THE LURE OF THE ROAD

A GRADUATE AND HIS JEEP CROSS THE COUNTRY IN SEARCH OF WHAT KEROUAC FOUND

Author: By Raffi Kodikian, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, July 19, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

Seems a foolish thought now, but a year ago, as I was finishing up at Northeastern University and getting ready for the greatest adventure of my life, I wasn't sure. I was afraid that the excitement of the road had been run down, paved over, and washed away. Still, I knew that I had to travel that road to find out.

I had a vision of pulling away in my Jeep, with the sun shining, the top down, and the back loaded with supplies. My graduation gown would be flapping goodbye to my family in the wind as I threw my cap in the air and headed west.

That's not how it happened. Actually, it began a lot like ``On the Road'' did, with Sal Paradise (the Kerouac character) stuck in the east, trying desperately to make it over the Appalachians and on to the open road -- and the possibilities.

Me, I got stuck at home just outside Philadelphia for a couple days trying to get everything in order, and trying keep my ma from worrying herself to death.

I finally began my trip, initially accompanied by Kevin, an old high school friend. We headed to the ``Tennessee Challenge,'' an event where 4 x 4 owners get together to ride trails during the day and party at night. We spent three days in Pigeon Forge, Tenn., where our biggest concern was making it back from the trails in one piece -- and in time for the cookout. After five years of worrying about due dates, class schedules, and grades, the lack of responsibility was a godsend.

But I guess the real trip didn't start until I dropped Kevin off at the Knoxville airport. That's when it hit me: I was alone. Really alone. It was going to be nearly a month before I saw a face that I recognized. No family, no friends . . . just me. Never had fear and excitement both occupied such large parts of my consciousness at the same time.

Things didn't start well. I spent that night trying to correct all the mistakes that my failing internal compass was causing me. Driving a Jeep with Massachusetts plates while lost somewhere in Tennessee wasn't the most comforting thought in the world, and before long my eyelids were feeling about as heavy as my belly was light. But after a quick nap along a river bank at around 11 p.m., I got to camp, set up my tent, and barely got its zipper closed before I passed out. I was happy the day was over.

I headed toward Nashville the next morning, and when I pulled into the city, I knew immediately that I loved it. The people were friendly, the city was beautiful, and music poured from doorways beneath neon signs that flashed ``Jack's Bar-B-Que'' and ``The Bluegrass Inn.'' But as much as I wanted to stay, I had to keep moving. Elvis's town was just down the road.

After washing the Jeep just outside Memphis (I had left all the mud on it from Pigeon Forge), I found that the Challenge has cost me a bent fender and a broken tire wall. But as it was after 7 p.m. and all the stores had closed, all I could do was hope that the tire would hold out till morning and find a place to camp.

That was the night that I truly experienced Southern heat. Setting up the tent was no picnic, and in minutes every bug in Tennessee had begun a desperate but fruitless attempt to mate with my headlights.

I got inside the tent as quickly as possible, and did my best not to soak my journal with the sweat that was dripping from my chin. Meanwhile, my tent was being dive-bombed by kamikaze beetles who were now after my lantern inside, and I was wondering if, with all the noise, I'd ever be able to get to sleep. But with the dark came a cease-fire and, again, I was out before my head hit the pillow.

The next morning I got my tire repaired and hit the road, without ever actually seeing Memphis. I was glad for the extra hour the new time zone gave me, but realizing that I was a day behind, I had to knock Birmingham and Montgomery, Ala., off my itinerary and head due south for the Gulf.

I spent the day lazily driving through small towns with cute little main streets and dusty diners. Passed through Tipolu on the way, and had Van Morrison songs in my head the whole time. Around dinnertime, I pulled into the Turkey Creek Water Park for the night, and had my first beautiful evening. Nice breeze, few bugs, and silence. I drove down a hill beyond the formal site to the edge of a lake, where I set up the tent. Night fell. A deer walked by my camp. I decided it had been a good day.

The rest of Mississippi was spent trying to avoid rain. When you see dark clouds up ahead, you naturally hope that it's just a sprinkle that you can drive through with the top down. But there's no such thing as a sprinkle in Mississippi. Rain came in pool-sized servings, completely soaking the Jeep and everything in it. And two miles later, the downpour stopped.

So I spent most of Mississippi spotting rain, getting wet, throwing the top up, driving a couple of miles, and having the sun blind me on the other side. Eventually, I just gave up on putting the top up. The sun was too important to miss, and it would dry everything out eventually.

I hit the Gulf in Biloxi. My first major body of water. I considered it my first milestone, and what a milestone it was. The water was about 70 degrees, the sun was shining, and just down the road was New Orleans.

After taking a dip in the warm water, I hit the Big Easy. The next two nights were spent in the city, more specifically on Bourbon Street.

