Relaxed out of Lichtfield and onto a legendary highway that eases in and out of existence. Not a hard riding day, we spent most of our time on a treasure hunt trying to find pieces of Route 66. And when we found them, it was like finding gold.
An unimproved, decommissioned highway, the ride was rocky. Navigating potholes between cornfields and soybeans five foot tall, it was easy to feel the loneliness of 1930 roadsters and a few daredevil motorcycles adventuring into the west. Before the parallel highway and it's billboards, there was nothing to break the monotony for miles except the occasional series of Burma Shave signs along the way.
On this singularly historic road, Magic had her own milestone as she reached 50,000 miles. We stopped on a crossroad marked by fields of corn and soybeans that went on forever and cheered, cried and celebrated for our amazing friend who has carried us across the continent flawlessly.
Off and on highway 55 and the Mother Road, we spent the majority of our time riding history. Through Springfield we lost the route in city twists and a State Fair larger than any I've seen. Then we rediscovered it in time to experience Lincoln, where an original theater still marquees current movies. All along the way remains of drive-ins, motels and bars fill in the pictorial of the past. Some have been nourished and survive. Others silhouette the landscape with their bones.
Atlanta served us a huge slice of the 66 pie. Finding this part of the road by chance, we met Paul Bunyon (misspelling intentional to avoid lawsuits), a giant man wielding a hot dog instead of an axe. Across the street was the Palm Cafe, legendary as a Greyhound bus stop on 66. If one needed to board the bus, they would turn on a light that still exists on the front of the restaurant, signaling for a pick up. Sitting at the counter, drinking coffee in green rimmed white china cups, I imagined ladies in seamed stockings, felt feathered hats and shoulder padded coats waiting for their ticket to engage or escape. I am such a romantic!
Towanda was a picnic on a preserved part of the road that is only for walking now. To look at the construction of the original 66, it is remarkable that two vehicles could pass each other without falling onto the shoulder, which is grass.
All day, rain clouds surrounded us, but because it was my birthday, not a drop fell. Pontiac, our final stop on our Tour de 66, was the mother lode on the Mother Road. The Route 66 Museum, an easy place to browse history, was an eclectic mélange of the past glory of the highway. A VW bus was the central figure. The story behind it is one of seeking in the sixties. An artist of the road, Bob Waldmire lived in this bus for years. Then he upgraded to a "road yacht" - a bus converted into a home, complete with shower fueled by rain spouts. To tour this bus, complete with his personal collection of kitschy knickknacks, gave my 66 imagination a new chapter.
The perfect birthday present, Jules has orchestrated a day like no other for me to get my kicks at 66. Settling in Pontiac for the night, the song of the ever present cicadas let us know August is at its peak. I am not. Too many roads are left to ride, too many mountains to climb, and too many stories left to tell. Today, at 66 I fell in love with Route 66. Tomorrow there is another road and then another and another. The constant is Jules, my pilot and my life.
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