How Faster Highways Changed the Great American Road Trip
Part of The American Time Capsule — preserving the people, places, products, traditions, and everyday moments that shaped growing up in America before the digital age. This article explores the cars, highways, road trips, and adventures that made the open road part of the American dream.
Before the Interstate, There Was the Mother Road
There was a time when the next highway exit wasn’t predictable—and that was part of the adventure.
Before the Interstate Highway System transformed long-distance driving in America, there was Route 66.
The Mother Road.
Two lanes of pavement running through small-town America, connecting Chicago with California and passing through my home state of Missouri along the way.
That older style of family road travel—the maps, roadside stops, small towns, and the idea that the journey itself was the vacation—is something I remember in Route 66: The Mother Road
Route 66 wasn’t something I discovered years later in a history book.
I traveled it.
In 1959, when I was ten years old, Dad loaded five kids and Mom into the family car and pointed it west from Ferguson.
We didn’t have much of a destination in mind beyond eventually reaching Amarillo, Texas, where one of Dad’s friends lived on a cattle ranch.
The road itself was the vacation.
Years later, Dad and I would travel portions of Route 66 together again.
Back then, getting somewhere wasn’t simply a matter of entering an Interstate and watching the exit numbers count down.
Even gasoline once had a more local personality, including the neighborhood price battles I remember in Gas Wars With No Casualties
The highway took you through America.
Small towns.
Main Streets.
Gas stations.
Diners.
Quaint little motels.
Souvenir shops.
Roadside attractions designed specifically to make a kid start yelling from the back seat:
“Dad! Can we stop?”
Every town seemed a little different because every town was different.
You didn’t know exactly what you’d find around the next bend.
That was part of the trip.
And Then There Were the Burma-Shave Signs
One of the things Dad and I always noticed along the old highways were the Burma-Shave signs.
They came at you one at a time.
A few words.
Then another sign.
Another line.
Another.
You kept watching because you wanted to see where the rhyme was going.
And finally:
Burma-Shave.
It was advertising disguised as entertainment.
Today an electronic billboard can change advertisements every few seconds.
Burma-Shave could keep a carload of people watching for half a mile with five pieces of wood.
Then America Built the Interstate
The Interstate changed everything.
Suddenly the objective wasn’t to travel through every town.
It was to travel past them.
Faster.
Straighter.
More efficiently.
Once the Interstate system began connecting the country, the family road trip started changing with it.
Among the roadside institutions the Interstate gradually changed was the neighborhood filling station, remembered in Every Gas Station Had a Story, when getting gasoline could also mean directions, a windshield cleaning, a mechanical opinion, and a conversation.
The little towns weren’t necessarily gone.
We just didn’t have to drive through them anymore.
And along the exits, a new roadside America began taking shape.
Stuckey’s Meant It Was Time to Stop
Once we were outside the cities and traveling the open road, Dad and I frequently stopped at Stuckey’s or a truck stop.
Stuckey’s became one of those roadside landmarks you could recognize before you ever reached the exit.
Gas.
Food.
Pecan rolls.
Souvenirs.
A bathroom.
A chance to stretch your legs.
For families traveling America’s new highways, places like Stuckey’s weren’t merely stores.
They were part of the trip.
But if we wanted a real meal, there was another option.
The truck stop.
Where the Truckers Ate, We Ate
A rest area and a truck stop weren’t the same thing.
A rest area was public infrastructure—a bathroom, picnic table, drinking fountain, maybe vending machines.
A truck stop was a business.
And if Dad saw a parking lot full of trucks, he knew something else.
The food was probably pretty good.
There was an unofficial rule of highway travel that Dad seemed to understand.
These weren’t necessarily fancy restaurants.
That wasn’t the point.
You could sit down to eggs and bacon with a pile of hash browns, or order biscuits smothered in gravy. If it was later in the day, there might be meatloaf and mashed potatoes, followed by a slice of pie.
And there was always coffee.
Lots of coffee.
Truck drivers weren’t there for atmosphere.
They had hundreds of miles ahead of them and wanted a decent meal before getting back behind the wheel.
A good truck-stop restaurant understood that.
And so did the families who pulled in beside them.
The Rest Area Was America’s Waiting Room
Over the years, I crisscrossed the United States on the Interstate highways more times than I can remember.
