In the latest issue of National Review, I have a road-trip piece, co-written with Luther Abel. It’s titled “Charlie and Luther’s Most Excellent Whizzbang American Roller-Coaster Adventure.” Our aim was simple: To drive fun cars and ride as many rollercoasters as we could fit into the allotted time. The rules we set for ourselves were as follows:
We would navigate by paper maps alone, book nothing in advance except our airfare, and neither eat nor lodge in any chain. We would not stare into our phones. We would stream no music; only local radio and pre-compiled mixtapes were permitted. And, to add a touch of surreality for ourselves and an unsuspecting public, we would wear Hawaiian shirts for the duration. Our one concession to comfort: We were permitted to stay with any friends or acquaintances we had along the route. But, if we did, we could not ask them to do anything on our behalf that we were forbidden to do ourselves. Our budget, door to door, was $2,000, including gas.
In this, we were helped out by Ford, which loaned us two of their most wonderful and ridiculous contraptions: a Bronco Raptor, and a Mustang Dark Horse. And so:
Over the course of eight cyclonic, madcap, sun-and-rain-soaked days, the two of us drove 2,765 miles by car, flew 2,591 miles by plane, rode 34 roller coasters — which, taken together, threw us upside-down 107 times and dropped us 5,570 feet (that’s more than a mile and twice the height of the Burj Khalifa) — stayed in hotels and motels of profoundly varying repute, ate every type of roadside food we could imagine, and made our mark on 15 of these United States. We visited cities and got lost in the wilderness. We saw splendor and dilapidation. We rummaged back roads and we drove highways. We went, that is to say, to America — with all its many faces, fantasies, and foibles. Simon, Garfunkel, Kathy, and that man in the gabardine suit — eat your hearts out!
You can read the whole thing here. We also recorded a podcast on it here.