Roads From the Ashes

by Megan Edwards

  “I might as well have offered her cocaine. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘No, no, no! We can’t do anything like that without approval from Phoenix.’ She wouldn’t even let me leave the card on the counter, and as I left, I heard her making a phone call. For all I know, the library gestapo may soon be on my tail.”

  I would be willing to wager serious money that the same little library has at least one Web browser now, and it may well have half a dozen. The same librarian is probably teaching someone how to surf as I write this. Free Web access has become nearly universal in public libraries across the land. Libraries are the gateways to cyberspace for persons of limited means or experience, and since they often have fast connections, plenty of experienced Web surfers take advantage of them, too.

  But things were different in May, 1996, and we could never be sure how Internet journalists would be received. We played it safe. We kept our self-introductions short, neutral, and polite, and if we came face to face with technophobes, we beat a diplomatic retreat. It was our view that a medium of such power would ultimately win no matter what stance we took, and we were happier as ambassadors than foot soldiers.

  “For the Glory!”

  Online, however, we were preaching to the converted. As search engines and directories began discovering RoadTrip America and announcing it as a “site of the day” or “pick of the week,” we began to develop a friendly following. One day, while we were still in southern Arizona, we received this message:

  I’m new to your site, but if you are looking for a real adventure and you are in California over Memorial Day Weekend, you should head up to Eureka and see the Kinetic Sculpture Race. About fifty grown-up people create sculptures that they race cross-country for the three days.

  They have to be human powered and must cross obstacles like the Eel River, Humboldt Bay, sand dunes, mud flats, etc., etc. Awards are given for speed but also for art and engineering. Some sculptures are powered by six or eight people.

  It’s worth a detour.

  Ellen

  Memorial Day was hard upon us, and Eureka, California, was over a thousand miles away. On the other hand, the glory of interactivity had brought us an enticing tip. We’d said we’d take advice from readers, do what they said, go where they pointed. What was preventing us, after all? If it was worth a detour, why not one across two deserts and three mountain ranges?

  We couldn’t come up with a good reason not to make a run for the north coast, and Ellen kept sending us further seductive tidbits about the Kinetic Sculpture Race, like “There’s a prize for the first sculpture to break down,” and “Bribing of race officials is condoned — come to think of it, it might even be encouraged.”

  “Well,” said Mark, closing the road atlas, “If we leave tomorrow, we have three days to get there. What do you say?”

  “I say we’re RoadTrip America,” I replied. “We owe it to our audience.”

  The next morning, we headed northwest on a beeline for redwood country.

  Our diagonal route from Ajo to Eureka took us over small, little traveled roads, first across the arid expanse of Arizona, and then through sandy windstorms between Las Vegas and Reno. We wound through the Sierras across eastern California and dropped down into the central valley at Redding. Traveling with blinders on, we were trying to ignore the countless vistas, towns, and monuments that would have made ideal subject matter for RoadTrip America. Having made up our minds to get to the Kinetic Sculpture Race or break down in the attempt, we focused on our destination. We were counting miles, covering ground.

  It was a difficult shift after so many months spent cultivating the art of moseying, and at a rest stop near Redding, we almost slipped off our trajectory. We’d just returned to the Phoenix from taking Marvin for a walk when a man and a woman walked up, curious about the big truck with the URL on the side. When we explained about RoadTrip America, they were full of fascinating tidbits about the surrounding area.

  “There’s a restaurant near here you really ought to check out,” the man said. “It was founded by some people who won the lottery a few years back. They started a bunch of businesses in the town with their winnings, but the restaurant is the only one that survived. And actually, I think even that loses money, because you get an awfully good meal for eight bucks. They lay on an absolutely amazing spread.”

  It was tempting, and I have no doubt that the jackpot restaurant and its founders would have been the first pearl in a string of gems we’ll probably never know. We’d learned that lesson back in Gila Bend, where the off-season Christmas tree had led to ostriches, wheat harvesters, and a close call months later at the Canadian border. Stories don’t exist in isolation. Every one of them opens a lid on a Pandora’s box of unpredictable marvels. Each is a jewel in a strand of people, places, and events that can last as long as the rest of your life.

