The Prologue
When I tell people that I know I70 because I drive the roundtrip a few times a year, I’m often met with looks of surprise and questioned - “Why? How long does that take?” There’s always a reason. A move. A wedding. A music festival. And eventually, a dog underscoring all of them. But the deep willingness, even excitement, to traverse 25 hours of monotonous interstate eluded explanation.
In the beginning, I-70 was nothing more than a line on the map. Over the years, it became the thread stitching together the decade of my twenties — first bridging home and college, then carrying my adrift self west in the suspended hush of the pandemic, then settling into a route I’d traced so often it felt inevitable. By the end, it was no longer an anonymous interstate, but a familiar pocket of stillness — a liminal space that had quietly marked the passing of time.
College-bound
The first time I made the journey from Philly to Colorado’s front range, my dad and I set out in a black ’05 Lexus RX330, following I-70 toward what I hoped would become my new home as a transfer student entering my junior year at the University of Colorado.
We took our time with the drive, opting to do it over three days instead of two. It was my first time experiencing the vastness and plainness of the Midwest. Hundreds of miles without discernible features - only a gradual changing of something unremarkable to something slightly different, and also unremarkable.
It hadn’t been a smooth start at Pitt, but I was hopeful the latter half of my college experience would be different. Having lived on the east coast my entire life, I held naive expectations that a radical change in geography could affect something far deeper. I imagined an easy transition into an idealized college experience and I70 was the start of that journey.
Two years down the road, having earned my degree, I found myself cruising eastward along I70. With the windows down, familiar tunes blasting, and a high school friend behind the wheel, I felt at ease. Boulder hadn’t become the home I hoped for but I was okay with that. I tried and I was ready to leave. The road back felt lighter. No expectations, no self-imposed pressure. Just the motion of heading home.
Adrift
3 years later, I was back on I70 with my older brother amidst the pandemic and a searing wildfire season. I hadn’t been to Colorado since graduation. After months of being stuck inside, I70 was a path to freedom in a shut down world. Gas was $1.50 a gallon. Highways were empty. Wildfire smoke obscured views and muted the sun. It was surreal. The strangest part was how the pandemic morphed with each border, as if we were straddling two worlds - one shut down, one untouched.
I’d been adrift since graduation, my résumé for those three years a hodgepodge of half a dozen jobs, each abandoned after days or weeks. Worse still was a glaring 18 month gap, a stretch where I’d struggled immensely before piecemeal rebuilding myself over 6 months across 8 countries. As I was re-emerging, the world hit pause. I paused with it, and tacked another year onto that résumé gap.
Our first night on the road was spent in Warrenton, Missouri after a grueling 17 hours due to the only wrong turn ever made on the drive. The full extent of the detour wasn’t realized until the next day, a large hump outlined on my travel tracker, denoting a diversion north, then south, as we left PA. The route is exceptionally difficult to make a wrong turn on…it’s I76 through PA, then I70 until Denver, with about half a dozen directions sprinkled in - mostly “Stay on I70”.
We broke up the monotony with thrift store stops and roadside oddities, like the “World’s Largest Easel” in Goodland, Kansas and the “Field of Corn” in Dublin, Ohio. The trip meandered through a dozen national and state parks, City of Rocks being the standout. We stayed with friends in Denver and LA. We stopped in Vegas for some masked roulette. Visited a nude beach on Lake Tahoe. Witnessed a “Black Lives Matter” protest in Salt Lake City.
On the way back, we stopped in Moab to see a friend I’d met in Peru as the sun slid behind the Utah canyons. My brother was coming down with a nasty cold. In Glenwood Canyon - a twisting stretch of I‑70 carved between sheer cliffs along the Colorado River - we heard it: a sharp, metallic BANG. My brother, half asleep but instantly alert, turned to me: “No you fucking didn’t…” The tire popped instantly. The wheel rim cracked. I tried calling AAA, but the call kept dropping.
I don’t know if someone reported us or if it was by pure luck, but 20 minutes later a CDOT driver spotted us and helped us two struggling brothers in a pitch black canyon swap out a destroyed tire for a donut. He informed us that we’d hit a giant chunk of asphalt. I drove the next few hours to Golden, Colorado while my brother slept in the passenger’s seat.
Fresh Start
A year later, I was driving increasingly familiar stretches of I‑70 toward Denver, the car packed with the pieces of my life. My dad and I swapped shifts at the wheel, while my little brother and Scooby sat tucked in the back, wedged amongst a snowboard and an overstuffed backpack that couldn’t quite fit in the trunk.
That move out to Denver marked what felt like the beginning of my ‘adult’ life. Freshly 27, I was about to start my first “real” job and live outside my family home for the first time post-college. Denver represented another opportunity to build a life that I felt I’d failed to build in Boulder six years prior and in Pittsburgh a few years before that.
Routine-ification
I didn’t expect it when I moved to Denver and I certainly didn’t plan it. But I’d be making roundtrips on I70 ~3x/year. My dad and Scooby would become my most constant companions, Scooby on every drive, and my dad on most - flying out to Colorado to help me drive back, or driving out to Colorado, spending a few days in Denver, then flying back. We share some interesting conversations, listen to music, and mostly unsuccessfully try to find new podcasts.
