Three cars. Twenty-four cylinders. Zero interstates. Not a single adult in charge.
Some people take vacations to relax. Others visit museums, lounge by swimming pools, or book cruises where someone brings them little drinks with umbrellas.
We decided to drive across the American West in three ridiculously unnecessary cars, avoiding interstate highways as though they carried contagious diseases.
Our little traveling circus included a BMW X5M, a Corvette ZR1X, and a Mercedes SL55. Three cars, three drivers old enough to know better, and a collection of two-way radios that quickly demonstrated why none of us should be trusted with broadcasting equipment.
We started on Highway 50, climbing out of Placerville, crossing the Sierra Nevada, and dropping into Lake Tahoe. Beautiful mountains, twisty roads, and the unmistakable feeling that we’d already made an excellent decision. Or a terrible one. Sometimes those are the same thing.
Then came Nevada’s famous Loneliest Road in America.
If you’ve never driven across central Nevada, you’re missing something wonderful. Huge blue skies. Desert valleys stretching forever. Mountain passes appearing out of nowhere. Tiny towns where the bartender might also be the mayor, mechanic, and volunteer fire chief.
It’s a place that makes you feel wonderfully small. Although the Corvette, which apparently has enough horsepower to alter the Earth’s rotation, occasionally complicated that sensation.
We wandered north into Utah, found a terrific dinner in Logan, and spent the evening telling increasingly improbable stories about our driving prowess. Fortunately, there were no independent witnesses.
The next morning brought Highway 89 through Logan Canyon to Bear Lake. What a road! Curves, forests, mountains, and scenery so beautiful that even our radio chatter occasionally stopped.
From there, we meandered toward Jackson Hole, Grand Teton National Park, and Yellowstone.
And here’s the thing about Yellowstone: No matter what you’re driving, a bison standing in the middle of the road has the right of way. It’s humbling to discover that several hundred thousand dollars of German and American engineering are completely unimpressive to a large, hairy vegetarian.
We eventually escaped Yellowstone through its northeastern entrance, enjoyed another round of winding mountain roads, and rolled into Billings, Montana.
No breakdowns. No arguments worth remembering. Nobody got lost for more than an embarrassingly short period of time. And somehow, we remained friends.
Along the way, we discovered that Highway 50 and Highway 89 belong on anybody’s list of great American roads. But the real discoveries had little to do with automobiles.
They were the unexpected diners, the spectacular landscapes, the silly conversations over the radios, the wrong turns that became happy accidents, and the wonderful freedom of having absolutely nowhere else you’d rather be.
We covered a lot of miles. Burned an indefensible amount of gasoline. Laughed like idiots. And occasionally remembered to behave like responsible adults when other people were watching.
Getting to Billings? That was just the excuse.
Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is apparently a choice. And thus far, we’re voting no.