  We were already a few links into the chain that connected us to Humboldt County and the Kinetic Sculpture Race. Not only had we told Ellen we’d be there, we’d already called its founder, an artist named Hobart Brown. We would be welcomed as members of the media, he’d promised. We’d get press passes and more cooperation than we could possibly use.

  “We wish we could take your advice right this minute,” I said to our roadside tipsters, “But we’ve got to get to the coast before dark.”

  “But we’ll be back,” said Mark. “And thank you.”

  Will we really return? Who can say? The only time you realize how many wonders are waiting to be discovered is when you have the audacity to try to see them all. North America was getting bigger with every mile we covered, and cyberspace added a whole new infinite dimension.

  We left Redding on Highway 299. The road climbed high through the Trinity Alps and down through the redwoods to the coast. We arrived in time to attend a pre-race press conference in a grand old wooden hotel in Eureka.

  The first person I saw when we walked into the room was a little man wearing khaki shorts, knee socks, a chest full of military medals, and a fake nose as long as a hot dog. Near him stood three muscular-looking young men with papier-mâché watermelons on their heads. As I continued looking around the room, my eyes found not a single ordinary soul to rest upon.

  “Do you think we’re in the right place?” I whispered. There was no overt indication that these were indeed the competitors in Hobart Brown’s “Triathlon of Art.”

  “I don’t just think it,” said Mark. “I know it.”

  And of course he was right. We’d found our kinetic sculptors, and soon we discovered their chief. Hobart Brown was a smiling elf wearing black tails and a top hat. He welcomed us warmly and made sure we received our press credentials.

  “They’ll come in handy at popular viewing locations like Dead Man’s Drop and the Slimy Slope,” he said. “You’ll be able to stand in good places to take pictures.”

  As Ellen had suggested and we were beginning to discover, the Kinetic Sculpture race is a many-splendored thing. Not only does it last for three days and cover 42 miles over land and water, it has grown its own culture and elaborate liturgy of traditions. What Hobart Brown had started back in 1969 by challenging one other person to a race in front of his art gallery had grown to attract 137 works of human-powered art, some from as far away as Seattle. According to the official rules, they had all come, not to win prizes, but “For the Glory.”

  And we covered the whole thing “For the Glory,” from the chaotic beginning in Arcata’s central square to the finish line in Ferndale. On Saturday, we slogged up a mosquito-infested sand dune to watch, among others, a rolling watermelon and a one-man cheese navigate Dead Man’s Drop. We gathered with the crowds on Sunday morning at the boat ramp, and we were as disappointed as anyone when the Coast Guard announced that the water in Humboldt Bay was too rough for crafts of dubious buoyancy. It didn’t stop eight stone-thighed Oregonians from pedaling into the water aboard a giant contraption called th
e “Maltese Fulcrum.” The thing worked better on water than land, and they weren’t about to let a little wind keep them from demonstrating. A few other rigs took to the waves to prove their pontoons, and after they all returned to land without serious mishap, the race continued on a detour around the bay.

  We were in good company in the press areas. A crew from New York was filming a segment for CBS Sunday Morning, Charles Kuralt’s old showcase. While we waited for sculptures to appear at the various viewing points, we chatted with Tom and Russell, the cameraman and audio engineer, who were from Los Angeles and thrilled to be covering something besides the O.J. Simpson trial.

  “This is like a vacation after all those months on the steps of the L.A. Courthouse,” said Russell, and he was right. His producer chartered a helicopter and a water taxi to make sure they got all the best shots.

  The Phoenix was stuck on land, but since the sculptures were, too, it didn’t make much difference. We followed them over hill and dale, watching as an animated, smoke-exhaling dragon caused a stampede among a herd of dairy cows, and a large ear of corn broke down on a railroad crossing. “For the Glory!” we heard the crew yell as the cob cleared the tracks at last.

