Rules of the Roadtrip

While traversing the vast regions of the USA on a month long roadtrip in the 70s, my parents had a lot of rules of the road. 

You can only eat at McDonald’s, Howard Johnson’s or Burger King. My mom believed big corporations and franchises were always reliable. She had no interest in local flavor. 

We didn’t pay for tourist attractions and tours, but at big name amusement parks, spend away. No carnivals though, according to my Dad, they hire only drunks to put the rides together. 

Only stay adult brand-name hotels and never let them know you have kids-they charge per head. 

And the big one… we only stop 3 times a day for food, gas and bathroom breaks. Once in the morning, once at around midday and once in mid evening… no matter what.

We never questioned them. And even if we did, what could we do from the backseat?

If you were hungry or had to pee in between…go without and hold it. 

The goal was to rack up as many miles as possible and see as much of the country as we could. 

And despite the discomfort, we trained ourselves to comply. The car, however, did not get the message. 

In an old gas guzzler, miles to the gallon were barely in two digits. And in the 70s, gas stations were not on every corner or at each exit. Combine that with my Dad’s propensity to run to fumes, this is a clock ticking down to disaster. 

“When do you want to stop for lunch?” my Mom asked. 

Passing by the clock and only looking down at the gas gauge, my Dad nods and says with confidence. 

“We’re good for awhile.”

Many miles later, as we were in the desert area somewhere in the west, nevwyobraska or wherever. There were few opportunities for our trifecta of needs, but seeing that welcome blue road sign advertising an oasis of services ahead, my Mom asks again, just to be brushed off. 

Concerned, she leaned over to glance at the gas gauge. 

“Aren’t we close to empty?”

My Dad shook his head. “Naw, you can’t see from there. We have just enough.”

Enough was my Dad’s code for driving to the last drop in the tank. So we passed this oasis with the next one 30 miles away. 

According to her map navigation and the labyrinth of brochures she wrote gas, motel and food companies for, she plotted out possible stops en route and feared we missed an opportunity. 

I looked up from my book, squirming from holding the bathroom, when I heard the discussion. Glancing at my left, I see my brother and sister are moving about as well. Our gas tank may be nearing empty but our bladders are ready to explode. 

“How long until we stop, Mom?” I ask on behalf of the group. 

“Soon. About 15 minutes,” my Mom sympathized. 

Given the fact that our cruising speed was about 75 mph, somewhat over the speed limit, we still had approximately 20 miles to go. 

Ten more minutes later, I looked up from my book in horror. Our car was knocking, then clucking like a chicken and then slowing down. We were out of gas. 

When the car stopped, we were all silent. Of course, my father was likely embarrassed at his miscalculation. And my mother could have rightfully boasted. But no one said a word. There was no point. 

Staring out the window, there was nothing to see. No signs of life. None. 

“I’ll go get some gas,” my Dad said. 

“That’s more than five miles?” My Mom said concerned. 

“Stay in the car. There could be wildlife around.” He shrugged and started on his way. There was no other option. 

Then the next problem…. we all had to pee. 

“Mommy, I have to go,” my baby sister cried, squirming around ready to burst. 

“Me too,” my brother agreed. 

“Me three.” I chimed in. 

Looking around at the arid desert landscape of cacti, sand and absolutely nothing else,  my Mom remembered my father’s warning. 

“I’m not sure what’s out there, so one at a time, just pee on the ground right next to the car,” she said. 

First, she helped my sister, while my brother and I stared at each other both in shock thinking, “Is this really happening?”

Then after my brother powered through, it was my turn. There was no one around to worry about, but still I was uneasy and unnerved. Without any choice, I did the deed and hurried back into the car, relieved, but still full of worry. 

For the next hour, my Mom tried to keep us occupied with her tried and true game of I Spy. But I spy a cactus got old quick. It was clear we never said I spy a car. We were in a vast wasteland. 

My attempts to read were useless. It was hot and I couldn’t help toggling between my watch and the window, waiting and wondering. 

But soon after, we see a truck coming the opposite direction toward us. Excited we all held our breath. Then as the truck came closer, a wash of fear came over me. What if it was someone bad? We were sitting ducks. As if we shared ESP, my Mom must have felt my apprehension. 

“Everybody roll up your windows and lock your doors,” my mother said calmly. 

We did and my brother and I stared at each other again both thinking… 

“This is really scary.”

The truck stopped and the door opened.  We were all instantly relieved when we saw my Dad jump out of the truck laughing and carrying bags of burgers. 

“Hi, everyone. This is Joe. I met him on the road and he took me to the gas station and a burger place.”

We were thrilled, cheering him from the backseat. My Dad’s power of persuasion never failed. He could sell ice to eskimos. And although my Mom winced a little at the off name brand food, we were all good and soon on our way. 

But my Dad still pushed the limit of gas tanks, yet never let it go on enough again, on this trip. 

(C) Copyright 2025 Suzanne Rudd Hamilton