Mental health is on my mind a lot these days.
I just wrapped two weeks in Southwest Florida visiting my grandfather. I enjoyed many of the usual comforts — warm weather, sunlight and pool water so warm if shampoo was involved it would have been a bath.
But things were different this time.
It wasn’t the social distancing. It wasn’t the mask wearing. I’m used to all that and frankly am happy to do my part in stifling the spread of the virus. The very air felt heavy. The sun didn’t shine quite as bright. Shooting an 86 on a rather tough golf course should have sent me over the moon, but I found myself barely excited.
I pride myself on being able to separate church and state. To leave my problems at home when I go on vacation. To fully immerse myself in whatever I’m engaged with. Not this time. This time home followed me.
Every time I opened my phone, turned on the TV or joined in a conversation, I was reminded of the horrific problems plaguing this country. I was reminded of how divided people are. Neighbors, friends, family members constantly at odds with one another. Our country is fracturing at it’s core and all I can do is watch. And it makes me tremendously sad.
My sister Emily has an excellent descriptor for what “Florida” means to our family. The nature of my grandfather’s house, the restaurants we frequent (in normal times that is), the games we play, the activities we do. She calls Florida, and everything therein, our sanctuary.
But now the problems of the world have encroached on our sacred place. The divisiveness and anger and name-calling have made their presence known.
Our sanctuary has been breached.
I’ve always found peace behind the wheel.
No, not in bumper to bumper traffic on Chicago’s Interstate 90 on a Friday afternoon. I doubt anything but rage can be found there.
I’m talking about the harmonious nature of the open road. I’m talking about listening to all the music and podcasts you haven’t had time for. I’m talking about taking in the sights and sounds of the countryside, unseen when flying 6 miles above the Earth.
I’m talking about the freedom to let your mind wander, to let your imagination run wild, to let your long-since-forgotten desire to explore come to the forefront.
So I decided to drive back.
Bonita Springs, FL to Palatine, IL (30 miles outside Chicago): 1,350 glorious miles. 20ish hours in the car punctuated by a stop at the Hilton Garden Inn for a brief siesta.
I know what you’re thinking:
“Good grief that’s a long time in the car.”
“I’d be bored out of my mind.”
“How could you sit there all by yourself for so long?”
I’ll tell you how.
The overwhelming green of Florida
Florida is a really long, really flat state.
It’s about 350 miles from my grandfather’s house to the Georgia border. Broken up by bridges and rivers and bays here and there, it mostly involves shooting up Interstate 75 in long, boring stretches with trees limiting your view on both sides. For HOURS.
But damn if it isn’t green the entire time.
Chicago is dreadful in the winter. It’s gray, dull, and snows so infrequently the remnants lay there in giant clumps for weeks on end, nasty from dirt and soot and trash. It’s also cold as f*ck more often than not.
Florida is beautiful in the winter. It’s bright, sunny and not too hot. And coming from someone who sees very little green or sun from November through March, this is a welcome respite.
As I push North at 79 miles an hour, there is very little traffic. Aside from Tampa, there are few large cities along the interstate to slow you down. Florida might be really long and really flat, but it’s also really fast.
I find myself daydreaming about living some place where it’s green year round. Some place where I’m bathed in sunlight 300+ days a year and where it’s never too cold to run or bike or be outside. It brings a subtle smile to my face.
I press on, boosted by my thoughts of “what if”.
The red clay of Georgia
Georgia. The “Peach State”.
While not as long as Floria, it’s long enough to where you establish various milestones in your mind. First comes Valdosta, right near the state line, then Atlanta, one of the largest Metropolitan areas in the US, then onwards towards Chattanooga and the Tennessee border.
Green has turned to red. The luscious palm trees and giant maples have been replaced with pines and firs and red clay as far as the eye can see. It’s a little hillier now. The Interstate curves and winds and goes up and down and to the side.
Atlanta is massive. And I mean massive. While the Chicago Loop is high and mighty, Atlanta seems to stretch on forever. As I navigate through spurts of intermittent traffic, I look at the faces of the motorists around me. Where are they going? Do they even know? Do I even know?
Mumford & Sons’ second studio album Babel comes across my music queue. If there was ever an album written for a road trip, it’s this one. The steady flow of the guitar, banjo and bass, the smooth lyrics and the toe-tapping beats fill my energy bar back up.
I think momentarily about turning around and heading back to Bonita Springs. Back to sunlight, back to warmth. Back to family and peace and serenity. But is that what I’d actually find? The moment passes.