  By the third day, we’d taken hundreds of pictures, rescued a girl who had fallen head first into the mud hole at the bottom of the Slimy Slope, and made friends with such personages as the newly crowned Quagmire Queen, Lord Ductape, the Rampmeister, and the Official Unofficial Official. We’d also met a compatriot who was taking pictures to post on the race’s Web site. Larry Goldberg was the owner of Northcoast Internet, the major Internet service provider in the area. When we told him about RoadTrip America, he was eager to hear more and offer support to fellow cyber-reporters.

  “You’re welcome to use our T-l connection to surf the Web,” he said. “Or just come by and visit our offices after the race sometime.”

  When the “27th Annual World Championship Great Areata to Ferndale Cross-Country Kinetic Sculpture Race (The Greatest Race on the Planet)” passed into history, we did indeed find our way to the offices of Northcoast Internet in Eureka. Larry, who was originally from New York, was a roadtripper from way back and a dyed-in-the-wool entrepreneur. He had founded Northcoast Internet and built it into the leading service provider in Humboldt County, but Larry wasn’t resting on any laurels. He was already looking ahead, blazing trails in the uncharted zones of digital communication and Internet commerce. We spent the afternoon swapping roadtrip stories, predictions about the price of banner advertising on the World Wide Web, and the future of mobile communication. Somewhere in the proceedings, Larry invited us to dinner at his home near Trinidad. “And you’re welcome to stay with us, too, if you like,” he said.

  Larry’s wife Kathleen, after recovering from the shock of having two strangers in a motorhome show up on her doorstep at dinnertime, welcomed us warmly, and the conversation continued far into the night. It was the beginning of an evolving friendship that blossomed by e-mail after we departed and ultimately gave RoadTrip America a new home. The Phoenix One can wander at will, but a website’s files have to live in stationary, three-dimensional hardware. In 1997, thanks to Larry Goldberg, RoadTrip America took up residence in redwood country.

  We met Larry because of Hobart and Hobart because of Ellen, and it all goes to show that you never know how many pearls you’ll add to your string when you take the time to follow one suggestion, and how many gems you’ll keep on adding as you keep on making tracks. Now that we were traveling two highways at once, making connections in cyberspace as well as on solid ground, our network of friends and acquaintances was growing by quantum leap. On the road and online, what had started as a simple series of connected links was now burgeoning into an ever-expanding blanket of virtual chain mail.

  Our online audience was growing steadily, and our sights were still set on selling advertising. We called the manufacturers we’d identified as we developed RoadTrip America. The novelty of the Web was an instant ice breaker, and people were eager to talk about the promise of the new medium. When it came to making actual sales, however, nobody wanted to jump in first. If they were willing to test the waters at all, they weren’t prepared to pay for the opportunity. There were times when I felt as though I was selling a product on a par with lunar cheese.

  After three months of countless conversations and innumerable predictions of what the world was coming to, we had chalked up not one significant sale. Our only solace was that big companies weren’t doing any better. We were failing just as successfully as the Boston Globe and Microsoft. Big and little, the Jayhawkers of the World Wide Web were foundering in uncharted territories.

  For us, there was no going back. We were out there, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, uphill and down. As tantalizing as any horizon in three dimensions, the virtual frontier still beckoned, still promised wondrous things. Any medium with the power to link us to Ellen and Hobart and Larry by way of Dead Mans’s Drop and the Slimy Slope was far too marvelous to dismiss just because our ad space appeared to be worthless. Any good Jayhawker will tell you that gold might have inspired the journey, but getting there was what gave them stories to tell their grandchildren.

  Gold Rush fortunes, as successful merchants selling hardware during the Internet revolution will be happy to corroborate, were more likely to be built on peripherals than ingots. Levi Strauss made his pile off denim trousers, and Domingo Ghirardelli cleaned up with bars of chocolate instead of bullion. Web frenzy helped make Bill Gates the richest man on the planet, and everybody knows it wasn’t because he started an online magazine called Slate. Just like RoadTrip America, Slate started losing money as soon as it hit the wires.

