My first trip down Route 66 started in July of 2001. I traveled the Mother Road with my friend Kyle — his fictional name—who was also looking for a classic cross-country adventure. We were two guys on the open road with a crappy minivan and limited amounts of dough leaving Philadelphia in the middle of a typical swampy summer to see the sun set over the ocean. Kyle and I planned this trip about a year in advance and spent much of our time preparing by reading books about Route 66 and studying maps—I even dove into Kerouac’s On The Road.
Our adventure was not typical. In fact, Kyle and I hit town after dying town in a pre-9/11 America, each small town celebrating it’s last hurrah before the World Trade Towers disintegrated to the ground and thousands of people died, followed by hundreds more who now suffer with the health affects of all that debris and pollution.