Onwards. It’s getting dark now. My vision is starting to blur from double-digit hours focused on the road. The lights of the cars behind me dart around like fireflies in the wind.
Hopeless Wanderer plays as I cross the border into Tennessee.
“So when your hope’s on fire
But you know your desire
Don’t hold a glass over the flame
Don’t let your heart grow cold
I will call you by name
I will share your road.”
The foothills of Chattanooga
The areas surrounding the city of Chattanooga, TN might be one of my favorite spots in the continental United States.
Nighttime has taken over. The moon sits high in the East, casting short shadows over the looming foothills. The Interstate bends and weaves through the valleys and up the hillsides. My ears pop as I ascend and clog as I descend.
I quickly check my mirror. My face is a mixture of weariness and awe. Tired eyes that sparkle slightly with every passing vehicle. I rock side to side ever so slightly in cadence with the music.
I think of her as I dance in the moonlight. Sadness, heartache, but mostly gratitude fills my mind. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Is she looking up at the moon too?
I listen to Ghosts That We Knew for the 7th time as I pull into the parking lot of the hotel.
“So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh that gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me we’ll be alright.”
The horse farms of Kentucky
New dawn brings new light.
A quick stop for coffee and I’m on my way. Interstate 65 between Nashville and Louisville is a truly wondrous part of the country. Rolling hills set against sunny skies. And horses. So many horses.
The horse farms are different than the bean and corn farms of the midwest. Barbed wire and wooden fencing encompass wide plains of grass, trees and mud. Horses run and cows graze. Just the way their forefathers did 100 years ago.
I pull into what has to be the 10th rest stop of my journey. I’m an expert at navigating these things now. A family of four has stopped to stretch their legs. A sister and a brother and a puppy hop out of the back as mom issues instructions. Dad beelines for the bathroom.
Sister and brother shriek in delight as they chase their new best friend around in the grass. For them, there is nothing else. No fear, no anger, just pure, unadulterated joy.
Do I love anything as much as those children loved playing with that puppy on the side of the highway?
The titans of I–65
I pass Indianapolis. 200 miles to go. One final push.
Little do I know, giants await.
I’m about an hour North of the city when, in the distance, I catch my first glimpse. They’re hard to see at first, I have to squint hard in the late afternoon light. But then, suddenly, they rise before me. Massive wind turbines the likes of which I’ve never seen.
I’m not talking about the thirty-foot rinky-dink windmills you see in the movies. I’m talking about winged monstrosities four hundred feet tall. White titans against a translucent sky.
I’ve reached the Meadow Lake Wind Farm.
The farm seems to stretch on for miles and miles. Some turbines spin fast, others slow, others not at all. Almost as if each has their own personality. I’m constantly battling the urge to gaze upward as I continue to weave in and out of the traffic that’s slowly building.
How tall are they? (400 feet). How much do they weigh? How much power do they output? How much do they cost to build? How do you transport them? And how in the HELL do you stand one of them up?
These are but some of the questions that crowd my mind as I barrel towards my destination, feeling a bit smaller in the world than 30 minutes ago.
The Chicago Skyline
The home stretch.
The Chicago skyline beckons in the distance like a long-lost friend as I prepare to cross the Skyway back into Illinois. I’m ready to be home. After two weeks in someone else’s bed and far too many hours in the car, my one bedroom apartment is starting to feel like Buckingham Palace.
With every foot I travel things feel more familiar. Cars are dirtier from the excess salt on the roads. Billboards clutter my view. Daredevils shoot in and out of my lane to save mere seconds of drive time. Oh Chicago, how I’ve missed you.
The last parts of my journey include flying Northwest on Interstate 294, exiting at Willow Road. Then, a few more streets until at last I’m home.
I’m not super optimistic about 2021. I think we’ll see improvements somewhere but continued chaos elsewhere. Humanity is really good at solving problems halfway while simultaneously creating new ones. I suppose there’s little utility in speculating too much. What will happen will happen.
But what I do know is I felt much better getting out of the car than I did getting in. Sore back, tired eyes and all. I haven’t had that much time for self-reflection and meditation in quite some time, while listening to some truly extraordinary music.
I got to know myself better during those 20ish hours. I thought a lot, which was expected. But I also experienced a lot, which was less expected. Turns out, driving across the country is not just driving across the country.
It’s living.
Scott Mayer is a runner, thinker, curious observer and certified personal trainer. Visit the In Fitness And In Health website for training plans, consulting and additional content.