Denver was becoming familiar but didn’t really feel like home. Every few months, I’d feel pulled back east, where I’d stay for 4-6 weeks. To be there with Scooby for the arrival of my parents’ new chocolate lab, Chase. To attend a music festival or wedding. The holidays. To drop Scooby off while I traveled.
I like to imagine Scooby, the unwilling passenger, and ultimately the reason why I don’t just fly, understands what’s happening, or at least recognizes Denver and Philly, grasping the vast distance we traverse between the two. Before realizing we’re doing that drive again, Scooby alternates resting his head on the driver’s right shoulder and the passenger’s left shoulder, looking up at them expectantly as if to remind them that he’s still here.
Once he realizes it’s one of those days, he sprawls across the back seat or rests his two front paws on the center console, a sphinx between two humans. He quietly waits until he feels the car decelerate, at which point he is right back on a shoulder, signaling he’s ready for a stop.
Scooby is a priority. We regularly stop at gas station ‘dog parks’, some unjustifiably advertised on billboards 50 miles out in the dead of Kansas, as if they aren’t tiny fenced in patches of grass littered with dog poop. If timing and weather permit, we make the short detour to Shawnee Mission Off Leash Dog Park outside Kansas City, a true oasis for dogs that is deserving of billboards 100 miles out. Scooby runs through woods, swims in the lake, and greets other dogs, before getting back in the car where he’ll continue cycling between shoulders, the center console, and the length of the backseat.
My family is divided on the drive. My younger brother has only done the drive once. And he didn’t drive a single mile. That’s okay though - the other men in the family have a seemingly-genetic tolerance for long drives - a fifteen hour day feels alright. There’s a satisfaction in crossing state lines and a rhythm that takes over after the first few hours. The miles drive themselves. My mom has never done the drive in either direction. She has no interest. Fair.
I (or we) rarely plan itineraries. Operating on feel, we drive until we’ve had enough, at which point we find a pet-friendly hotel and call it a day. The first few drives we had booked hotels before leaving, but it’s too constraining. You might make great progress and end up in Terre Haute, Indiana at 7 PM, walking a deserted college campus in sweltering July heat to kill time, wishing you were still plugging miles.
Lack of planning occasionally backfires. On one occasion, Scooby and I were wrapping up an exhausting day. We stopped at an unassuming motel, the only one for miles, where the receptionist informed me that Scooby’s stay would cost $75. The room only cost $100. I stared at her, my brain barely processing the outrageous surcharge, and left. Despite my refusal on principle, I found myself an hour later at a hotel charging over $100 for Scooby’s accommodation. Physically unable to continue driving, I paid.
The drive is fueled mostly by continental breakfasts, gas station snacks…and apples. (We all love apples - especially Scooby!) We stay in unassuming hotels, the ones located a quarter mile off the interstate. Anonymous places become as familiar as neighborhood landmarks, stitched into the rhythm of the drives. Firefly Grill in Effingham, Illinois. The Days Inn in Hays, Kansas. Kingdom City, Missouri. Terre Haute, Indiana. Colby, Kansas - “The Oasis on the Plains” - most notable (to me) for its rest-stop dog park featuring palm trees. I didn’t realize they were plastic until the 15th drive.
There have been some blunders along the way too. We’ve lost the gas cap, only realizing a few hundred miles later. We performed surgery on the ‘05 Lexus, duct taping the rear in an effort to quiet the noise for the next 1400 miles, the steering wheel shaking violently whenever the car exceeded 70 miles an hour. We’ve made an emergency stop at a gas station diner in Missouri, where a (male) friend promptly destroyed the ladies bathroom.
Solo Drive
I’d planned to leave on Saturday, but signed onto work Friday morning, and just felt the urge to hit the pavement. I packed the car, ticking items off a mental checklist etched into my mind from all the drives before. Scooby’s food, leash, treats, favorite toys, water and food bowls. My 46 liter Osprey backpack stuffed with a week’s worth of clothes plus extra socks and boxers. My toiletry kit, a pair of running shoes and Crocs, my pickleball bag, two 27” 4K monitors, my work and personal laptops.
After a stiflingly hot first summer in Denver, and a subsequent slump, I was on the precipice of major change. I’d apprehensively signed an exciting, yet intimidating offer at a tech company notorious for poor work-life balance. And I’d be taking a trip to Vietnam in the gap between jobs. In the midst of uncertainty, I felt drawn home.
Physically, I was coming down with the worst cough I’d ever had. I downed cough meds, at one point concerned I might pass out in the driver’s seat as the coughing fits intensified. I took short naps in parking lots when the exhaustion, made worse by the monotony of I70, became overpowering. I didn’t stop for food once - instead subsisting on dried mango and cashews.
