The SPSRT

Once upon a time, there existed a phrase within the English language that stirred inside me a sense of elation and exhilaration. A phrase representing freedom and spontaneity. Six beautiful words I could not say no to: “Let’s go on a road trip.”

Ah. The road trip. A sweet, blissful rambling off the beaten path. A car carrying a cooler, a map, and a tent. No agenda. No plans. Just you, your friends, and the open road. How I used to love to hear those words, “Let’s go on a road trip.” How I prized my naïve belief that the phrase “road trip” suggested the use of an actual road: a highway or byway with a yellow line and speed signs and asphalt, a pathway to real freedom.

Then, one fateful day, my simple dream was shattered. I remember it well: the first time my boss asked, “Would you like to go on a road trip?” My heart beat faster, my eyes lit up with excitement. The physical response to the words “road trip” was natural, like Pavlov’s salivating dog. I could no more control my reaction than a baby can control his bowel movements. A solemn ceremony of fast food, rest stops, and getting lost had been engrained inside me, body and soul, since college.

Alas, my joy was short-lived. The boss followed his question with a request to take a report to the fourth floor. The fourth floor of this building? Yes. You mean, the building that I’m standing in right now? Yes. So, there’s no actual road involved in this road trip? That’s right.

No drive in the car. No cheesy picture taken at the state line. Nothing more than a tedious task involving a walk just beyond the five foot perimeter of my cubicle. My vision of the road trip had come crashing down around me.

Many months have passed since that first encounter. I became so used to the boss’s blatant disregard of such a sacred phrase that I became numb from the pain. I didn’t so much take issue with him asking me to help him out (even though the mail room is very efficient in same-day delivery. But, I digress). What hurt me was the sullying of the words “road trip” with such a lowly, commonplace connotation.

My healing process has been slow and riddled with setbacks. I could not go to the source of the problem, as the likelihood of me addressing my concerns to the boss was about the same as monkeys flying up from the center of the earth to knit booties with their lizard friends who play the violin. Instead, I enrolled in an intensive program of therapy to recapture the true meaning of the road trip. However, I was forced to quit when the therapist began calling my visits to him “road trips,” effectively destroying all hope of injecting freedom and irresponsibility back into the phrase. Finally, I took action and formed the Society for the Preservation of The Sacred Road Trip (SPSRT). My steps towards recovery have since been slow, but I know complete healing is not beyond my grasp.

As I continue on my path to victory, I ask that you, my family, friends and future co-members of the SPSRT, lend me your support. Do your part: reclaim the lost meaning of the road trip! Don’t become part of the problem by saddling those beautiful words with drudgery and responsibility! Pry that sense of adventure away from the jaws of the mundane!

Take back the road trip!