out of the mall and back on the road. It was welcoming and friendly, the road that is. One of the highlights of the trip was on my return. As mentioned before I had to go north on 101 a few miles then cut over to the coast using Highway 41 which would take me to Morro Bay. I had left mid-morning so by the time I got to Atascadero it was 10:00AM or thereabouts. Today there was thick fog all the way along Highway 41. I was listening to the Clarence Thomas hearings on KGO and the signal got more faint the further I ventured into the hills and canyons of this country highway. I slowed and picked my way to the coast all the while listening as the AM signal drifted in and out. After 30 minutes or so I emerged into Morro Bay. The radio blasted a clean signal from San Francisco and the coastline of Big Sur beckoned. One day I'll tell you more about that wonderful place.
It is now April, 1995. The car in question is/was one of my favorites...a black 1982 Saab 900 Turbo with whale tail. The back and side windows are blacked out, covered in smokey black tinting to keep the heat down but mostly to keep prying eyes from invading my inner sanctum. The sense of privacy was enormous, I felt almost invincible in this stealth disguise of a car, blasting along the freeways and country roads of NorCal. This particular trip would take me to Southern California to play a role in an independant film, my first starring role. There were many ways to get there and it's very difficult to put my finger on my favorite. I could take 101 straight down if I didn't want much fuss. But most of the time I would take Interstate 5 but not before connecting to it via a seldom used country highway that the maps simply refered to as J-1. This lonely stretch of road was for me, a time machine. It evokes memories of the Old West as the town gave way to a village and that in turn gave way to open range free of telephone poles and other modern encumbrances. If one stopped the car, got out and looked around you would see and hear nothing of the modern world. Just the sound of the wind and the occasional screech of a hawk. This is what it must have been like during the pioneer days as horse drawn wagons would reach a hilltop to gaze down upon pastures never seen by white men until then. It was a mildly unsettling feeling being out there alone, my car shut off, and me hoping that my luck wouldn't pick this time for the wonderful technology of my electronic ignition to fail. I mean, it's not like I didn't have a lifeline, I did. I had a cell phone. My first cell phone. It weighed at least a pound and didn't even have service but I had a cell phone. Back in the mid 1990's I bought a it at a flea market and it was an ancestor to our small pocket sized phones of today. It wasn't one of those foot long models popular five years earlier but one could put it in their pocket. It might have been heavy and created quite a bulge but it
could be done. Once powered up the face plate glowed green and projected any personal greeting you cared to program into it. My dog Boris was my inspiration for this so I programmed it to say "Boris Calling" whenever I powered it up. BEEEEEEEP! BORIS CALLING. God, I loved that. It stayed charged via the cigarette lighter socket and became part of the furniture in my Saab. Anyway, the phone didn't come with service but one time after pushing a bunch of buttons I was able to get through to an emergency operator. So not being in need of a phone I didn't bother to activate it, I just knew that if I got into a jam I could somehow dial that emergency operator in case my car broke down in the badlands. It was my security blanket whenever I traveled, a cell phone that didn't really work but might if I crossed my fingers. I took Highway 101 this time and as usual the radio started fading south of Salinas, somewhere near Greenfield. Competing stations would fight for the frequency until a victor emerged only to give way to another more powerful station down the road.
Upon my arrival in Pasadena I was shocked to hear that the Murrah Federal Building had been destroyed by a huge bomb of unknown origin. There was a new cable news channel called MSNBC which was giving the event wall to wall coverage. In addition, the channel gave viewers tutorials on the emergence of the internet, giving them definitions of common terms like "browser" and "search engine". There was a new OS called Windows 95 that I would have to look into. I needed to check out this internet thing. My stay in L.A. would last a month and I would return via Interstate 5. On my way home my car developed a flat tire on the dreaded J-1. I pulled over to the side of the road and surveyed the landscape.
I was on a promontory near the junction of this country road and Interstate 5. It was deathly quiet. I spied the freeway itself a couple of miles away from this remote perch and could clearly see the late afternoon sunlight glinting off the big semi trucks on their way past the junction. But for now it was just me, the car and a flat tire to change. Oh, and Boris. I always had Boris on the line.
My car is my sanctuary. It is my entire universe as I make yet another road trip to Los Angeles from Northern California. This particular ship of the highway was a 1980 Peugeot 505 with the most comfortable seats I've ever used. "I was a free man in Paris" as Joni Mitchell would say and there was nothing more liberating than a road trip.
The preparation was part of the magic, traveling light was paramount. One didn't want to be encumbered with massive amounts of baggage when just an overnight bag would do. When packed and ready the feeling of euphoria and freedom was overpowering. Not having to think about work, relationships or day to day responsibilties for a couple of days was emancipating and powerful. Soon it would be just you, the car and the road. Alone with your thoughts with plenty of time for self examination and introspection.
My companion was AM radio, more specifically, KGO-AM out of San Francisco. These were pre-internet times and most of my in-depth knowledge of national issues came from the pages of the San Jose Mercury News or the talk show format on KGO. Whether the host was Ron Owens, Jim Eason or Bernie Ward made no difference, the discussions were always lively and intelligent.
