Digital Route 66 – Travel Blog

Since the crux of the Motor Tour is to travel old, beaten down pavement and see old businesses that reflected the history and economic condition of America, perhaps it’s appropriate to start the second day of the journey in the rotting parking lot of an abandoned Wal-Mart. In the shadow of a sparkling new Wal-Mart SuperCenter. The circle of life, or something trite like that.

Let’s start with the two opposing schools of thought:

1.) Start the morning strong and no matter what ills you run into the rest of the day and you’ll still enjoy the journey.

2.) Start the day too strong and everything else is just a letdown.

Depending on how you feel, beginning the second day of the tour in Atlanta could either be a brilliant move or a harrowing mistake.

Atlanta is simply the most gorgeous little town on Route 66 in Illinois. The highway curves onto Arch Street and past a collection of older downtown stores that makes the National Register of Historic Places wail with envy. Just restoring the existing businesses would have been enough to secure the village a place on Route 66’s All-Star list, but add the old museum and its clock tower, the cute corner park and old Logan County Fair ticket booth, an old grain elevator museum, and add a giant retired lumberjack/hot dog salesman from Cicero to do round the clock surveillance and you have an amazing combination of pure awesome. Atlanta’s always been our favorite Route 66 community, and it just keeps getting better.

Inside the under-restoration Palms Grill the tourists were greeted with water, coffee, lemonade and a tasty cookie decorated with the symbol of Atlanta: the yellow smiley face painted on the omnipresent water tower. Visitors were directed to the Atlanta Country Store to the north where a gift shop awaited featuring t-shirts bearing the faces of both Tall Paul and the grinning water tower; the latter was a must-buy.

Many of the aisles bore empty peg hooks, and the tiny store seemed to be lacking a lot of essentials. In a rough economy, it appeared that the small town market was being battered heavily, and a stack of flyers at the checkout begging Atlanta residents to buy “at least some” of their groceries in town each week confirmed this. With Lincoln and Bloomington so close, you can understand the temptation to head to a Schnucks or other big name supermarket, but I get the feeling that a little more negligence by northern Logan County will cause a lot of unforeseen heartache down the line.

Over at the Hawes Grain Elevator Museum, an old man waited patiently…just in case. The stop wasn’t on the agenda, but he figured someone might float by, and our group did just that. After a brief tour inside he showed off the main engine outside and promised he’d attempt to fire up the old gal. His immediate success produced a load roar that attracted several other gawkers, quickly scuttling over to investigate the ancient noisemaker and admire the power of the machine; boys and their toys.

Our tour was noticeably smaller as we rolled along the west frontage of I-55, losing the freeway amidst the forestry of Funks Grove. The sirup stop was optional, but few zoomed past the modest entrance without stopping to pay homage to one of the Mother Road’s most unique landmarks. Business was brisk inside the small shack, Route 66 shirts and books, bags of candy and bottles of sweet all flying off the shelves as the visitors scrambled to take home at least a small piece of the Funk (and aid their breakfasts in the days to come.)

Throughout the day we would find ourselves continually running into the group of classic cars that traveled together, and at Funks Grove some of the hoods popped up and a number of tourists took the time gather under the canopy to hide from the sun and gawk at the construction of yesteryear. Back on the road and heading north to the Twins, another group of antiques passed by, traveling America’s Main Street southbound, adding to the fun of it all.

After a quick stop at Terri Ryburn’s gas station restoration in the Normal neighborhoods of the Twins (again, an optional stop that was visited by most) it was onto Towanda and the midday eats. Kicks on 66 played host, and the choice was a cheap (and delicious) box lunch or ordering from the very affordable (and delicious) menu. Service was good and the day was perfect for eating outside between the old two-lane and the later four-lane alignments. Hopefully no townies planned to patronize their village’s most northern business that day; there wasn’t a free seat in the house.

