By Paul D. Bowker
The journey is often the story.
The story never told, really.
I remember arriving in the Fens neighborhood, the Back Bay, in Boston one night when I was still in high school and hastily shutting a locked car door, the keys still in the ignition and the car still running. Seriously. The Fens neighborhood is close to Fenway Park, and the Red Sox had already started the first game of a two-night doubleheader (remember those?) at Fenway.
Parking near Fenway? It's an impossible dream.
I pulled over onto a curb and onto the grass, breaking just about every Boston city ordinance you can think of. But hey, there were a bunch of other cars parked the same way. Let's go. The game is on.
Then there was the day I was covering a PGA Tour event and I arrived in a car with expired plates. You know how that story ends. It was the only time I've ever been in a courtroom without being a reporter.
I once stood in line for five miles to watch a North Carolina State vs. Clemson State football game on the same day as the North Carolina State Fair. I cut through the track at Daytona International Speedway and snuck into a tunnel under the track at Charlotte Motor Speedway. I paid a guy $40 to park in a private yard near the NCAA Final Four in St. Petersburg, Florida, and watched a homeowner run out of his house with a rifle raised in the air, because it was HIS yard, not the guy standing over there taking $20 bills.
All this craziness brings me to the night of July 11, when the Mid-Prairie softball team played an Iowa Class 2A softball game in Chariton.
It is the headquarters of the Hy-Vee distribution center.
And lots of trains.
And nothing else.
But when I stuff a journalist's notebook in my back pocket, slip an ID around my neck, and head to the gas station for a gas tank and a Coke, I do it. Period. It's a quest. And this little story will tell you what that quest becomes some nights.
I didn't see any land that night.
But I did it. Successfully. Sort of.
One day I showed up at a college basketball game with 1 minute and 10 seconds left. A coach I know saw me show up with 1 minute and 10 seconds left. I was so embarrassed. He called me a week later and told me it was the best story he had ever seen written by a guy who showed up with 1 minute and 10 seconds left. Chariton was something like that.
The plan to reach this rural town in south-central Iowa was this: Take Interstate-80 west, then exit at Newton and head south on Highway 14. It leads directly to Chariton. Easy.
Instead, I should have just followed a Hy-Vee truck. Any Hy-Vee truck.
After driving five kilometers on Highway 14, I saw a sign saying “road closed ahead.” Really? I ignored it.
And then, yes, the road ends. Completely. Two lanes turn to Iowa dust. Not even one lane. No detour sign. Nothing.
I backtracked and found a road that goes east. Okay. I'll keep going until I find a north-south road, then I'll go south on that one. It's got to go somewhere.
I did it. After another five miles, the next road actually intersected Highway 14. Guess what? More orange barricades. The road was closed.
I turned around. I found another road. It had just ended. Now I'm on gravel heading who knows where.
I thought about cashing it. I did. I'm going home.
No, it's a quest.
And I'm angry.
I turned around. I found myself on some bumpy neighborhood roads, somewhere near Newton. I have no idea where. Maybe I was in Nebraska. I glanced to my right and there was a high school baseball tournament game about to start. But where?
After over an hour of this nonsense, I found myself right where I started, on I-80 with orange construction signs clearly in sight.
I went out another exit. Hot air balloons were hovering overhead. I headed south around Des Moines and finally found the north-south route I was looking for, Interstate 65. I passed through places like Avon Lake and Scotch Ridge, Liberty Center and Norwood. I found Interstate 34, which runs through Chariton. And I found a Hy-Vee truck.
I followed the Hy-Vee truck.
And finally, I came across a softball field.
I saw the Mid-Prairie Golden Hawks gathered on the outfield grass while Chariton players danced happily in the spectator sections to greet their parents.
I know what that means.
But I understood the story.
And now I know where Hy-Vee lives.
Another adventure in Iowa.
You can contact current affairs columnist Paul Bowker at: bowkerpaul1@gmail.comFollow him on Twitter: @bowkerpaul