It is October, 1991. I went to visit an old friend down the coast in Santa Margarita and then return home the next day. The trip down was pretty straightforward, 101 all the way to Santa Margarita. The return was far more interesting. I would take 101 north a few miles to Atascadero and cut over to Morro Bay via Highway 41. From there I would continue northward along Highway 1 hugging the coastline all the way to the Carmel Highlands. I remember stopping at the Northridge Mall in Salinas on the way down 101. I needed a new jacket and figured that this was the perfect time to pick one up since the mall was located right next to the freeway. A few minutes spent there was actually a time-saver for me as I wouldn't need to make a special trip for the jacket at a later time. I picked out a black number with lime colored day-glo highlights. Light enough but with a thin liner for warmth. Perfect. Not too light and not too heavy. I brought it up to the counter and forked over my hard earned money and was out of the mall in a mere twenty five minutes. Back in the Peugeot I was almost relieved to be out of the mall and back on the road. It was welcoming and friendly, the road that is. One of the highlights of the trip was on my return. As mentioned before I had to go north on 101 a few miles then cut over to the coast using Highway 41 which would take me to Morro Bay. I had left mid-morning so by the time I got to Atascadero it was 10:00AM or thereabouts. Today there was thick fog all the way along Highway 41. I was listening to the Clarence Thomas hearings on KGO and the signal got more faint the further I ventured into the hills and canyons of this country highway. I slowed and picked my way to the coast all the while listening as the AM signal drifted in and out. After 30 minutes or so I emerged into Morro Bay. The radio blasted a clean signal from San Francisco and the coastline of Big Sur beckoned. One day I'll tell you more about that wonderful place.
It is now April, 1995. The car in question is/was one of my favorites...a black 1982 Saab 900 Turbo with whale tail. The back and side windows are blacked out, covered in smokey black tinting to keep the heat down but mostly to keep prying eyes from invading my inner sanctum. The sense of privacy was enormous, I felt almost invincible in this stealth disguise of a car, blasting along the freeways and country roads of NorCal. This particular trip would take me to Southern California to play a role in an independant film, my first starring role. There were many ways to get there and it's very difficult to put my finger on my favorite. I could take 101 straight down if I didn't want much fuss. But most of the time I would take Interstate 5 but not before connecting to it via a seldom used country highway that the maps simply refered to as J-1. This lonely stretch of road was for me, a time machine. It evokes memories of the Old West as the town gave way to a village and that in turn gave way to open range free of telephone poles and other modern encumbrances. If one stopped the car, got out and looked around you would see and hear nothing of the modern world. Just the sound of the wind and the occasional screech of a hawk. This is what it must have been like during the pioneer days as horse drawn wagons would reach a hilltop to gaze down upon pastures never seen by white men until then. It was a mildly unsettling feeling being out there alone, my car shut off, and me hoping that my luck wouldn't pick this time for the wonderful technology of my electronic ignition to fail. I mean, it's not like I didn't have a lifeline, I did. I had a cell phone. My first cell phone. It weighed at least a pound and didn't even have service but I had a cell phone. Back in the mid 1990's I bought a it at a flea market and it was an ancestor to our small pocket sized phones of today. It wasn't one of those foot long models popular five years earlier but one could put it in their pocket. It might have been heavy and created quite a bulge but it could be done. Once powered up the face plate glowed green and projected any personal greeting you cared to program into it. My dog Boris was my inspiration for this so I programmed it to say "Boris Calling" whenever I powered it up. BEEEEEEEP! BORIS CALLING. God, I loved that. It stayed charged via the cigarette lighter socket and became part of the furniture in my Saab. Anyway, the phone didn't come with service but one time after pushing a bunch of buttons I was able to get through to an emergency operator. So not being in need of a phone I didn't bother to activate it, I just knew that if I got into a jam I could somehow dial that emergency operator in case my car broke down in the badlands. It was my security blanket whenever I traveled, a cell phone that didn't really work but might if I crossed my fingers. I took Highway 101 this time and as usual the radio started fading south of Salinas, somewhere near Greenfield. Competing stations would fight for the frequency until a victor emerged only to give way to another more powerful station down the road.
Upon my arrival in Pasadena I was shocked to hear that the Murrah Federal Building had been destroyed by a huge bomb of unknown origin. There was a new cable news channel called MSNBC which was giving the event wall to wall coverage. In addition, the channel gave viewers tutorials on the emergence of the internet, giving them definitions of common terms like "browser" and "search engine". There was a new OS called Windows 95 that I would have to look into. I needed to check out this internet thing. My stay in L.A. would last a month and I would return via Interstate 5. On my way home my car developed a flat tire on the dreaded J-1. I pulled over to the side of the road and surveyed the landscape. 
I was on a promontory near the junction of this country road and Interstate 5. It was deathly quiet. I spied the freeway itself a couple of miles away from this remote perch and could clearly see the late afternoon sunlight glinting off the big semi trucks on their way past the junction. But for now it was just me, the car and a flat tire to change. Oh, and Boris. I always had Boris on the line.
Comments