The sign appeared in the distance. A rush of bright colors emerged from the darkness.
As my SUV got closer, the red and yellow hues came into focus. I saw a large circle with a cartoon beaver head inside it.
I was approaching Buc-ee’s.
Buc-ee’s, for the uninitiated, is part of the Texas Trinity of iconic brands. Buc-ee’s, Whataburger, and H-E-B grocery stores are the three chains most Texans can’t get enough of.
But even in that crowd, Buc-ee’s stands alone. For it reinvented an American tradition – the road trip pit stop.
Such rites of passage had long been unceremonious. You’d pull into a travel center along the highway, use a dingy restroom, fill up your vehicle’s gas tank, and maybe scarf down some greasy fast food. Then you’d be back on your way.
But Buc-ee’s has turned all of this on its head. Its travel centers – often located by the interstate in rural Texas towns – are the size of Walmart supercenters. Dozens and dozens of gas pumps bracket the large edifices, with low fuel prices luring drivers to fuel up.
Inside the travel center is a little bit of everything. Home décor. Buc-ee’s branded apparel. Snacks and drinks. Freshly prepared food. And the world’s cleanest travel center restrooms.
It’s a Disneyfied, Texas-sized travel center experience. And many a traveler just can’t get enough – including me.
Well, most of the time at least.
The illuminated beaver sign got bigger and bigger.
I was nearing the exit now. And I had a decision to make.
Normally, you see, I would stop at this travel center. I had done so two days prior when I was heading in the other direction.
But it was already past 8 in the evening. And I needed to get home as quickly as possible.
After all, I was embarking on a work trip the next morning.
I still needed to unpack the remnants of this trip from my suitcase. Then I needed to repack the bag with fresh clothes — all in time to make it to the airport for my flight.
It was a lot to do. And there was no time to waste.
So, I let the exit pass me by. I watched the beaver sign fade into the rearview.
Hopefully, I don’t regret this, I told myself.
The lines of the interstate are the definition of monotony.
Solid white and yellow strips mark the edges of the roadway. And white dotted lines differentiate the lanes in between.
It’s mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. And potentially dangerous.
I figured this out the hard way a few miles past the Buc-ee’s sign. That’s when the lines on the highway started to fade.
The dotted lines became faded white streaks. The darkness of the Texas night took over the cabin of my SUV. I felt my head leaning forward into the steering wheel.
I was drifting off.
It had been a long time since I’d felt this sensation from the driver’s seat. Maybe a decade or more.
And that prior time was after 12 hours of driving. I just had to make it to the hotel down the road then. No big deal.
This time was different. I hadn’t even been on the road for two hours. And I had more than two hours left to go.
I thought for a moment about doubling back. Of turning around at the next exit and beelining it back to the Buc-ee’s.
But how much would that extend my drive? And how late would I ultimately get back home if I did that?
It was too much for my drowsy brain to process.
So, I kept driving.
In the midst of the faded lines and the all-enveloping darkness, I spotted a sign along the side of the road.
I squinted my weary eyes, reading the words Picnic Area, 1 mile.
Salvation was nigh — if I could reach it.
I struggled my way down the highway, straining to find the exit ramp. Finally, it mercifully appeared.
I followed it off the highway, and I parked in the darkness behind another vehicle. I cut off the engine and turned off my headlights. I made sure to lock the doors, wary of suffering the same fate as Michael Jordan’s father.
Then I fell into a deep slumber. For a while, at least.
You see, the night was cold. And with my car engine turned off, there was nothing to keep that chill from slowly permeating the cabin.
So, after a bit, I felt my legs shaking. Then my arms did the same, followed by my torso.
A jolt of energy rushed through me. I was fully awake now.
I turned my key in the ignition, reading the digital clock on the dashboard.
Twenty minutes had passed. I could still make it home at a decent hour.
I hit the gas pedal and headed to the exit of the picnic area. As I merged onto the interstate, I took stock of my surroundings.
The dotted lines were distinct now. The road signs were clear.
I was going to be fine.
Years have passed since that road trip. And I’ve been up and down that interstate quite a few times since then.
Sometimes, I’ll stop at the Buc-ee’s to grab a bite or use the facilities. Other times I glide by that giant beaver sign at 80 miles an hour.
But no matter which option I choose, I always feel a shiver down my spine about 10 miles later. That Picnic Area, 1 Mile sign always brings it back.
If it hadn’t been there, I might not be here today. For I’d tested the limits of my ability. And I’d nearly lost it all as a result.
I consider all this for a moment or two. I remain in silent repose as the prairie and the cottonwoods pass me by.
Then I move on to the next thought rattling around in my head.
There are still hours to go, after all.
I’m grateful I get to experience them.