The misfits found this road first — and they never really left.
Route 66 was never the sensible choice. It was the road you took when you didn't fit the mold the city had waiting for you, when the plan someone else drew up felt like a cage, when you needed two thousand miles of open air between yourself and whatever you were leaving behind. The map said it went from Chicago to Santa Monica. The people who drove it knew it went somewhere further than that — somewhere closer to who they actually were. Every generation finds its own version of that truth out there on the asphalt.
This is the road for people who never fit the map to begin with.
