One thing Americans are undeniably known for is our obsession with driving. It’s in our movies, our music, our stories, poetry, and postcards—this romantic idea that you can just pack a bag, hop in the car, and chase the horizon. There’s something deeply American about the open road. It whispers freedom, possibility, and a little bit of chaos.

Now, let me be honest upfront: I don’t actually like to drive.

Shocking, I know. Especially coming from someone who has spent an absurd number of hours behind the wheel. Despite my aversion, I’ve crisscrossed this country more times than I can count. I’ve done the Midwest, the South, the East Coast, the West—sometimes all in one year. Road trips weren’t always the plan; they just… kept happening. Why? Because they’re cost-efficient and don’t require a ton of planning. You just get in the car and GO. Gas money and car maintenance be damned.

The Routes I’ve Ridden

My road trip adventures started close to home, with short Midwest drives—mostly to and from Chicago and Indianapolis, with the occasional Iowa run. Then came the South, which I’ve driven more times than I can remember. Why? Because I lived there, and weekend drives to clear your mind are a thing. I’ve looped through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and the Carolinas enough times that I could probably recite rest stop and police hiding locations from memory.

Then there were the coasts. I’ve done the East Coast twice, hugging the Atlantic from New England to Florida. I’ve done the West Coast at least three—maybe four—times, winding from Washington’s evergreen cliffs to California’s rocky shores.

And in between? Everything. I’ve crossed the heartland on solo runs and shared rides, through national parks, mountain passes, desert stretches, and long, yawning plains where the radio and cell signal disappears and it’s just you, the road, and whatever existential thoughts sneak in around hour six—or sixteen.

A Word to the Wise: Gas Up Early & Often

There’s something you learn quickly when driving in the western U.S.—“half a tank” is not half full. In places like Utah, Nevada, or west Texas, half a tank means almost empty. Distances lie. The next gas station could be 100 miles away, and that “cute little town” on the map might just be a dusty intersection with a closed diner and a sun-bleached mailbox. Or worse—a “functional” gas station that only takes cards, has no attendants, and the card readers on the whopping two pumps are both broken.

Pro tip: Always top off the tank before you get too comfortable. That easygoing “I’ll fill up later” mindset? That’s exactly when the road decides to throw you a hundred-mile stretch of nothing.

And trust me, that sinking feeling you get as you watch the needle creep toward empty is not something you want.

Highways and Heart Rates

Not all roads are created equal. Some will lull you into a sense of peaceful road trip bliss. Others will test your nerves, your anger management skills, and your braking reflexes.

Florida’s highways, for instance, are not for the faint of heart. I have white-knuckled my way through Miami traffic that felt more like a Formula 1 warm-up than a morning commute. Blink and you miss your exit. Don’t blink and you still might.

On the opposite end of the spectrum: California’s coastal drives. Those sweeping, picturesque views come with cliffs, hairpin turns, and drivers who apparently enjoy living on the edge—literally. I’ve crept along Highway 1 so slowly I got honked at by cyclists. And I’m okay with that.

Music, Snacks, and Silence

I don’t go anywhere without snacks. That’s non-negotiable. Chips, fruit, chocolate, trail mix—whatever fits in the passenger seat and keeps morale high. A good snack stash is almost as important as a full tank of gas.

Music is a close second. Before streaming took over, I had a stash of CDs sliding around on the passenger seat—burned mixes I made myself, full of road trip soundtracks and whatever I couldn’t stop playing at the time. These days, it’s all playlists on my phone. Convenient, until the signal drops.

But sometimes, especially out West, I lose cell signal. And when that happens, it’s just me and the sound of the road. No playlists. No podcasts. No signal. Just tires humming across asphalt, wind whipping through cracked windows, and whatever thoughts I’ve been avoiding suddenly bubbling to the surface.

Those moments of silence are part of the road trip too. With no music, no signal, and no distractions, you start to settle into the drive. You notice your grip on the wheel, the rhythm of the road, the way the sky shifts as the hours pass. It’s reflective—simple, grounding, and oddly comforting.

One of the nicer public toilets I’ve been in

A Quick Word About Bathrooms

Let’s talk about bathrooms. Because while everyone loves to romanticize the open road, nobody talks enough about the sheer unpredictability of restrooms.

Sometimes you get lucky—a clean travel center with actual soap, stocked toilet paper, and maybe even a solid snack aisle. Other times? It’s a gas station bathroom with a flickering light and a mysterious puddle you don’t ask questions about.

And then… there are the porta-potties.

You know the ones. Bright blue. Baking in the sun. Best approached slowly, with caution, and absolutely never while breathing through your nose. My strategy? Back in, don’t look down, and get out quick.

Pro tip: Never skip a decent bathroom. Even if you think you don’t have to go. You might not see another one for hours—and trust me, you do not want to be in crisis on a two-lane highway surrounded by cow fields.

And then there’s the occasional “side of the road” situation. When nature calls and you’re too far from a bathroom or beyond caring. You pull over, check for passing cars, and make do. Not glamorous, but hey—it’s part of the road trip experience too.

Beauty, Chaos, and a Glove Compartment Full of Receipts

For all my complaints—and there are a few—I’ll admit this: there is something incredible about seeing America by car. You notice things you’d miss from a plane. You stop in places you never would’ve planned for. You see the landscape shift with each passing hour. Cities give way to countryside, mountains to desert, forests to wide open sky.

I’ve driven through golden light in the Dakotas, foggy mornings in Appalachia, and neon-lit nights in the Southwest. I’ve pulled off on dirt shoulders to photograph storms, wildflowers, and the occasional roadside curiosity. The roads of America are numerous, wild, sometimes deadly, and often—if you let them—profoundly beautiful.

What’s Next

I didn’t set out to be a road trip person. I just kept ending up behind the wheel—somewhere between where I was and where I was going. I’ve questioned GPS directions, coasted on fumes, eaten uncommon snacks, and taken more backroads than I can count. I’ve been lost, found, and lost again. But I’ve also pulled over for sunsets, crossed paths with people I never would’ve met otherwise, and learned the rhythm of the road. I may not love driving—but I’ve come to love what it gives me: space, perspective, and stories I didn’t even know I was looking for. In the posts to come, I’ll share some of the drives that stuck with me—not because they were always beautiful, but because they were unforgettable.

Roads I’ve Known: My Love-Hate Relationship with the Great American Road Trip

What It’s Like to Cross the U.S. by Train (And Why I’d Do It Again)