Crossing Kansas a maddening meditation

If you’d like to test the human brain’s ability to overcome abject boredom, I’d suggest you grab a thermos of coffee, fill your gas tank and take a drive down U.S. 56 through Kansas.

Upon this writing, I sit at my computer slowly dribbling words through my fingers and intermittently staring off into the artificial distance of a wall painted the most phlegmatic shade of taupe imaginable — an exercise infinitely more exciting than driving this particular stretch of prehistoric ocean floor.

The only point of interest I was able to glean during my nine-hour traverse of the hopelessly horizontal buffalo grave is that there seems to be no discernible difference between the Oklahoma panhandle and most of Kansas. Furthermore, based upon expertise gained by passing within 10 feet of Texas’s own renowned panhandle when Route 56 inexplicably became Highway 412, the Lone Star State appeared no different from the other two sand lots.

I have now made the cross-continent trek four times in the past 11 months, either delivering or retrieving my youngest daughter Sylvia from her seasonal “paying of dues” in hopes of one day becoming a full-time employee of the National Park Service. The drive for me is a mission and quest — an endurance event no different than a 100-mile mountain bike race. Crossing the finish line is the only goal.

My traveling companions, however, can never seem to fully embrace the “suffering all, solely for the sake of the mission” mindset. They lobby on the side of comfort and beg for en route niceties like restrooms with walls and sustenance beyond the staples of nuts, fruit, carrot sticks and coffee — something they refer to as “actual people food.” These are the words of the weak.

Although I prefer the rigid inflexibility of making such journeys alone and on a tight deadline, the whole point of my travel this year has been transporting another being and all her belongings from one side of the country to another. And while I have made the trip with both wife and daughter on board, the greatest gains can be made by driving with either one or the other.

Traveling with Sylvia alone offers the greatest expedience. While she isn’t any less inclined to seek niceties along the way, in the absence of her mother, she has no sympathetic ear through which to amplify her complaints. I can also play the “dad card” if she gets too whiny: “I said we’ll get there when we get there. Now quiet!”

I’ve learned only recently in an overheard conversation that my mission-minded approach has been the subject of a long-running family joke.

“Did you stop anywhere to eat along the way?”

“Yeah, I bought a candy bar at a highway rest area when Dad ran to the men’s room.”

“So it’s been the regular bit then?”

“Yep, peanuts, carrot sticks, apples and coffee — Dad’s traditional highway menu.”

Adding interest and intrigue to our trip this time around was the inclusion of Sylvia’s cat, One-nostril Newt, to the travel manifest — a nuance that demands an entire page of its own. We’ll travel down that road next week. See you then.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.