Oklahoma City, Oklahoma — Day 11
Odometer: 2158–2277 (119) miles
Listen to: “No Quarter” — Led Zeppelin
Every adventure needs to include at least one point where you question why you even left home, when you’re miserable and cold and you just want to stand next to space heater until you finally can feel your toes again. Today was my first, and hopefully only, day like this. There was a moment between Clinton and El Reno when I was shivering in the rain, soaked to the bone, and just thinking to myself: “oh, now I see why cars are so popular.”
I left Elk City around noon, and the sky had been ominous all morning, filled with shades of gray that trended darker as I looked to the south. When you grow up in Oklahoma, you know this sort of sky; it means there’s a non-negligible chance that, by the end of the day, you’ll be taking shelter in a closet, listening to weather radio, waiting for storms to pass. I followed Route 66, which itself followed Interstate 44 as an access road. Because it was bypassed by that much faster highway, I rarely saw another car, and could afford to pull over every so often and look at the sky.
The dark clouds had moved from the south to perching themselves directly over me. Every few minutes, I would pull over and take a look at the weather radar on my phone, just to make sure nothing worse than rain was headed my way. I saw a small hole on my route between the storms, a little area where the weather radar assured me was dry, and thought to myself that I might be able to make it through. But, on a small hill, between Elk City and Clinton, the clouds finally opened up.
It started with a sprinkle, little raindrops hitting my face when I had my visor up, stinging at 50 miles per hour. A bright flash of lightning lit up the sky to my right, and, a few seconds later, the earth-shatteringly loud clap of thunder. Then sheets of driving rain. I pulled into an underpass, where Route 66 dipped under the interstate, and hoped it would pass quickly. After about 10 minutes of watching the rain drizzle, then pour, then drizzle, then pour again, I noticed that the dry ground where my Vespa was parked was getting wetter and wetter.
The underpass was flooding, and I couldn’t stay down there for much longer. Thankfully, the rain had gotten to the point where it was no longer pouring in sheets. It was safe enough to ride the Vespa in it, but it wouldn’t be comfortable. I decided to see if I could make it to Clinton and find a restaurant to grab lunch and see how long it’d take for the storm to blow over.
By the time I had found a place to stop, I had realized two things: the Vespa handles admirably in the rain, and my riding clothes, which I thought were waterproof, were, in fact, nowhere close. When I pulled into a cafe in Clinton, I was soaked. Thankfully, their hamburgers were delicious and the staff was incredibly kind. I waited an hour or so, warming up, and hoping the weather would give me enough of a break in the storms to make it to El Reno. When the rain had tapered off to a drizzle, I decided to take my chances.
It took no more than ten minutes before I realized this drizzle was a temporary state of affairs, at best. The rain had started to pick up right after I left Clinton, and brief checks on the weather radar were telling me it wasn’t going to let up any time or place between me and El Reno.
I pushed on through Weatherford. The rain was always light enough that the Vespa maintained grip and handling, but heavy enough that I was drenched, shivering, and cold. My visor would fog up whenever I would exhale, and I would lift it only to be pelted by the sharp pinpricks of rain. Trucks would pass me on the road, their tires would kick up a spray of water right into my face. Passing by Bridgeport, I was counting off every miserable mile, doing calculations in my head to tell me when I’d arrive in the next city, reassuring myself with “it’s only 40 minutes, only 30 minutes, only 20 minutes.”
This was the moment I started questioning why I was even doing this, why I had the ridiculous idea to cross the country in a Vespa. At that very moment, all I wanted was a warm car with a heater for the rest of the day.
A theory: everyone has a number of songs they listen to in their head to get pumped up, but we all have only one song that tells us “this is miserable, but just keep going.” It has to be powerful, but not exciting. It has to be utterly unpretentious. Maybe I’m overgeneralizing my own experience here, but, in my head, I was playing Zeppelin’s “No Quarter” over and over again. Nothing turns a shitty day in the rain into an epic scene from a Norse saga like Zeppelin, and sometimes, that’s all you need to keep going.
On a hill overlooking El Reno, the rain finally cleared. I yelled to myself inside my helmet and finally pushed my Vespa to the speed limit for the first time since the storm started. I was soaked, but I made it through. When I checked into my hotel in Oklahoma City, I put on dry clothes; it felt like coming back to life.
The night was spent hanging out with people doing some of the most difficult (and I’d argue important) political work in the country: advancing progressive politics in Oklahoma. The group consisted of staffers for Hillary Clinton’s campaign, Planned Parenthood, the Council on American-Islamic Relations, and local progressive politicians. Here, in the reddest of red states, even if you disagree with their politics, you have to admire their tenacity. You could tell each and every one of them cared deeply about helping to create a meaningful progressive movement in Oklahoma, even if it was an uphill climb.
I was also able to finally meet a friend from the internet in real life, which is always a wonderful experience.
Today, it’s on to Tulsa, where I’ll be staying with my parents. I am very much looking forward to some degree of familiarity after 11 days on the road and seeing my family will be the best kind of familiarity.
Till tomorrow,
-Esten
