As we hopped state lines like schoolyard jump ropes these past few days, I was continually drawn to memories of the passing Pittsburgh summer mixed with the anticipation of West Coast adventure. Originally, this roadtrip was to be a reunion of my old high school skate crew; two of them still living close to home in Western PA, two having now moved under the Pacific Timezone sun, and myself in full ping pong motion across this land.
That was the plan, but of course plans rarely run smoothly and in fact I simply find it easier to plan pointlessly, realizing that the last minute is the only true decider of itself. Leaving the two Pennsylvanians as precisely that, a new companion, Mr. Philly Dude, and I rented a car and simply went. I’m on a loose cannon barrel from Tahoe to Portland to Vegas, he’s simply heading out to Lake Tahoe to run out the rest of a torn Achilles tendon and find his next job here.
The two left behind, jobs and girlfriends and technicalities changing their last second minds, further realizing my belief that there is a fine division in humanity: those driven by mystery and adventure, bound for the roadlife, and those seeking the patient comfort of family and familiarity. Neither better than the other, but a firm distinction in nearly every case.
Those of us unfortunate to lust after both sides are the ones with the hardest time sorting out how to load all of that familial ease out onto the highway.