We snuck out of town to the south in an attempt to grab a look at the Duncan Manor mansion (not willing to pony up the time…or the cash…to tour the inside today) but our cars were not even allowed down the lane, with tour traffic directed further down the county road and individuals being bussed into the festivities. Turning around, we stopped back at the Schenk family garage on the north end of Towanda. The family’s garage was filled with Mother Road memorabilia and fun, unique gifts, and the rarely talked about stop, unknown to many (including us,) was a fun surprise. Word of advice: if you’re ever setting up a shrine to Route 66, splurge and get the black and white tiled floor. It totally makes the presentation.

I threw my hands up in celebration. “It’s open!”

The gate was open!

We’d walked down Lexington’s Memory Lane several time, but never cruised it. Scandalous, I know. At this point we were without company on the tour, behind a few and ahead of most, and our two car caravan had the old 1926 pavement to ourselves as we entered the open gate to the north and slowly traveled into Lexington, the classic billboards and looming grain elevators beckoning. A bumpy ride, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.

The storm clouds started to assemble at Pontiac, forcing us to beat a hasty retreat from the Illinois 4 marker on Ladd Street after getting our passport stamped. Most of the tour hadn’t reached the seat of Livingston County yet, but the museum was starting to get busy with couples wandering down the rows of cases, checking out various Hall of Fame members, while several other groups huddled towards the back talking about highlights of motor tours past and present. We ducked to the back to check out the giant Route 66 mural, obscured slightly by temporary fences keeping us from being harmed by the elevator construction at the old firehouse, and then we moved further south for a glimpse of the county courthouse. The last time we visited Pontiac was on the Sunday of the Red Carpet Corridor, and downtown Pontiac was far busier on that day then on this weekend when it seemed not a soul was milling under the darkening clouds hovering over the city. Perhaps they were still spooked from the tornado that trampled through just to the northwest one day prior.

South of Odell, the weather turned eerie.

It probably should have been raining. Grey clouds turned black, and sunglasses practically welded to our heads after two days of blinding sunlight quickly became pointless.

But no rain.

This was good news for the happy couple. They were gone by the time we reached the south of Odell, off with their wedding party on a cruise to Gardner and a photo op at the two-celled jail. They had gotten engaged on Route 66 and with the help of John and Lenore Weiss booked the 1932 Standard Oil Station as the site where they would exchange vows. Many of the cars from the ceremony remained there as a trolley bus had shuttled most of the onlookers north for the rest of the fun, but there were plenty of room for the few tourists who cruised in ahead of most of (what was left of) the pack. Running into the group of classics again, we investigated the garage area (finding a stack of chairs left from the wedding ceremony) and a red carpet that was most likely used for the vows and not the Route 66 promotion offered by Pontiac Tourism one month prior.

North of Odell, it started pouring.

The drizzle began as we sat by the old pedestrian tunnel in Odell. We lost the other half of our party (the parents) as they sought to return south at a decent time, and as we pressed on to Dwight the skies opened up and the Rain-X coating our windshield became useful. While the water fell down the sun shined down at an angle from the south, but no rainbow could be found.

By Dwight we were done with the wet stuff.

Having never taken the Dwight bypass, we did that, and now we never have to again. It got us to Gardner early and after we passed the happy couple (and their trolley bus hot in pursuit) as they returned to Odell we had ample time to check out the two-celled jail (as the decorators took down the ribbons and bows from the newly minted couple’s visit) and get our passport stamped at the Gardner Chronicle Antique shop. A few people floated in and out, but , and by the time we reached Wilmington and Camz Gift Shop it was clear that most of the tour was either running far behind or had gone their separate ways.

What began with a bang on Saturday morning whimpered out late in the PM on Sunday, and as we snacked on our burgers at the Launching Pad a small group of tourists – mostly Association board members and VIPs – surrounded us. It was a quiet, relaxing end; one can hardly wish for a raging party to wrap the weekend up when, in effect, the entire weekend was a party all up and down the Mother Road in Illinois.

Besides, when you boil it down, thirty-one years after the State of Illinois tore down the reassurance signs of a stretch of pavement a large group of admirers gathered for the nineteenth time to celebrate its significance and have a blast. At a time when the price of gas is nothing to scoff at.

No matter how the end fizzles out, that has to make you happy.

For a few minutes, at least, we thought Trailnet had abandoned us.

