Tulsa, Oklahoma — Day 12

Odometer: 2277–2397 (120) miles

Listen to: “Tulsa Imperative” — The Mountain Goats

Eventually, eastern Oklahoma will swallow up everything humanity has ever created on its soil, with vines, trees, and tall grasses. As I watch the small little towns on Route 66 fly by, I’m realizing that the towns which have been forgotten, the interstate-bypassed memories of towns, are already slowly being consumed. In every abandoned structure, vines weave their way through windows, and grass breaks through the floors. Things grow here without stopping to consider barriers, and they eventually grow to cover entire neighborhoods, even cities. A place not tended to in twenty years is already looking like a scene from a post apocalyptic thriller. Thirty years, and it’s a solid wall of green. Fifty years, and you can barely tell it apart from the trees that surround it. If everyone who lived here were to pack up and leave tomorrow, their grandchildren’s children would be hard-pressed to recognize any sign of human settlement.

When I packed up and left Oklahoma City this morning, the sky was gray, hinting at another day of rain and storms. Thankfully, a quick check on the weather radar showed the worst of the weather moving away from Route 66. My path was clear, so I headed east and out of the city. The first destination was Pops, which is probably one of the more iconic roadside stops on Route 66 in Oklahoma; it’s basically just your standard convenience store, except they have hundreds of varieties of sodas. Some you’ve never heard of. Some that are incredible. And some you wouldn’t want to drink. I had to go for something deliberately weird, kind of obtuse, the sort of drink I couldn’t find anywhere else. Ended up with something called “Dirt Soda”, which was, in all honesty, a pretty accurate description of the taste. It was earthy and sweet, but by the end of the bottle, I was accustomed to the sweetness and could just taste pure texture. Like its namesake, it felt like dirt in my mouth. I threw the bottle away before finishing it.

As I turned a familiar bend in the road, towards a place I had stopped 9 years ago to take Polaroids of a tractor, I saw an unfamiliar sign. Next to an antique shop, it advertised a motorcycle museum. Now, some of you might be a bit reluctant to call the Vespa a motorcycle per-se, but I figured I had travelled halfway across the country in something that could at least arguably be called one, so stopping in was non-negotiable. The museum was a hodgepodge of various bikes, some gorgeous and unique, a few that were just old, but the bike that held my attention the longest was conveniently located next to the entrance. It had a small inlay near the bottom of it, of a skull, surrounded by the arms of an octopus. Next to it was a bike in olive green, with a white star painted onto it, and lying next to that was a disc with alternating red and white stripes, and a star in the middle.

It was Captain America’s bike, and next to it, was Hydra’s.

It turns out a company in Warwick, Oklahoma had built the two custom bikes for Captain America: The First Avenger, and, after filming the motorcycle chase scene, retired them here, in this tiny museum on Route 66. As both an Oklahoman and a Marvel nerd, I couldn’t have been happier. Or more confused as to exactly how a company in a tiny Oklahoma town was building custom bikes for a massive-budget action film. One thing I’ve learned from the trip so far: Travel seems to be built on these small moments of happenstance, and it’s best to just bask in their sudden appearance without asking too many questions.

As I inched closer to Tulsa, it seemed more and more like nature was trying to take back anything left too long in its domain. I passed houses covered in vines, abandoned buildings playing host to a small forest, and everywhere, the color green. This place is alive, and it wants you to know that. In the Mojave, I saw long-forgotten houses withering away, but here, the world won’t let anything wither. It’s metal in bloom, some hybrid between the artificial and the natural, shades of brown rust peeking out between the vines until the natural takes over completely and everything returns to that vivid green.

After four years of living in drought-stricken California, where even in the summer, grass was drab brown and the trees seemed to struggle for their very lives, seeing the unchecked growth over every possible surface was a shock. But the scent of a damp summer day in Oklahoma was as familiar as ever. The trees had absorbed the rainstorms and were radiating that water back out, hot and thick in the air; it was almost oppressive. The earthy, heavy air, the humidity. It reminded me of summers during elementary school. The school left a fairly sizable chunk of woods on its property completely undeveloped, and, during summer school, us kids would go play in a creek, wading waist-deep through muddy water, sliding down vine-covered embankments. Then, we’d walk back to class, caked in mud, green grass stains on our shirts. We’d walk through that hot, humid air, where you’d never get dry and your damp clothes would just cling tighter to your skin. I was breathing in that same air today.

Branching off Route 66 in Sapulpa, I headed towards Jenks, the town just outside of Tulsa where I attended high school. The entire area has been built up over the last 10 years, as Tulsa’s suburbs grow and overflow into the town. It was surreal seeing how much the place has changed since I was last here; parts are unrecognizable, while others haven’t changed at all. One of the things that’s remained identical: the Arby’s where I worked my first job. They still have the old-style cowboy hat sign out in front, and I imagined, inside, a bunch of high school kids were manning the shake machines and fry cookers and hoping they didn’t have to work there for more than a summer or two.

My parents were happy to see me, and almost as astounded as I was that I managed to make it here without any major issues, mechanical or otherwise. My dad helped me find a spot to park it in the garage, so at least if it storms again, I don’t have to worry about hail damage. While we were trying to fit it between the cars, I noticed that he had installed a proper tornado shelter below the garage. When I grew up, our plan for tornados was a bit more ad-hoc. Whenever the sirens started blaring, we’d run into the pantry below the stairs. As an interior room far from windows or external walls, it offered the most protection if a tornado were to strike the house. That said, in a F-4 or F-5 tornado, that pantry would be completely demolished. And we would get strong tornados like that a few times a year. I’m glad they decided to upgrade.

We all had dinner together, and then alternated between watching the NBA finals, Modern Family, and Master of None. It felt like a normal evening at home with my parents. It felt wonderful.

Will be posting a few short, supplemental newsletters over the next few days. I’ll be staying in Tulsa until Saturday morning, headed to Grand Lake afterwards, and then, on Tuesday, to Kansas City, Columbia, Champaign, and Chicago. As always, would love to meet new people in any of these places; let me know if you live there, friends live there, cool people I should meet live there, etc.

-Esten