And I came to appreciate the humble Interstate rest area.
Sometimes I was trying to make time and would pull into one simply to grab a quick nap before continuing.
Other times I was traveling with my dog, which meant looking for places where both of us could get out and stretch our legs.
The better rest areas were surprisingly inviting.
Especially the ones that were combined with welcome centers after crossing a state line.
Clean bathrooms.
Vending machines.
Separate truck-parking areas away from the family cars.
Picnic tables.
Grass.
People walking dogs.
Families unfolding themselves after spending several hours packed into a car.
And license plates from everywhere.
California.
Texas.
Florida.
New York.
Michigan.
Arizona.
You could stand in one Interstate rest area and see a little cross-section of America passing through.
Sometimes strangers would strike up conversations.
Where are you headed?
Where’d you start?
How are the roads?
Know a good place to eat up ahead?
For a place designed primarily for people to stop…
There was always an awful lot of America moving through it.
The Time I Hitchhiked Home in Uniform
In 1969, while stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, I somehow decided that a 72-hour pass was enough time to get home to St. Louis to see my girlfriend.
There was only one problem.
I didn’t have a car.
So I stuck out my thumb.
We had been warned not to hitchhike in uniform, but I ignored that advice. I figured a Marine uniform might actually improve my chances of getting picked up.
It did.
Once I reached the main highways, I discovered something about the America of that era.
People stopped.
Several of the men who picked me up were World War II veterans themselves. They’d see a young Marine standing alongside the highway with his sea bag and apparently remember being young servicemen trying to get somewhere themselves.
One ride became another.
Then another.
Cars and trucks carried me farther west until, remarkably, I made the roughly 800-mile trip from Camp Lejeune to St. Louis in about twelve hours.
I spent one day with my girlfriend.
Then I turned around, stuck my thumb out again, and started the whole journey back to North Carolina.
Looking back, the remarkable part wasn’t that a young Marine was foolish enough to attempt an 800-mile trip home on a 72-hour pass.
The remarkable part was that I could.
The Interstate had created this enormous river of Americans moving from one part of the country to another, and for a kid in a Marine uniform standing beside an entrance ramp, sometimes all you had to do was stick out your thumb and hope somebody had room.
They usually did.
I wouldn’t recommend trying it today.
But in 1969, somehow…
America got me there.
Every Interstate Exit Eventually Started Looking Familiar
As the Interstate matured, the roadside changed.
Those individual diners, tourist courts and mom-and-pop motels increasingly gave way to names travelers recognized.
Then came the golden arches.
And Burger King.
Wendy’s.
Major hotel chains.
Eventually places like Hampton Inn, Comfort Inn and Fairfield Inn made overnight travel remarkably predictable.
There was an advantage to that.
After ten hours behind the wheel, predictability can be wonderful.
You didn’t necessarily need a fancy restaurant, cocktail lounge, bellman or room service.
“The old mom-and-pop motel offered personality. The new limited-service hotel offered certainty.”
You wanted:
A clean room.
A comfortable bed.
A private bathroom.
Maybe a free breakfast in the morning.
Perhaps a pool, small fitness room or guest laundry.
And most importantly…
A location just off the Interstate so you could get back on the road.
The old mom-and-pop motel offered personality.
The new limited-service hotel offered certainty.
Neither was necessarily better in every way.
They represented different eras of American travel.
When You Didn’t Know Where You’d Sleep That Night
For many years, I traveled without making an advance hotel reservation.
There was a simple reason.
I didn’t know how far I was going to drive that day.
Maybe I’d feel good and cover another hundred miles.
Maybe I’d get tired earlier than expected.
So I’d drive until I’d had enough, take an exit, find a hotel and walk inside.
“Got a single?”
That was about as complicated as the reservation process got.
Then the Internet arrived.
And for a brief period, the old way of checking into a hotel collided hilariously with the new one.
I remember walking into hotels and asking for the walk-in rate.
Sometimes the person behind the desk would tell me something strange:
Go back outside.
Not because they didn’t have a room.
They wanted me to go to the parking lot, get online, find their own hotel’s website, and book the room there.
