Chapter 10: Roll On Highway

“Oh son, you don’t know?” the cashier asked.

“No, what?” I said.

“They pay for the pavement by the foot!” he said.

And with that sarcastic Southern drawl, I learned why some highways in Alabama are narrower than elsewhere. I thought maybe I’d been too used to the luxurious 2-way byways of Northern Maine, where they leave a couple extra feet on the shoulder for winter snowpiles.

I kissed those trails goodbye as I do anyplace I’m leaving for a long while. I have a laugh, I shed a tear, and I let the sweetest departing music my ears know, and let them take it from there.

It’s the perfect exit song. Hands down. Na-na na-na. Na-na na-na. Hey, hey, hey. Gooooooooodbyyyyyyye. It’s not necessarily a dig, though White Sox organist Nancy Faust made it famous by playing it beginning in the 70’s at Sox games when an opposing pitcher would get yanked. It’s more of a tune to hum as I’m walking out the door. Happy I was there, excited about what’s to come.

That was a 2,000 mile journey back to Chicago and down to Alabama. It’s become my favorite part of this crazy business I chose to get into. Packing up everything in the back of a truck, and driving across the country.

The first step, getting out of Aroostook County. It was sad. Roads I may never navigate again. I knew them well.

Seizing the opportunity to see as much of New England before I left, I decided to stop and spend the night in New Hampshire. It’s a state I’ve been meaning to cross off my list. Seeing all 50 states is a goal many have. I hold myself to a standard, however. It’s not enough to simply stop for lunch in a state, or drive through, or sit in an airport. I need to make a memory there. And my memory in New Hampshire is one of Biblical familiarity.

Would you believe on a Friday night in the middle of summer in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, there was not one single room available? None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Not an vacant hotel until Massachusetts. It’s 1:30 in the morning, and all I wanted to do is catch a snooze in the Hamp. Harumph!

Oh well. Your loss New Hampshire, not mine.

The highlight of day 2 was driving through Waterbury, Connecticut, hometown of one of my all-time fictional sports heroes, Happy Gilmore. If I wasn’t toting a U-Haul behind the truck, I’d have sought the nearest driving range and banged out a few balls for Chubbs. Miss you buddy.

Then, it was time to do the Polka in Pennsylvania. I don’t care who you are, what kind of music you like, when you hear a song about a place, no matter what the genre, you kind of have to like it. You do. When Frank Sinatra tells you Chicago is his kind of town, it becomes your kind of town too. Old Crow Medicine Show has probably inspired hundreds of people to thumb through the Appalachians on their way to see a girl. And John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High… well, that’s pretty self-explanatory. You don’t have to like to Polka, but in Pennsylvania you should oblige.

As I told you guys on the drive up to Maine, Ohio is a snooze-state, and Indiana is a 4-hour John Cougar marathon through cornfields. That hasn’t changed.

I spent the extra $10 and decided to take the Chicago Skyway. Worth it. Nothing beats the view. Cruising 125 feet above the ground gaining a bird’s eye view of that familiar skyline I know so well. Lake Michigan to the east, bungalows to the west. Before I knew it I was back on the Dan Ryan Expressway passing by my second home, Sox Park. That’s when I know I’m home.

But it was just a pit stop. A few days to refuel, see the people I needed to see, and roll on down to Alabama.

And roll on I did. Roll on highway, roll on alone/ Roll on daddy til’ you get back home/ Roll on family, roll on crew/ Roll on mama like you asked me to do/ Roll on 18-wheeler, roll on.

Kinda funny, I heard that very Alabama song hundreds of miles before I ever set foot in the state. Some scratchy country music station on the low-end of the dial in the middle of nowhere Indiana.

Something about Huntsville was different though. While the rest of the state was content to roll, Huntsville seemed more focused on flying. Rightly so, as it’s earned the nickname “Rocket City” for it’s role in developing the propulsion systems that “helped our boys beat the Rooskies to the moon,” as Eddie Money so bluntly put it.

There’s pretty much a rocket on every corner

Just from reading and research I could tell Huntsville had a certain sophistication to it. A cosmopolitan city, while still retaining it’s Southern charm.

But really, how would I make out in the South? Would I be scorned for not responding to folks using ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’? Would I be scorched by days on end of 95° heat? Would I be scowled at for my Big Ten fan hood?

Or, would my Yankee accent be as charming to folks as Southern drawls were to me? Would the heat and humidity help me shave of an extra 15 lbs? Would I warm up to Alabama and Auburn and realize the SEC truly is the toughest College Football Conference in America?

Or, would I realize I have much more in common with folks in the South than I ever realized?

Tags: Alabama, Big Ten, Chubbs Peterson, Country Music, Eddie Money, Huntsville, Nancy Faust, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania Polka, SEC