Return to the Heartland: Day 4

Yes, Donald was my co-pilot. He never complained, never wanted to stop and see obscure or corny sights, and was a great conversationalist during those long stretches where there were no radio stations. (I didn’t play any CDs until after Dodge City, when I figured out how to turn off RANDOM play. As amazing as it sounds, I never once used the CD player in my car until this trip.) In other words, he was the perfect passenger. He’s pictured reading the DMR, which we picked up at the giant Bosselman Travel Center in Altoona.

Here’s a funny thing about the Bosselman Travel Center: we always stop there. No matter when we traveled through Des Moines, my old man always stopped there to top off the tank and buy shitty road grub. As a huge truck stop right off America’s backbone, directly across from Adventureland, and on a main thoroughfare into Des Moines, the BTC is a hub for truckers and vacationing Iowans eager to ride The Tornado or visit the State Fair. The first time I remember stopping there was in 1992 right before my first visit to the State Fair. It was just a little gas station then, and on every subsequent visit I remember it having doubled in size. My dad’s obsession is beyond my understanding, but it’s predictable. When we gassed up for the last time in Osceloa, my parents asked if I wanted to stop on the other side of Des Moines “at some place that serves breakfast all day.” (Beware: most of America’s roadside eateries are not vegetarian or vegan compatible.) Sounds good, I said, but where?

“There are places in Altoona,” my dad said.

You mean there’s a place in Altoona. Regardless, I ate a delicious veggie omelet at BTC’s trucker restaurant and was good to go for the last 100 miles.

Tonight I’m back in IC. Home sweet home. It’s humid, my hair is huge, and everything is surrounded by the Midwest’s verdant wonders.

About 15 miles before the Dubuque Street exit I started reprogramming the FM presets on my radio. (I’m probably one of the few members of my generation who still listens to the radio while driving.) The first station I programmed was Rock 108; I gave it the number four spot. Why four? As my favorite radio station it should be number one, but for whatever reason I programmed Rock 108 as number four on the radio in my Jetta. Since then Rock 108 has been number four on every radio I’ve owned with presets. It’s a tradition, and it has continued with my Corolla. The famous KRNA was next to be preset at five, rounding out Eastern Iowa’s pillars of rock.

My return to IC was nowhere near as momentous as when I crossed the state line into California or arrived in Santa Cruz for the first time. I was entering the unknown back then. When I reached Santa Cruz I parked just across the boardwalk, walked to the beach, and put my feet in the water. It was cloudy, gray, and depressing. The water was cold and the city looked dirty and dreary. I thought, “What the hell did I just do?” Reaching Iowa City this evening was very different. It’s home, so the feeling I had when I exited Interstate 80, drove past my old dorm, and climbed Dubuque Street to get a glimpse of downtown before turning down Jefferson was one of certainty and sureness. Though my future is somewhat unknown, as in Santa Cruz (who’s future is not unknown?), I have roots, a support system, and great rock stations to listen to here. It was still exciting to move, to come back, but this time was much more comforting.