The same technology that changed how we found a hotel eventually changed how we found almost everything on the road, marking the end of an era I remember in The Last Generation That Got Lost
The Internet rate could actually be cheaper than the rate the employee standing directly in front of me was permitted to offer.
So I’d go back to the parking lot.
Get online.
Book a room in the building I was already standing beside.
Then walk back through the same door and announce that I now had a reservation.
It made absolutely no sense to me.
But management wanted customers using the new websites.
The road trip had officially entered the Internet age.
When America Started Taking the Bypass
That’s the contradiction I notice looking back.
The Interstate Highway System made America dramatically easier to cross.
Trips became faster.
Routes became more predictable.
Travel became more convenient.
But something else happened.
We stopped driving through many of the places we’d once encountered naturally.
The old highway might take you down Main Street.
The Interstate took you around it.
The old road introduced you to a diner because it happened to be there.
The Interstate gave you an exit sign telling you exactly which familiar restaurants were waiting ahead.
The old motel might have had a neon sign and an owner living behind the office.
The chain hotel offered a standardized room that looked remarkably similar whether you were in Missouri, Georgia or Arizona.
We gained convenience.
But we surrendered some discovery.
From Route 66 to the Next Exit
I’ve been fortunate enough to experience both versions of American road travel.
I traveled Route 66 when the road still carried you through small-town America.
Then I spent decades driving the Interstates that increasingly carried us around it.
And eventually I watched GPS, smartphones, websites and apps change the journey again.’ve been fortunate enough to experience both versions of American road travel.
I rode Route 66 with my father when the road still carried families through small-town America.
I watched Burma-Shave signs appear one verse at a time.
I ate at Stuckey’s and truck stops.
I hitchhiked across several states in a Marine uniform and depended entirely upon strangers to get me home.
Later, I drove the Interstates myself, stopping at rest areas for naps, walking my dog among travelers from every corner of the country, and checking into whatever hotel I found when I’d finally driven enough for the day.
Then I watched the Internet change even that.
Today we can plan nearly everything before leaving home.
GPS tells us where to turn.
Our phones tell us where to eat.
Apps tell us where to sleep.
Reviews tell us whether we’ll like the place before we’ve even seen it.
That’s extraordinarily convenient.
But sometimes I wonder whether knowing everything in advance has taken a little something out of the journey.
Because there was something special about an American road trip when you didn’t know exactly what was waiting at the next exit.
Maybe it was a Stuckey’s.
Maybe a truck stop serving the best breakfast you’d had in years.
Maybe a little motel you’d never heard of.
Maybe a conversation with a stranger at a rest area.
Or maybe…
It was simply another piece of America you never would have discovered if you’d been in too much of a hurry to get where you were going.
🚗 YOUR TURN
What do you remember about the great American road trip?
Did your family travel Route 66 or the early Interstates? Did you stop at Stuckey’s, eat at old truck-stop diners, sleep in roadside motels, read Burma-Shave signs, or pull into rest areas with a car full of tired kids?
And was there a roadside restaurant, motel, tourist attraction, or highway stop you always looked forward to seeing?
Tell us what America looked like from your side of the car window.
🛣️ Continue Exploring Cars, Roads & Travel
The Interstate changed how quickly we crossed America, but the cars, roadside stops, driving rituals, and freedom of the open road created memories that lasted long after the journey ended.
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🚘 Every Car Had a Personality
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🔑 Everybody Remembers Their First Car
The first set of wheels that transformed a teenager’s world and made the open road suddenly seem within reach. -
🚗 The Trauma of the Driver’s Test
Before you could explore America’s highways on your own, you first had to survive the examiner, the clipboard, and the dreaded road test. -
😄 How Did We Ever Make It to Adulthood?
A look back at the childhood freedoms, questionable safety practices, and everyday risks that somehow seemed perfectly normal at the time.
← Return to 🇺🇸 The American Time Capsule
Bunker Rule
The fastest road isn’t always the one that gives you the best memories. Sometimes the America worth remembering was found in the places where we stopped along the way.
Bunker Notice
This article recalls American highway travel from earlier decades, including a personal experience hitchhiking while serving as a young Marine in 1969. Travel conditions, highway regulations, security practices, and personal-safety considerations have changed considerably since then. These memories are presented as personal history, not as recommendations for modern travel.