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| George Maharis and Martin Milner in "Route 66" |
It was summer in farm country. The sun threw shadows across
verdant hayfields, waves of grass rippling in the breeze. Corn, approaching knee
high, promised the harvest to come. Grapes, robustly leafed out, small,
green fruit forming, arranged in tidy rows. Cows grazing in broad pastures,
hilly with a number of fresh water ponds for drinking, wading, and cooling.
Large tracts of forest interspersed and surrounded the fields, divided by
country dirt roads, two-tracks that wound and stretched between fields and over
the hills, connecting our farms with each other and nearby towns.
Our nearest chums were a half-mile away, with others quite
farther. And the only mode of transportation available to poor farm kids was
shanks’ mare – we walked. We walked to perform chores, walked to go camping in
the woods, walked to go fishing, walked to visit our friends. The walking was hot, tiring, and seemingly endless.
Then one day, Dad decided that we should have bicycles.
We climbed into the family jalopy and journeyed to a small,
outlying farm on a high ridge where the proprietor also ran a small business repairing and refurbishing
bicycles. Imagine “Pee Wee Herman’s Big Adventure” and his heavy, fat-tire, bike. That’s
what we ended up with, although certainly with less panache and quite a bit
more chipped and rusty. But functional, and worth the five bucks.
The sense of freedom was fabulous! We struggled, standing on the pedals, up long
hills but swooped and soared down the other side, and arrived at our neighbors' farms in minutes, not hours. The mechanical genius of the bicycle was not lost
on us.
Tractors were another dream to young kids, big and powerful,
moving through the fields and traversing the roads with ease, even in mud
season or the deep snow of winter. These machines were the epitome of
empowerment. And as we became older, and were permitted to drive them, enhancing our sense of self. Mastering a machine which was capable of turning the earth,
hauling huge burdens of crops, or dragging thick, heavy logs from the woods did wonders
for the self-esteem of a youngster.
And then our older cousins visited in their automobiles,
shiny Detroit muscle machines that shook and rumbled and promised the wonders of the open
road. Freedom. Route 66. Drive-in movies. The desert, mountains, California. How could we not be compelled by this vision?
So getting a driver’s license, borrowing the family car, and
eventually buying one of our own, was the height of achievement, irrespective of
the cost. Working on the farm, haying, plowing, mowing, and then in town, at
the local McDonald’s, all to earn a few bucks to buy that jalopy. The siren
call of the highway was irresistible.
All of that has come to a crashing halt.
Today’s youth are largely urban or suburban. They are
transported by their parents, buses or subways, or Uber rides. A recent WallStreet Journal article reveals that between 2000 and 2015, the rate at which
young adults (16-34 years) purchased new cars fell by nearly a third. This
trend promises to continue.
They no longer dream and strive to possess their own freedom
machine, that 1966 Ford Mustang or Chevy Camaro. Now, they simply finger the
Uber or Lyft app on their phone and summon up a ride to the mall or party of
choice. Long, dusty foot journeys through the countryside are outside of their
ken.
While there is some bit of nostalgic loss, this all makes
sense. It is far more efficient for shared autonomic vehicles to carry shoppers
and partiers to their destinations. It is safer and more ecologically sound.
But somehow, the romance of the open road, Tod and Buz on Route
66 in their vintage Corvette, will be greatly missed.
Thank you Uber, Amazon, Apple, Google, for transforming our
lives. But I will cling to my memories. They are comforting, and inspirational.
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