Road to Freedom

Photo by Dusty Demerson

“Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, nothing ain't worth nothin' but it's free...” – Me & Bobby McGee by Fred Foster and Kris Kristofferson

Free Bird. Free Ride. Free Falling. I'm Free! Free your mind. Free your soul. Free love. Free spirited. Free Huey. Free the people. Free beer (where?!) Break free. Fancy free. Duty free. Free agent. Free up. It's an adjective. It's an adverb. It's a verb. It’s a way of life. It's free. But apparently, for some reason, there is no free lunch.

I ran away when I was 16. Not because I hated my family, to the contrary, I really loved them, but the call of the road was beckoning freedom and every day was a new experience, tantalizingly unfurling like a good mystery. When curiosity peaked for what was unseen beyond the next curve, I could no longer be confined to schedules and rules. Life was uncontrollably pulling me into the moment along with hundreds of thousands more of the generation who chose to tune in and drop out.

Monterrey, the Atlanta Pop Festival, Woodstock... they were about freedom. Freedom to groove to music, altered by the times, a collective of souls temporarily thrown together under one sky for a similar unified purpose in love and perceived understanding. Sharing. Dancing. Laughing. Freedom from the prescribed daily drudgery of the life “The Establishment” made. The way it should be in a perfect world... however, in reality, without the machination for economy or food, it wouldn't have lasted more than 3 days anyway.

While we proposed that truth could set us free and love sustain us indefinitely, we were all continuously hungry with severe munchies. The barter system worked for some things depending on what you wanted and what you were willing to give for it. Communal living sprung from the well of harmonious thought when we imagined we could be one big happy entity. It was about the WE and not the individual. And in that, theoretically, there was the freedom to be yourself within the cosmic sort of family. But if everyone’s truly free, then who's going to do all those communal chores required to exist, especially in the induced haziness? Few communes figured it out – most didn't and people went their different ways.

All that togetherness is probably what spurred the ME generation of the individualistic late 70s. The turn around from the group mentality of the flower children. New and improved... even more freedom. Free to be you and me, separately. Needing one's own space. Just because I sleep with you doesn't mean I'm gonna dance with you, as Tony claims in Saturday Night Fever.

Freedom takes shape differently for each individual. A mountain bike ride or sitting at a bar all day. A solitary walk deep into wilderness. A good book that can transport into another world. Traveling with no particular destination. Good health. Financial stability. For some, there is freedom in defined parameters because it appears safe. Religion. Meditation. Groomers.

I love my freedom. Corny as it may seem to some, the little red 72 VW I've given the name Ruby to is the manifestation of independence on wheels. She smells of simpler days, times of adventure and youthful idealism – and she gets 30 mpg. Recently, personal liberty was granted by the 30-year veteran guru of VW repair who in one simple statement, “She's good to go,” sent me free wheelin' down the road. I had waited all winter to redeem Ruby from her western slope winter spa since that's how long the Bug Guru in Delta had said it would take him to get 'er done. Which freed me from having to locate and shovel the tiny car out from the heapage of snow this past winter.

Mid May rolled around and Ruby was still in “I'm working on her” mode as we slid into June. I started to panic, feeling trapped, unable to roam past the walking boundaries of town. Anxiety took over and I packed a bag, ready to thumb it over to Delta if necessary to liberate Ruby, ready or not, when the call came serendipitously the same day Kebler Pass opened up the entire Western Slope from my front door.

The road doesn’t call me, it screams and sings in 5 part harmonies. For me, the sound of freedom ringing is a chirping VW engine as it putters along a high mountain pass, aspens fluttering in the breeze giving glimpses of distant higher peaks. Sunshine, blue skies. Everyone smiles when they encounter a classic VW ... they recall their own glory days of freedom, or the stories told to them by parents – fingers with muscle memory from decades ago flash peace signs. But meeting another classic VW on the road is like finding an old friend, honking and waving with recognition, knowing you share a history of like-mindedness being freedom bound. Why else would you be driving an ancient chariot? For all of you on the road, may your journey be free and easy and your Freak Flag forever fly.