  So you have to ask. If Slate lost money from day one, why was someone like Bill Gates bothering with it? If gold was such a pipe dream, why did Levi Strauss buy stock in mining claims? Why not stick with operating systems and blue jeans and relax at the Ritz? Why bother with rainbows?

  The answer is ever the same. The journey’s the thing, and as with Hobart’s race, you do it “For the Glory.” Who’s to say whether a trophy awaits you, or whether you’ll vanish in a mud hole at the bottom of the Slimy Slope. The only thing you know for sure is that you don’t know anything at all until you’re eating spaghetti in Ferndale.

  We bade farewell to Larry and Kathleen and headed north. RoadTrip America’s race had only just begun.

  Chapter 16

  In League with the Fame Brokers

  “THANKS FOR SENDING ME THE WORLD”

  In Port Angeles, Washington, the local news anchor, who was also the producer and cameraman, interviewed Mark, Marvin and me for the evening news. A newspaper in California and another in Arizona had run little items about RoadTrip America, but this was our television debut. Like the newspaper coverage, the interview caused a small surge in visitors to our Web site when it aired, and it brought us a few more e-mail friends, armchair travelers who told us about places to go and people to meet. We were encouraged by the growth in our audience, and we held firm to the notion that our advertising space would rise in value as our “traffic” increased.

  We moseyed about the Olympic Peninsula for a few more days, writing about such attractions as Bandy’s Troll Haven, an off-beat resort where castles and dungeons full of trolls are available for rent, and The Three Crabs, a venerable old restaurant on the sand at Dungeness Point. In Seattle, Charlie and Barb Brister, the juggling toymakers, pointed us in the direction of local wonders only natives would know about. First we paid a visit to “Lincoln’s Toe Truck,” a hot pink rolling pun with a full set of fiberglass piggies on the roof. It sat on a high pedestal in the shadow of the Space Needle, perhaps an eyesore, perhaps a work of art, and definitely a photogenic landmark.

  “Don’t miss the Boeing Surplus Store,” Charlie said, and we headed to Kent to find out what the biggest airplane company in the world was unloading for ten cents on the dollar. The store was a huge
warehouse full of shelves, bins, pallets and piles of hardware and office machinery, from the mundane to the mysteriously specialized. In the middle of the cavernous interior, a smiling man welcomed us into his private fiefdom, a room-sized wire cage bearing the sign “World Famous Tool Crib.”

  “People come here from all over,” said Park, who’d been ruling the crib for five years. “We probably stock every swap meet from here to Alaska. A lot of people make a living off what they buy here and resell.” I lacked the necessary knowledge to recognize a good price on a self-collating nutplate drill motor or a collapsible mandrel coldwork puller, but I could tell from the glowing faces of other shoppers that the “World Famous Tool Crib” was a candy store for rock hounds, pilots and flea market entrepreneurs. I took a picture of Park holding a drill bit the size of a baseball bat under a cardboard cutout of Bill Boeing, and we continued our tour outside, where a large chain-link pen enclosed the inventory of big stuff: propellers, wheels, restroom units, galleys, and other cast-off portions of jumbo jets. The Boeing Surplus Store was an utterly unique local marvel, another perfect story for RoadTrip America.

  Thanks to people like Charlie and Barb and our growing legion of vicarious traveling companions, we were never short of story leads. As we had predicted, the interactivity of a Web site gave us two-way connection wherever we traveled, and an immediate letter of introduction to the communities in which we arrived. It may have been easy to dismiss the Internet as a money-losing commercial boondoggle, but it was impossible to ignore its power as a medium of human interaction.

  What we were so easily taking for granted with RoadTrip America had been science fiction only a few years before. No other medium could have allowed us to announce our location to the world and invite casual, immediate response. Yes, television or radio could have done the announcing, and response by telephone or letter could have been suggested. But it takes courage to make a phone call and time to write a letter. E-mail has the unique capacity to be quick, informal and non-intrusive all at the same time, the perfect ice-breaking medium for messages of introduction and the exchange of ideas. What it all boils down to is this. People who never write letters and would never dream of dialing your telephone number may well send you e- mail. That fact has profound ramifications.