Chasing Charley

PART ONE: Inspiration Inspiration can strike in the strangest of places. For me, the place was the Westport Public Library book sale in spring 2003. As I ran my finger along rows of dusty spines, my eyes settled on a worn paperback with a faded cover and yellowed pages. Not much to look at, but the words that slept inside would have a profound effect and send me on a journey that literally followed in the author’s footsteps. John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America became a No. 1 national bestseller following its release in the summer of 1962. The book chronicles the author’s three-month, 34-state, 10,000-mile journey around the U.S. with Charley, his wife’s gentleman French poodle. Together, the two prowled the postcard landscapes of New England, crept along the mysterious lonely byways of the northern states and visited Steinbeck’s boyhood haunts and acquaintances in California. Returning home through the South, they dined and hunted with rich Texans and witnessed firsthand the disturbing state of race relations in New Orleans. Ultimately, they beat it back to New York and the welcoming arms of Steinbeck’s wife Elaine. The book is now counted among other classic “road trip” novels, including Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, Charles Kuralt’s America and William Least Heat-Moon’s Blue Highways. At first glance, Travels seems somewhat of a non sequitur for Steinbeck, better known for such classic American novels as The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden and Of Mice and Men. Even he surprised himself by pursuing the genre, remarking to his agent some months before the trip that it was “such an odd book to be coming from me.” Ultimately, the book would be as much about self-discovery as the journey itself. Steinbeck was 58 when he set out in September 1960 to rediscover a country he had last rambled as a young man. He was feeling his age, and wanted to shed his self-image as a “humbling, dull, stupid, lazy oaf who must be protected, led, instructed and hospitalized.” He viewed the project as “a frantic last attempt to save my life and the integrity of my creative pulse. … The antidote for the poison of the professional man.” I found Steinbeck’s urgency all too familiar. As a teen, I’d longed to travel the country by car, but college, work and family intervened and the dream was sidelined. Then, in fall 2002, I went into business for myself, which allowed me to dictate my own schedule. The time had come to satisfy my wanderlust, and Travels with Charley would serve as a catalyst. I resolved to follow in Steinbeck’s footsteps. My plan was to trace his route in the same spirit and manner, to learn more about the author and to see how America and Americans had changed in the intervening 40-plus years. With luck, I would find some of the very people and locales Steinbeck had visited. At the same time, I hoped to take in new sights and experiences and soak up regional culture and history. I also expected to learn more about myself. My wife, Marlene, was at first skeptical of the project. She understood my love of writing and knew that I’d kept journals of past travels. Marlene had even encouraged me for some 10 years to write a book — but this was not exactly the project she had in mind. I had a compatriot in Steinbeck, whose friends referred to his own planned trip as “quixotic.” He responded by naming his truck Rocínante, after Don Quixote’s horse. Marlene’s doubt turned to irritation and near disbelief, however, when she learned I wasn’t planning on taking her or our two young boys. It was a difficult decision, but I knew that to bring them would have broken with Steinbeck’s own approach and distracted from the research process. Nevertheless, my absence would be particularly hard on my sons, who were accustomed to having me as a constant in their lives. My eldest son, Evan, grew uncharacteristically quiet as the trip neared. I swallowed hard and pledged to check in with them as often as possible from the road. Next we addressed Marlene’s fears. Steinbeck’s wife Elaine worried about John prior to his trip, as he had recently suffered a stroke. In Marlene’s case, she worried for my safety, particularly because I was traveling alone and have a penchant to talk with anyone and everyone, no matter what their character. Like most men, though, I felt I could handle myself and deal with any potential hazard I encountered. After dispensing a large dose of cautionary advice, Marlene resigned herself to the project. In time, other family members and friends also weighed in. Heading up the cheering section were my father and brother, both published authors and seasoned travelers. Like me, others fondly remembered reading Travels with Charley. Several people pined about their own missed opportunities. Some simply said, “Cool!” Others sympathized with Marlene. “I would never let my husband go,” sniped one. I imagined Steinbeck had heard similar criticism. As he did, I stayed the course. Timing was an early consideration. Steinbeck left his Sag Harbor, New York, home in late September. The weather had already turned crisp, hurricanes posed a threat and his late start also meant he would likely encounter snow — all of which I hoped to avoid. I also wanted to avoid Labor Day weekend traffic, expected to be the thickest in eight years, with some 28 million people planning to drive 50 miles or more (not surprising, given there are an estimated 204 million vehicles and 191 million drivers in the U.S.). I decided to stay through my boys’ first days of school, figuring that after that point, Marlene would have an easier time managing things at home. I chose Saturday, September 6 as my departure date. For his trip, Steinbeck chose a General Motors pickup fitted with a cabin built by the Wolverine Camper Company of Gladwin, Michigan. The cabin was equipped with a bed, stove and refrigerator. Steinbeck reasoned that in a truck, “I can get into a countryside not crossed by buses. I can see people not in movement but at home in their own places.” The welcoming cabin would enable him to “invite a man to have a beer in my home, thereby forcing an invitation from him.” I began my search by trying to contact Wolverine for a modern version of Rocínante, but the company had all but shut its doors years ago. After several false starts and just a week before my departure, I finally found a suitable vehicle. Tucked away at the back of a dealer’s lot sat a 1995 Ford E-150 Mark III Hi-Top conversion van in a shade of green like Steinbeck’s truck. Though far from the complete home Rocínante had been, it did offer a fold-down bed and would serve my purposes well enough. It came equipped with a TV, VCR and CD player. Though Steinbeck would likely have disapproved of these creature comforts, they would be welcome in remote areas and in those moments when I was too fatigued to write. Stocking the van was my next priority. Steinbeck had already published several successful novels by the time he took his journey, so money wasn’t an issue for him. I claimed no such advantages. So, to help offset expenses, I put my promotion experience to use and turned to Corporate America. This was an awkward decision, as I knew some would perceive it as “selling out.” If not for the support, however, the project might never have gotten off the ground.