In less than twenty-four hours, my foot will be planted on the gas and I'll be flying at eighty miles an hour toward the California border, toward the desert, toward the mountains, toward the freedom of the road. It's about time to take off again; it's been a couple of years since I really got the hell out of here. It didn't help reading On the Road for the millionth time this spring, when a fever was already consuming me.
But now it's time.
Wanna come with me?
I think the road is a very American symbol. The movement was all westward for much of our history, and now, sitting on the edge of our continent for nearly twenty-seven years, I move south, north, and east.
If I asked you to come with me, would you?
Well, would you?