I’ve always dreamed of a cross country road trip. The coast-to-coast expressway within walking distance of my house is a constant reminder of my wanderlust. So, when I planned a trip to Athens, Ohio, last weekend I couldn’t resist the lure of Rt. 50.
Google Maps recommended the curving route up 270 to 86; Rt. 50 cut directly across West Virginia — all switchbacks and hairpin turns. Even though, I wouldn’t get near California, I had to try.
Route 50
Route 50 is famous for more than dividing Arlington into south and north and transforming into the DC’s traffic-clogged New York Avenue. The DC route is hardly homegrown. It spans the country, stretching 3,000 miles from Ocean City, Maryland, to West Sacramento, California. (Once upon a time, it reached the Pacific Ocean at San Francisco).
Crossing West Virginia
The part of 50 that passes through Nevada, where it crosses barren dessert, has been nicknamed the “Loneliest Road in America.” The section of 50 that spans eastern WV should be called the “Road that’s still trapped in the 1970s.”
We came a half gallon from running out of gas on this isolated road. Motoring up and down the mountains drained my tank. Each time we surged up another incline, my meter dipped down into the red. I started looking out for gas stations. We flew past trailers, mountains crests, streams and white washed churches, but there were no gas stations. At last, we pulled into a one street town. To our left was a small store. Out front was a single gas pump — the mechanical style with the placards that turn inside the machine to show how much gas had pumped.
I parked and walked inside. The gas station didn’t take credit cards. Greg and I pulled our cash — $8 total — and bought three gallons hoping that would see us to the next town. I snapped some photos, and we pulled out.
The next town we arrived at had another gas station. I sighed with relief. But as we pulled into the lot, I noticed that this place was even more of a throwback: It was full service only.
Another half an hour of driving brought us to civilization. We filled up at Sheetz, the part gas station part junk food Mecca that served sugary coffee drinks and sandwiches made to order. I looked out into the strip center. Across the street was McDonald’s. The restaurant had a huge sign across the top: “Introducing McCafe coffees.” Espresso had come to rural West Virginia — only about a year after those drinks appeared in Northern Va. franchises. Welcome to 2007, WV.
Getting our Kicks on Route, um, 50
I’ve always dreamed of a cross country road trip. The coast-to-coast expressway within walking distance of my house is a constant reminder of my wanderlust. So, when I planned a trip to Athens, Ohio, last weekend I couldn’t resist the lure of Rt. 50.
Google Maps recommended the curving route up 270 to 86; Rt. 50 cut directly across West Virginia — all switchbacks and hairpin turns. Even though, I wouldn’t get near California, I had to try.
Route 50
Route 50 is famous for more than dividing Arlington into south and north and transforming into the DC’s traffic-clogged New York Avenue. The DC route is hardly homegrown. It spans the country, stretching 3,000 miles from Ocean City, Maryland, to West Sacramento, California. (Once upon a time, it reached the Pacific Ocean at San Francisco).
Crossing West Virginia
The part of 50 that passes through Nevada, where it crosses barren dessert, has been nicknamed the “Loneliest Road in America.” The section of 50 that spans eastern WV should be called the “Road that’s still trapped in the 1970s.”
We came a half gallon from running out of gas on this isolated road. Motoring up and down the mountains drained my tank. Each time we surged up another incline, my meter dipped down into the red. I started looking out for gas stations. We flew past trailers, mountains crests, streams and white washed churches, but there were no gas stations. At last, we pulled into a one street town. To our left was a small store. Out front was a single gas pump — the mechanical style with the placards that turn inside the machine to show how much gas had pumped.
I parked and walked inside. The gas station didn’t take credit cards. Greg and I pulled our cash — $8 total — and bought three gallons hoping that would see us to the next town. I snapped some photos, and we pulled out.
The next town we arrived at had another gas station. I sighed with relief. But as we pulled into the lot, I noticed that this place was even more of a throwback: It was full service only.
Another half an hour of driving brought us to civilization. We filled up at Sheetz, the part gas station part junk food Mecca that served sugary coffee drinks and sandwiches made to order. I looked out into the strip center. Across the street was McDonald’s. The restaurant had a huge sign across the top: “Introducing McCafe coffees.” Espresso had come to rural West Virginia — only about a year after those drinks appeared in Northern Va. franchises. Welcome to 2007, WV.
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