Day 47 -- Tuesday, June 16
Today was the day I was to embark on the Route 66 leg of my journey. Having holed up in Chicago for a couple of extra days, I was a bit itchy to hit the road. It was my intention to begin the day's travels from this fabled path's very point of origin, in downtown Chicago at the intersection of Jackson and Lake Shore Drive. In its earliest years, 66 began on Jackson Boulevard at Michigan Avenue. After the 1933 World's Fair, it was moved to Jackson and Lake Shore at the entrance to Grant Park. Then, in 1955, when Jackson became one-way east, 66 moved over a block to Adams. So, I wanted to drive downtown and, starting at the lake, head west on Jackson then over to Adams when Jackson became one-way east.
Unfortunately, the Chicago Bulls won the NBA championship Sunday night. Why was this a problem? Because the powers that be decided to hold a celebratory rally in Grant Park, near the corner of Jackson Boulevard and Lake Shore Drive at noon today, the precise time of my scheduled departure from that very corner.
Clearly, then, it would behoove me to leave either earlier than planned or later, but it would have to be much earlier or much later. As I mentioned above, I was quite eager to hit the road so the idea of killing time for the better part of a day didn't appeal to me. On the other hand, rising at six in the morning has never appealed to me. That's how early I reckoned I would have to get up, though, to get in and out of downtown Chicago before the big traffic jam. During last night's ten o'clock news, they reported that people were already showing up at Grant Park to secure a good spot. This was last night! So, I knew it would be a madhouse down there.
I arose, dazed and confused, at 6:15 in the morning. I spent a few moments trying to recall my name, the year and what day it was. Finally, having come up with the correct answer to these challenging questions, I gathered up my belongings and plowed into the frantic yet torpid Windy City traffic. It took over an hour to reach my intended point of departure but once I arrived, I found it wasn't yet as crazed a scene as I'd feared. I did the classic Manhattan U-turn on Jackson, punched up Nat "King" Cole's classic rendition of (Get Your Kicks on) Route 66, on the CD player and headed west.
As you might expect, for its first few blocks, Route 66 doesn't suggest a highway that goes on to cross two-thirds of the United States. It's a busy, slow-moving street in downtown Chicago. If one didn't know better, one would never guess that one would, before too long, be out on the open road with the wind in one's hair. I was intent on covering America's Main Street from end to end, from the sandy shores of Lake Michigan to the sandy shores of the blue Pacific and was willing to fight the downtown traffic to achieve this.
After a few blocks on Adams, 66 veers southwesterly on Ogden Ave., through the suburbs of Cicero and Berwyn. It passes through some rather iffy neighborhoods but the Escort was a-humming so I wasn't worried. Somewhere between Berwyn and Joliet, I came across a little diner called Snuffy's. It looked as if it had been in existence for 50 years or more; its sign looked as if it had been there for a hundred years. This was to be my first meal on 66, so I kept it simple: toasted white bread with a little butter and water on the side (they didn't carry whole wheat and were out of OJ). The food was excellent: I highly recommend Snuffy's to all the toast-lovers among you.
Route 66, through much of north-central Illinois, is right next to the interstate; just a few yards away, in fact. So, the charm of the road is a bit diminished. Also, the current configuration of the highway was, for the most part, designed in the '40s. It often doesn't go through the center of the little towns it passes along the way, instead skirting along their outer edges. If one is alert, one can often figure out which was the old road leading directly into town, but often as not, it slips by unnoticed.
This is in stark contrast to the portion of 66 that I grew up near. In Oklahoma, the road still meanders right through the center of the small towns that dot its path and it plays hide-and-seek with the interstate, crossing under it here, veering off on a path of its own there. One comes in contact with the interstate while traveling 66 between, say, Tulsa and Oklahoma but it is, by no means, in constant view.
I stopped at a few landmark restaurants along the way, lunching at the Old Log Cabin Inn near Pontiac. It's been there since 1925, although not always facing the same direction. Years ago, when the highway department was realigning 66 a bit, it was going to pass behind this fine establishment, so they picked it up and turned it around. In Dwight are a couple of long-time businesses worthy of notice. The Marathon Oil service station has been pumping petrol since the '30s and they do a nice job of it, too. No self-serve here; their customers get the royal treatment. The attendant even gave my bug-spotted windshield a thorough scrubbing; I can't remember the last time that happened. A couple of blocks further down the road is the Carefree Motel, another relic of the '30s that's still going strong.
Near Funk's Grove, I stopped and picked up some Funk's Grove Pure Maple Sirup (that's the way they spell it because, they explain, they don't add sugar. Oh, now I understa - huh?) The Funk family has been tapping the maple trees here for their syrup - excuse me, that's sirup - since Isaac Funk came here from Germany more than six generations ago. That's a lot of sirup and I wanted to get my share.
I also stopped in McLean, where the Dixie Truckers Home has been beckoning weary travelers since 1928. It's only been closed once in all those years, after a fire in 1965. So, barring some unforeseen conflagration, you can count on them being there to serve you some gas and some pie. The building also houses a gift shop and a Route 66 Hall of Fame and Museum. This last is not quite so imposing as it sounds, but it is worth a visit.
I was sad to discover that the Pig-Hip restaurant in Broadwell is no longer operating. A sign in the window proclaims that it is available for lease or sale, but there's a rather ghostly feel to the place, and to the motel next door, that doesn't suggest a happy future for the Pig-Hip. It's sad, but it almost seems that as long as these places can stay open, they're okay. Once they've closed their doors, though, it's difficult for someone new to come in and recapture the magic. In the case of the Pig-Hip, owner Ernie Edwards and his wife had tried to sell the place for several years. 66 was less travelled than in their busier years and they were ready to begin thinking about retirement. No buyers appeared, however, and with the revival of interest in this historic road, business picked up steadily. The Edwardses, both in their 70s, were working harder than ever. Finally, they decided they'd had enough. They closed the Pig-Hip and posted a For Sale sign in its door. I took a peek; the place looks fine. You could have it ready to serve customers in no time, so if you're interested, give 'em a call.
From there, it was on into Springfield. I settled into a room at the A. Lincoln Motor Court and decided to take in a ballgame. The Springfield Cardinals were facing the Cedar Rapids Something-or-Others and although they were down, 4-1, after the first inning, they came back to win it, 6-4. I have an uncanny knack for inspiring the home team to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. The host team has been victorious in all but one of the baseball games I've attended while on this excursion and I can come up with no explanation for this success, other than my presence in the stands.
