Beetling about the U.S. Midwest

Floods, route detours, unfriendly vibes and bizarre statues highlight an offbeat journey

Jul 14, 2007

Special to the Star

One Bug and 6,700 km later, our record is still intact.

When it comes to road trips, the Designated Passenger and I have a knack for intending to go one way, and being distracted by more interesting routes that take us to the opposite end of the country. But on our trip home from the New Beetle Show in Roswell, N.M., Mother Nature made the decision for us.

Being a horse-racing fan, I wanted to visit Kentucky, but our route would wind slowly and roundabout on smaller roads via Arkansas and Tennessee.

All went well until we reached Bartlesville, Okla. We stopped at an intersection, and looked over where the road disappeared into a lake. Heavy rains had caused massive flooding; we drove alongside a soccer field where only the tops of the goalposts were visible, and then past houses up to their roofs in water. Unable to find an open crossroad, we were detoured some 250 km north until we could finally turn east.

I used to wonder about people rescued from flooded cars: who'd be dumb enough to drive into water? But in a downpour in Kansas, I pulled into a field and waited until it cleared; I couldn't differentiate asphalt from water, and was terrified that I'd drive into a low spot covered by the river.

Flexibility is the key to road trips. Our sophisticated navigation system – a map book and a series of Post-It notes stuck to the dash – could be easily changed whenever roads were impassable.

And so, instead of lush bluegrass and Churchill Downs, we worked our way through the Heartland, visited the Auburn-Cord-Duesenberg automotive museum in Indiana, and cruised through Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York.

I've mostly driven east of the Mississippi, and it was an eye-opener travelling through the farmlands of the Midwest. It was the first time I'd actually seen E85 ethanol for sale, and it's no wonder it's such a hot political ticket: here, you drive for hours through endless fields of corn, soybeans, corn, soybeans.

Our Beetle convertible got its share of looks – partly, no doubt, because it was one of the few imports we saw. There were a lot of new Toyota Tundras in Texas, where they're built, and there were even a few Priuses, but drive the backroads of the Heartland and Midwest, and you'd think only the Big Three were in business.

Save for a corner of a Chevrolet dealer devoted to Honda, we didn't see any outlets other than GM, Ford and Chrysler – and most of those shops still had Plymouth on their signs.

The pickup truck reigns, but strictly as a work truck; big rims and expensive trim lines are rare, and most are slathered in the area's bright red mud. It's not a recent phenomenon, either; if there was an antique vehicle rusting away in the field, it was a truck.

Even without accounting for the Ontario plates, our car marked us as outsiders, and in a rough-looking roadhouse in Oklahoma, I was relieved when the even rougher-looking crowd didn't notice us getting into our Beetle, the sole car in the pickup-stuffed parking lot.

People are not necessarily friendly to strangers out this way, and especially to city-slicker strangers driving cute little round cars.

Road trips are a great blend of seriously interesting stuff and bizarre kitsch.

There are Big Things – oversized fish, cows, chickens, and the World's Largest Cross In The Western Hemisphere (yes, really) – and there is Road Food. I really should have stopped to see what "Indian Pizza" is, but I'm better off not having eaten at the "Home of the Throwed Rolls," where waiters toss your food to you, or a place advertising Butter Burgers. And Vinita, Okla., is home of the world's largest McDonald's, a sprawling monstrosity that spans the interstate highway like a bridge.

In Pawhuska, Okla., we ate in Greek's Café, set in the front room of a house. A Mexican taught the Greek owner how to make his delicious chili, but he includes a version with grated cheese and chopped onion that he calls "Irish Chili." You just nod like it makes perfect sense, and you eat.

Logic would dictate a straight crossing in Detroit, but I wasn't keen on the boring stretch between Windsor and Toronto, and so we detoured around the bottom of Lake Erie, a delightful drive along the waterfront (save for a missed road sign that put us into a stretch of Cleveland I'd just as soon forget), and came back to Canada through Buffalo – an incredibly enjoyable 11-day journey.

I already have airplane trips planned for the next few months. Get on in the morning, get out in California in time for lunch, and be home the next day.

But give me the time and an open road, and no question: I'll take the scenic route, please.

Toronto Star