Some people climb mountains. I drive- and for the same reason: because a road is there. Heeding the siren call of the open road is an old dream of mine. Fortunate enough to start traveling in the late 1950's, I saw a different American landscape than that which can be seen roadside today. The interstate highways, those superslabs of concrete, born out of admiration for the German autobahn and built in the feverish early years of the Cold War, did not yet exist. Instead, drivers crisscrossed America on two and four lane blacktops, intimate roadways that linked town and country, small hamlets and big city lights. They did it at forty-five miles an hour, in heavy machines that were often without air-conditioning, radios or power anything. In the summer, with windows rolled down to catch the air rushing by and no music blaring from speakers to drown out the smooth sound of a powerful engine at work, we experienced a more personal connection to the passing scenery. Engaging all our senses, to travel like this meant to smell the pines and salt air, the earthy aroma of verdant pastures or the enticing scent of bakeries and hamburger joints. If you were so inclined you could wave or call to those you passed, hear the clank of cowbells at twilight or the rumble of a passing train on a parallel course.
The allure of life on the road, the lore of gypsy rovers and highwaymen, has called out to us since the first roads were laid. Roads will lead you away, take you to places you've never been and carry you home again. Adventure and romance was on the open road, but so was danger. A sojourn there sometimes meant facing the melancholy emptiness of a dark, deserted highway alone, laying bare our weaknesses or forging new character. Addicted to the quest, we search for the next far horizon beyond each hill, each curve, each bend in the road. Tested and tried when lost or broken down, at every intersection we must choose and accept the consequences, perhaps never knowing what lay down the road not taken. Designed to allow access to the larger world around us, roads often give us a chance to discover ourselves as well.
Second only to the railroad, the highway became a twentieth century American icon synonymous with freedom. The age of industrialization made us all vagabonds, marrying the newfangled automobile to the age-old road. Beginning in the 1920's, roads and cow paths, tracks and trails became highways. Dirt, gravel, clay and planking gave way first to macadam, then asphalt. The stage was set.
The idea of a coherent network of improved roads across the country began in 1924. By the following year, the United States government had plotted what would become the US highway system, although very little improvement of the auto-trails would occur until the mid-1930’s. The road that would become US One dates back far earlier than that, however. An 1823 map of Florida clearly shows a trail marked as the King’s Road, stretching from the Saint Mary’s River to Cape Canaveral that closely matches the route of US One today. In fact, the King’s Road itself was the first graded highway in Florida, completed around 1763 by the British crown. Named for King George of England, it was a colonial interstate, moving troops and goods across a sprawling frontier that was still mostly wild and empty.
Modern US One took shape in 1926 and runs from Kittery, Maine to Key West, Florida. As a native Floridian, I grew up with an intimate knowledge of the section that ran by my house in the south side of Jacksonville. I later drove much of it in journeys to New Smyrna Beach, Fort Lauderdale and the Keys. When I moved away, I thought I had made my last trip down this asphalt river, yet ironically, twenty-five years later, I find myself living once again along the verge of this highway through history. As part of the process of reconnecting to my own past, it seems only natural to look for it on the road that started it all.