Mother Nature hadn’t. She moved her storms through earlier in the morning, emptying the last of her clouds quite politely over the Metro East highways in the last several hours before the scheduled start of the tour, keeping the sun under veil until the parade was about to begin. No problems from that old lady.

But Trailnet…

At 7:45 cars were starting to stack up in the median between the lanes of Riverview Drive, desperate for a place to park. The west side lot at the Chain of Rocks Bridge is more than adequate for the Motor Tour, especially in a light year like this – but only if Trailnet is there to unlock the gate.

Cell phones were whipped out; voice mails left. Plan B’s were quickly hatched; could we reassemble at the flea market and start from there?

“Oh, wow! You guys are early!” Clearly, times had gotten mixed up. The Missouri SUV sported a bike at the rear and a nice gentleman in a lime green shirt that said “Trailnet Staff”, easing the concerns of the gathered.

We’re in!

St. Clair County rep and Tour Grand Marshall Jerry Law got the festivities started at 8:30 sharp, and across the bridge we went.

The first tour stop was the Route 66 Flea Market in Granite City, just west of where Chain of Rocks Road crosses I-270. It was an optional stop, but I doubt few on the trip missed it: the parking lot quickly became full and up and down the rows of booths outside travelers browsed the variety of sale items, many of them throwing down a few dollars for a trinket or two.

It’s an interesting setup: the inside is quite small, with only a few dedicated booths filling the aisles to the south of where the business’s brass handed out coffee and donuts to eager 66’ers. But most of the activity was outside, where rows and rows of storage garages opened at 9:00 AM to reveal a collection of wares inside of each. Swords, love seats, elephant stools and Elvis paintings; what’s not to like?

The cruise between the flea market and the Rabbit Ranch took us through the center of unincorporated Mitchell, and the town folk gave us a hearty welcome. At the firehouse just east of the Luna Cafe the fireman were busy selling souvenirs, and further down at the strip mall and school residents had gathered in lawn chairs and hatchbacks of SUVs to watch and wave at the Mother Road travelers as they drove by. As we meekly waved from our ‘08 Malibu, it made us really wish, for their sake, that more classic cars were involved in the tour.

Rich Henry’s fear that the recent rains would wash out most of the parking at the Rabbit Ranch proved to be unfounded. IDOT had mowed along the east side of the Staunton Bypass, and it didn’t take long for a number of cars to line the sides of Route 66 and slow down gawking locals as they undoubtedly wondered what was happening at the place with all the half-buried VW Rabbits.

What was going on was a lot of business for the awesome little gift shop; one could barely move inside as Rich Henry rapidly rang out patron after patron while more tourists mingled outside, pausing to get their passport stamped and to pose for pictures. Back inside Montana the Rabbit, the seven year old presidential candidate, huddled meekly at the counter, somewhat startled by the sudden influx of human activity. A sign advised that pictures, even with flash, were welcome, but no touching – not today, at least. It was just too much for the next president to handle.

Shunning the directions in the passport book, we took the Staunton Bypass all the way to Staunton Road, planning to make a left into town and catch Route 4 that way. A few classic cars cruised in front of us and went straight across Staunton Road, heading towards Mount Olive on the Litchfield Alignment. The other tourists behind us followed them, perhaps heading over to see the other classic cars along I-55, or, perhaps, lost. We later spotted the crowd of classics in Girard, so no matter what the story ends well.

Gillespie tried to derail 66ers further by closing off much of Route 4 through town to make room for their Black Diamond Days festival. The annual town party celebrates the town’s coal mining heritage, and with the tilt-a-whirl firmly planted along the downtown stretch the Motor Tour was forced to follow small orange detour signs down

North of town, we were promised the Honey Creek Bridge would be open. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that we were advised that the bridge might be open. It wasn’t. We, and plenty others, ignored the orange warning sign and headed down the path, turning around amidst the mud and passing other oncoming tour cars, the road barely large enough to support the width of two modern automobiles

I assembled a selection of about one-hundred and fifty 50’s and 60’s tunes into an iPod playlist entitled “Crusin’” to help us on our way; XM’s 60’s on Six is usually a good friend, but today required stepping things up a notch.

