Highway 50 - Athens Ohio to Washington D.C.

The threat of ice and dangerous driving conditions seems pretty abstract as Jenny and I climb into our car - enjoying a far more tangible pleasure of imminent freedom. We're headed for Washington D.C., planning to beat an inevitable government shutdown and tweak the noses of the snow demons. We hit Highway 50, straight for Coolville and multiple points beyond. But almost as quickly as we depart, we stop at a rusted sign sitting atop a mound of dead weeds and dirty snow. The Maine Motel is a boarded up relic covered with plywood and "No Trespassing" signs. Crumbling bricks and insulation lie in heaps on the ground. Placing my hand in a jagged hole where the lock used to be, I push open a door. Curtains and light fixtures hang in random patterns. This is a ghost building - empty rooms and forgotten visitors. Down the road, we pass a sign "Evangelizing for Jesus" near a collection of trailer homes.

Uptowner Motel

We cross one of the spans stretching over the Ohio River to reach Parkersburg, West Virginia. Through a gauntlet of strip clubs and adult book stores, we make a strange circuit of one-way roads and abrupt turns before discovering the Uptowner Inn. In what was once a majestic overhang, globe-sized lights hang broken. The walls are painted in checker board squares of blue and yellow. A sign reads in various fonts, "Parking for Guests ONLY" - but there are no guests. I read the snippets of wisdom found scrawled upon the edifice: "Jerry Garcia is my hero" and "The drummer for the band 'Egress' is gay." Weaving our way through town, we pass the Valley Budget Motel with a plastic sign and generic icons advertising a phone, pool, and other services. The Valley Budget is next to Big Bertha's Adult Fun, but we don't explore those services.

On the other side of Parkersburg, we visit The Stables Motor Lodge, self-proclaimed to be the "largest in the mid-Ohio valley" - and I believe it. The complex boasts 204 rooms and, by some industrial-sized logic, two giant stallions out front. Rustic faux boulders line the facade. I step into the manager's office and meet Greg, who explains that the Stables started as a bar and lounge. They used to get big-time country talent - folks like George Jones - he reminisces. Now this is a thriving mini-metropolis of comings and goings. Greg remembers when a couple horses in front of a motel wasn't such a radical form of architecture: "I remember when I was a kid - you'd see giant horses, and giant hamburgers - but not anymore."

I've always wanted to see the old Cumberland Road, the National Road that began in 1806, so we take a detour through Highway 40. But Cumberland, in the middle of increasingly heavy snow fall, is not too inviting. We stop at JB's Steakhouse across from the blazing red neon motel sign of the Cumberland Motel and rest for an hour. Before stepping into the restaurant, Jenny stands on a bridge - trying to get The Shot, but heavy weather confounds her efforts. We emerge from dinner to a thin covering of ice and dangerous driving. Arriving at the D.C. beltway, we are met with a thirty car pileup. Vehicles sliding in jagged directions are more than a match for the bags of salt and sand thrown hastily on the road. Two hours later, we arrive. Just North of the capital, we stay near the Silver Spring Motel. The next day, we visit the Smithsonian Museum and its homage to America's love affair with travel: At Home on the Road: Autocamping, Motels, and the Rediscovery of America. The display is a collection of artifacts ranging from a Route 66 roadsign to a Jim Crow pamphlet describing the pitifully few places where African-Americans could stay on the highways of that era. At another display, entitled Engines of Change: The American Industrial Revolution 1790-1860, Jenny and I discover an original roadmarker from the National Road: Cumberland 138.

Highlander Motor Inn

With our visit to the capital complete, and the government ready to shut down (again), Jenny and I wind through D.C.'s traffic clogged roads. The bath of raindrops adds a misty glow to the cars that streak by. Yet, we yearn for the almost spiritual simplicity of a straightaway. Before long, we get back on Highway 50. We're looking for nighttime shots before we head for home the next day. In Arlington, we stop at the Highlander Motor Inn which has been here since about 1955. The manager's office is bordered with brick which looks like it was taken from the livingroom of the Brady Bunch. Further out, we visit the Hillwood Motor Court. We're at a crossroads of sorts where about seven streets pass and converge. There's more of that Brady Bunch facade, while the doors are marked by intricate letters on individual iron grills. At 10 p.m., the lobby is closed - but that doesn't stop a man from pressing the buzzer anyway. He's looking for a room. Under the green neon glow, we stand within a flurry of racing red and white lights. A cold wind rips the silence and hurries our departure.

Breezeway Motel

We hit the Breezeway Motel on a sunny morning. White rectangular slabs hold a section of the building over a parking lot. Underneath, long florescent tubes are covered with rusted bent grating. Above, the red and yellow awnings form makeshift breezeways down the open halls - Finally! truth in advertising. A man in a fatigue jacket walks by and smiles. Minutes later, he returns with a paper sack in his hand and a bigger smile on his face. In room 28, a 40ish woman shoves three kids through the doorway, holding Christmas presents and groceries. The car in front of room 25 sports a licence plate which reads "IB4 Jesus - Who RU4?"

Krista Lite Motel

On the way home, we take a brief trip to the Krista Lite Motel 15 miles North of highway 50 on Interstate 81. About nine arrows are painted on the pavement with four "No U-Turns" to emphasize the point. I step into the manager's office and meet a lady who looks suspiciously like Mrs. Claus. That makes sense, given that the white trellis next to her office is festooned with Christmas decorations. She explains that her highway is a key artery for travellers to Florida or Canada. In the back are metal and wooden rocking benches, but no one to enjoy them. We return to the blacktop. As twilight creeps over the hills, the sky fades gently from purple to a pinkish orange. A lone Exxon sign casts an artificial glow against the coming dusk. Yellow lines pull us toward the horizon where stray clouds appear as blots of ink in the falling night. No snow here, only skeleton trees and the glow of distant cities.

Return to the lobby.