Roads Less Taken

Sometimes life takes on metaphoric overtones. Take the proverbial issue of a road that diverges, for example. Some folks choose the path to the left. Some head to the right. Some say, “What could go wrong?” Some others turn around and walk back the way they came. “Well, for one thing going wrong; we could get lost,” they might say.

And some people might reply, “That’s half the fun!”

“For you, maybe.”

“Oh, c’mon! Let’s keep going.”

“No, we don’t know where either road goes.”

“I doubt that we’re going to run into street gangs or meth labs in this neighborhood if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Very funny. You go ahead.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. I’ll see you back at the B&B.”

By the time I got back to our room I was already tsk-tsk-ing to myself about not being adventurous enough to walk a little further down a path to see what was around the corner. And, really, I asked myself, how lost can you get in an upscale residential neighborhood with GPS on your iPhone? But then, I have always been the cautious type. I doubt I would have taken any risks in life at all if it hadn’t been for my better-half prodding me to do things like, oh, let’s say, take a trip or load the dishwasher differently.

And so, when the suggestion was made that we return to Dayton from Ann Arbor, Michigan on Labor Day weekend using a less-traveled route than the Interstate highway that got us there, I tip-toed out of my comfort zone and said, meekly, with great reservation, “Sure.”

Actually, I exaggerate. We travel country roads quite frequently. Besides, I-75 on the way north had been a hundred and thirty-five miles of construction zones, eighteen-wheelers barreling down on us and caffeine-addled, Nascar Wannabees riding our bumper doing their determined best presumably to drive over top of us doing thirty miles an hour above the speed limit. We could only guess at how ugly it was going to get with increased volume on the holiday Monday.

So, for our ride home, we chose instead a route parallel to I-75 — US 68 south from Findlay to Yellow Springs, Ohio. It could easily have been a parallel universe.

Once you leave the hair-raising adventure that is the Interstate, you step back in time to how road trips used to be in the good old days. Two lanes separated by yellow lines. Mile after mile of rolling cornfields all turning golden now that the corn has been harvested. Red barns and clapboard houses. Herds of black and white cows. Vegetable stands. You slow to 45 MPH through occasional small towns and marvel at how anyone found these particular spots on all of God’s good green earth to be congenial enough to plunk some houses and a gas station and actually live there.

On the back roads, you have the luxury of looking at scenery. The landscape is not punctuated by fast food restaurants and service ramps. Your shoulders relax a little when you realize that there is so little traffic. For long stretches at a time, you might be the only car on the highway.  You can actually see for miles ahead instead of staring into the back of a semi ‘s “How’s my driving?” query.

There is a whole different etiquette to country driving. Drivers going faster than you are will adhere to the old rules of the road, passing when it is safe to do so and getting back into their lane as soon as possible without giving you the finger. You give tractors and farm equipment and Amish buggies a wide berth and you never, ever honk or flash your lights to get them to move over. Maybe they give you a friendly wave.

Off the Interstate, it all looks kind of like my first grade reader with its watercolor illustrations of mother and father and Dick and Jane and Sally all smiling and Spot riding along in the back seat with his spaniel ears flapping out the window. You expect to see Farmer Brown wearing his overalls and a big red neckerchief, waving to you from his front porch and hoping you’ll stop in to buy some carrots and wax beans and brown eggs. He doesn’t concern himself with kale or Heritage beets.

You gradually arrive in increasingly urban surroundings, disappointed that your rural reverie is over. You wonder if you might have reached home faster if you had taken the Interstate. But at least you can pry your knuckles loose from the steering wheel.

And this brings us back to our metaphor. In his poem, The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost wrote, "I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference." So true. We both said, "That was such a nice trip home!" Take that Interstate.