May I state, at the start, that this account of our motor trip from New York City to San Francisco is intended to be not only a road map and a motor guide for prospective tourists, but also to interest the would-be or near motorists who take dream trips to the Pacific? It sounds like a rather large order, to motor across this vast continent, but in reality it is simple, and the most interesting trip I have ever taken in our own country or abroad.
There are so many so-called “highways” to follow, and numerous routes which, according to the folders, have “good roads and first-class accommodations all the way” that hundreds of unsuspecting citizens are touring across every year. I can speak only for ourselves, and will doubtless call down the criticism of many who have taken any other route. On the whole, it has been a revelation, and, to my mind, the only way to get a first-hand knowledge of our country, its people, the scenery, and last, but not the least, its roads good, bad, and infinitely worse.
B. L. M.
San Francisco, January, 1920
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORSE
IT
MIGHT HAVE BEEN
WORSE
I
THE START
After reading “By Motor to the Golden Gate,” by Emily Post, published in 1916, I was fired by a desire to make a similar tour. This desire grew into a firm determination the more I re-read her charming book. Then the United States went into the war, and self-respecting citizens were not spending months amusing themselves; so all thought of the trip was put aside until the spring of this year (1919). Then the “motor fever” came on again, and refused to yield to any sedatives of advice or obstacles. After talking and planning for three years, we actually decided to go in ten minutes—and in ten days we were off. All the necessary arrangements were quickly made; leasing our home, storing our household goods, closing up business matters, getting our equipment and having the car thoroughly looked over, and all the pleasant but unnecessary duties occupied the last few days. Why will people write so many letters and say so many good-bys, when a more or less efficient mail and telegraph service circles our continent? But it is the custom, and all your friends expect it—like sending Easter and Christmas cards by the hundreds. We are victims of a well-prescribed custom.
It is always of interest to me to know the make of car that a friend (or stranger) is driving; so let me say, without any desire to advertise the Packard, that we had a new twin-six touring car, of which I shall speak later on. I believe in giving just tribute to any car that will come out whole and in excellent condition, without any engine troubles or having to be repaired, after a trip of 4154 miles over plains and mountains, through ditches, ruts, sand, and mud, fording streams and two days of desert-going. And let me add that my husband and I drove every mile of the way. It is needless to say that the car was not overstrained or abused, and was given every care on the trip. In each large city the Packard service station greased and oiled the car, turned down the grease-cups, examined the brakes and steering-gear, and started us off in “apple-pie” order, with a feeling on our parts of security and satisfaction.
The subject of car equipment, tires, clothes, and luggage will take a chapter by itself. But let me say that we profited in all these regards by the experience and valuable suggestions of Mrs. Post in her book.