Running on pure desire to get home, I made it in two days despite a later-than-usual departure on day one. I was greeted by Chase’s infectious enthusiasm upon realizing Scooby and I were the midnight intruders. Then a night spent in my childhood room, waking up to my parents having left coffee in the pot. A laid back morning on the deck, soaking up the sun with my little brother while the dogs wrestled in the backyard. Finally, a long off-leash run with Scooby on the trails we’ve run together since he was six months old. I was home.
Chilled Crossroads
After spending the holidays in Philly, a friend and I began yet another drive out west. We drove two hours before turning around due to a snowstorm - the first and only failed I70 journey. Amid my then-chronic indecision about staying in Denver, the universe was nudging me back east. The following weekend we tried again…in the midst of an arctic blast.
Leaving Philly, the weather was great - sunny, crisp, warmer than usual. By the time we were in western PA, the temp had dropped into the 20’s and gusts of wind carried flurries of snow. Snowy conditions continued on and off through St. Louis. Luckily the snow didn’t stick.
We stopped in Kingdom City, Missouri, at a Holiday Inn Express where I’d stayed at least thrice before. I recognize it by the tiny turf dog park squarely in the center of an expansive parking lot. By the time we arrived, it was -5°F outside. Absolutely brutal. Scooby, as always, was stoked to get out. Whether it was the salt or the raw cold of the ground, after a few minutes, he lifted his paw with a concerned expression on his face and refused to walk. I carried him into the hotel.
Waking up the next morning it was -10°F, but the sun made it feel warmer. I let Scooby out, hoping he could withstand the cold enough to poop, which he did! We ate a quick hotel breakfast and started preparing the car to leave. My Sprite in the cupholder had become a block of ice and the LCD screen displaying the temperature lagged between the shifting characters, the electronics numbed by the cold. At that moment, sitting in the driver’s seat waiting for my friend to get in, my hands freezing, I thought, “Yea, I might be done with this drive.”
Closing in on Denver, we were cruising along the wide-open empty stretches of I70 of eastern Colorado, hovering around 100 miles an hour. I zipped past a car on my right, realizing mid-pass that it was a cop in an unmarked car. His sirens came on within seconds. He approached the car. Scooby poked his head over my left shoulder and started licking the cop. He seemed to like Scooby. The cop turned to me, “Wasn’t too smart, was it?”
I responded, “What?” I guess I thought if I didn’t admit to speeding, he couldn’t accurately pin down the speed I was going. While waiting for the cop to come back to the car with a hefty ticket and a few points added to my license, I thought, “Yep. This is really it. I’m fucking done with this drive.”
He came back and asked if we had any weapons in the car. We didn’t. He handed me his card with his name and department on it, smiled, and told me to slow down and have a nice day. Finally, a break!
But still, I felt more unsure than ever that I wanted to keep doing the increasingly frequent I70 drives, my life split between two places, 1710 miles apart, and two desires - the pull of my childhood home, friends, family - and the nebulous potential of something different - every opportunity and unknown that comes along with it.
The Final Drive
It was sudden - my final departure back east. Months of indecision about Denver boiled over on a 100‑degree night without AC. I’d returned from a San Diego road trip to find my room rearranged by the realtor, my portable AC unit broken, and our landlord’s frustration at our “failure” to keep the house in “showing condition.” Waking up hot from an unrestful sleep in a room rearranged to the realtor’s tastes, I was done.
I called a service to donate my bed. I called a trash crew for the rest. I watched as the trashmen unflinchingly shattered my sticker‑covered desk - the only piece of furniture I’d wanted to keep. Directly out front, a car slammed into a parked one. Flames emerged. The passenger - a barefoot trans woman - paced and shouted in agony while smoking a cigarette, before sinking against the side of our house. The driver - a man a solid food shorter - slid past me exclaiming: “I swear, I just met her yesterday!”
Then he fled.
I don’t know if the conditions under which I left were another sign from the universe. Broken AC, an overbearing landlord, shattered glass, a car in flames. But the drive itself was quiet. No detours. No blown tires. No speeding tickets. Just the road I’d taken so many times before, its familiar rhythm easing the indecisive tension of the last few months. The Firefly Grill in Effingham. The Days Inn in Hays. The plastic palms of the “Oasis on the Plains.” Each stop a mile marker in a chapter I was closing.
Back then, the first time I drove I‑70, it was just a line across a map. Now, on this last trip, I could see every bend, every plain, every stretch of empty horizon, the road no longer anonymous but layered with years of crossings. Two moves, a handful of cities, two colleges, a pandemic, the start of a career, and a dog who’d tolerated more hours in the backseat than I could’ve asked for.
The End of an Era
A year after that final drive, I miss it in a strange, almost perverse way. The endless stretches of highway, the meh hotels, the rhythm, the sameness - it’s lodged deep in my psyche. I don’t miss Denver, and I have no desire to return to any destination along that road. What I miss is the quiet, self-contained bubble between places, the in‑between space that, over my twenties, became unexpectedly meaningful. I have no plan to drive it again anytime soon, but I’m nearly certain there will be a reason before long. And when it comes, I’ll go - willingly, probably excitedly.