Somewhere north of Carlinville, while watching carefully for the multitude of 90-degree turn alignments that skirt off to the east, we got behind a later model Ford Thunderbird with the Illinois tags “Baby T.” What would happen to pop up on the random shuffle at that point but the Beach Boys’ “Fun Fun Fun.” Sometimes your MP3 player just…knows.

People take their passports very seriously.

Girard rolled out the red carpet for the Motor Tour, with a town cop parked along Route 4 to make sure that traffic found its way to the village square. There at the pavilion was a feast of pork chops (which, according to the buzz, were quite tender and tasty,) brats and hot dogs with chips, drinks and cookie and pastry treats. Locals mixed with the 66ers, with one young lad nervously carrying his selection up to the pay table and asking if this “passport” thing he’d heard about was necessary to purchase food. Moments later he left happily, hot dog in tow.

On the west side of the square was Doc’s Soda Fountain, a classic establishment that does not let down its chosen name. With a modern (but still, somehow, period-looking) bar at the front and a bevy of antique items towards the back the store is a treat for those in search of history or just younger folk yearning to quench their desire for lactose. The seating is most likely enough for most days, but even with the park gazebo still spilling over onto the grass Doc’s was likewise overflowing with out-of-towners downing shakes and sundaes.

It was there that, after I polished off a single yummy scoop of chocolate, I excused myself to use the gentleman’s room and returned to find my party had exited into the square. They’d remembered to grab my digital camera, but not my passport, and the next few minutes were spent scrambling around central Girard trying to find this most valuable collection of papers. Overhearing our phone call to the parents, a helpful lady inside Doc’s let us know that she’d turned in a passport left on a table to the management there – and we were instantly reunited with our guidebook. As adamant as we were to find it, our fellow travelers were just as set that others along the tour weren’t separated from their book of stamps.

It’s not a race, it’s a cruise, and after each stop the traffic separates itself more and more and you encounter less and less of your fellow Mother Roaders. After Girard the gulf was exacerbated further as different groups departed from lunch at different times to head towards Williamsville. While we had a handful of cohorts on the Donaldson Road turkey track trek, our jaunt down the Auburn brick was a lonely one; the only company was a pair of doves that darted out of our way before being crushed into the red brick below. The lonesome journey continued north through Chatham, home to a small classic car show just to the east of old 66, and onto Springfield where any hope to find, and stick by, fellow 66ers would be easily defeated by the snarling modern monster that is Veteran’s Parkway.

Williamsville was awesome. The small community played host to a passport stop at their village museum housed in two old railroad cars, and we were greeted not only with enthusiastic smiles but also with lemonade, cookies, a gift bag and a rather thick paperback book detailing the history of the village – all free. As one of the first to breeze through, we advised them that we were at the head of the pack, and that plenty more would come.

They seemed ready and legitimately delighted.

With time to kill before the regroup at Broadwell and the parade into Lincoln, we briefly explored Elkhart, taking Logan County Highway 10 to the east to the cemetery where Illinois Governor Richard Oglesby was laid to rest. The cemetery sits on Elkhart Hill, and towards the base was an amazing old railroad bridge that compressed the county road by just a bit and rose just over twenty-one feet above the pavement. Quite the side trip.

Back on 66, the Pig Hip was hopping as we lined up to cruise north to The Mill. Locals were selling wooden pieces of the building for $10 each to support the restoration of the building; a new roof has been applied but much work remains to be done. A tour of the interior testifies to this; it was in awful shape.

There’s a reason why the Illinois Route 66 Hall of Fame has so many restaurants in it: the road is all about food. It was apropos, then, that dinner was tremendous, a huge all-you-can-eat buffet with chicken fried steak and meat loaf. The banquet went well, and as we cruised home KMOX offered just a little bit of static as the 50,000 watt Voice of St. Louis offered a Chubby Checker tune as part of Randy Raley’s Route 66 Radio – the perfect Saturday night treat to wrap up day one of the ’08 Motor Tour.