Seemed a little touristy of me, but the last time I was on Bourbon Street, I was 8, and I was excited that, this time, the bouncers weren't shooing me away from every doorway I tried to peek in. Not that I was peeking. Really.

Even on a Wednesday night, it was a nonstop party. There's something about walking down the middle of the street with a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other that just feels right, and on Bourbon Street it's downright exciting. Every kind of music flooded the street, from Dixieland to rock 'n' roll to jazz to blues to country. My imagination isn't good enough to picture the place during Mardi Gras, so I guess I'll have to go back.

After walking up and down the length of the street about six times, one of the bouncers asked me what my story was. We got to talking, and the next night he took me on a ``behind the scenes'' tour of Bourbon Street.

His name was Reny, and he got us into all the ``classy'' clubs for free, told me some of the little-known local history, and also about some of the stuff you can get away with on Bourbon Street that two blocks over you'd get arrested for in a heartbeat. When all was said and done, I stumbled into a youth hostel around 5 a.m., eager to return.

I was headed west now, and planned to hook up with a friend in Texas and do a little four-wheeling. I had met Mike in an Internet chat room about 4 x 4s when I was doing some research before buying my Jeep. My pop was a little freaked out about this scenario when I told him, but I was willing to risk it nonetheless. Mike lived on Fort Hood, a Navy base in Texas, and after getting clearance and a day pass to ride on the base, we hit the hills with a couple of his friends.

During the day, we saw an Apache helicopter doing maneuvers in the distance. A little while later, it appeared just in front of us over some trees, and as we slowly got closer, it slowly backed up. Mike got on the CB and said, ``I think he wants us to follow him.'' As we tore down the trail toward the copter, we came into an open field.

Two other Apaches were hovering about 50 feet off the ground and 100 feet apart. The one we had seen was right in front of us, and another was circling around to join the party. For five minutes, they sat and hovered, turning 360 degrees perfectly, making barely a sound, putting on a show for my camera. Then they pulled up, circled around, and took off, flying right over us as they left.

Mike got back on the CB and asked, ``When's the last time you were buzzed by an Apache?'' I couldn't answer. I was speechless.

The rest of central Texas went pretty smoothly. Spent hours one night trying to learn how to work the new stove my sister had given me (I had barely been eating). The fiberglass poles on the tent my dad had given me broke in the wind (bought a new one with aluminum poles). And I lost my toenail when I dropped something heavy on it (long story, best not told).

Before the trip, I had searched the maps in vain for Route 66, the highway that connected Chicago with Los Angeles 50 years ago. When I reached the Texas panhandle, I discovered what happened to ``The Mother Road'': progress. Today, the part of Route 66 that runs through the Southwest has been replaced by Route 40, a wider, smoother, faster, far more boring road than 66, and one that I had driven while passing through Tennessee. You drive through towns when you take 66; you drive over them when you take 40.

I was glad to discover that a lot of 66 is still around; you've just got to look for it. It's that service-road-lookin' thing on the side of 40. By the time I figured that out, I had been riding along it for a good hour. I had to double back a little to find Cadillac Ranch, a monument to the American Dream consisting of vintage Cadillacs buried fins up in a field near Amarillo. Those cars are still going nowhere fast, and today they're covered in countless layers of graffiti. I didn't know whether to laugh or shake my head when a minivan pulled up and two kids, no older than 11 years, jumped out with a couple of cans of spray paint. They were kind enough to loan me a spritz so I could leave my mark, too.

I spent the next couple days cruising down 66, and I loved it.

Frequently, the old road would drift away from 40 and into the plains, and I would roll along in a contemplative state of bliss. On one of these tangents, my mobile meditation was interrupted when I had to veer around a Coke can in the middle of the road. I imagined some thoughtless traveler had tossed it out his window, and it angered me slightly that this simple can had the ability to be so intrusive. But as I glanced in my rear-view mirror, I didn't see a Coke can. The sun had turned the aluminum into a single, blinding star. Only 66, I thought, could bring beauty to a piece of trash. Eventually I had to leave 66, and spent some time in northern New Mexico. After visiting Bandelier National Monument one day, I was having trouble finding a place to stay for the night. The only campground in the area was full, so I parked in a closed fishing-access parking lot to crash for the night. It wasn't long before a policeman drove in and told me I couldn't sleep there. I explained my situation, and after he thought a minute, he told me to follow him.

He led me to a spot off a side road where he said I would be safe for the night. I thanked him as he left, but I was concerned. I knew how to get back to the main road, and the area looked secluded enough, but it was pitch black, and I couldn't see where I was. So I forced myself to relax, curled up in a blanket, and spent the next hour or so gazing at the sheet of stars above, before the gentle trickling of a nearby stream put me to sleep. I hadn't a clue what to expect when I woke.

NEXT: Through the West and heading home.