Seligman

So on Friday night we pulled into the little town of Seligman.
The sign claimed Seligman was the birthplace of historic
Route 66. I don't understand how it can be, when the route
stretches right back to Illinois. But that's what it says!

The town consisted of a single stretch of highstreet. Well
not really a highstreet, just a couple of rows of old-style
buildings. But every single one of them appeared to be
dedicated to Route 66; themed bars and gift shops and
kitsch little cafes. On a normal day, this town would have
been a novelty. Seligman's only obvious income was as a
tourist trap; a curiosity town.

However, this wasn't a normal day. Something was happening.
The town was buzzing; scores of people walked the streets,
dozens of Hells Angels were clustered together around a
darkened bar. Music blared and neon lights lit up the sidewalk.
This couldn't possibly be a regular Friday night in Seligman.

We got ourselves pulled up into the Koa campsite and began
the pitch-dark mile long walk towards the action. We could
hear emergency sirens blaring in the distance, and could see
rows and rows of flashing lights, slowing moving towards us.

It was nerve wracking; from a distance it looked like a parade
of cops were moving through the town. I speculated that some
trouble must have broken out, that they were clearing
everybody out of the town. It must have been the Hells Angels,
I figured.

We walked closer, the sirens got louder and the lights brighter.
I wanted to turn back as the flashing vehicles crawled towards us.
This looked like trouble.

We were wrong.

We had hit Seligman, population 600, on the single biggest day of it's
calendar. The Seligman to Topock Fun Run. Basically a mobile classic
car show.

This doesn't sound all that exciting, but the town went crazy. As we
neared the entrance to the highstreet, a long row of classic cars, led
by old fashioned fire engines, were parading up and down the street.

Groups of people amassed on the sidewalk to watch them. There
must have been more than 100 classic cars in Seligman that night.
Not to mention the newer, pimped cars, the ones with neon bellies,
halogen eyes and multicoloured, dayglow skin.

We grabbed a beer and joined the masses, watching as the cars
paused to create a space, and then, with a roar, crossed the gap
in seconds, causing a cheer to ripple through the watching crowds.
More and more cars drove by, all of them impressive in a way I
know nothing about, nor really cared about prior to Seligman.

The vibe was contageous. We hadn't planned to stay out long, we
needed an early start next morning. But we found ourselves in the
Black Cat bar, drinking with the locals and roadies alike.

The Black Cat was having a full on ho-down. A live band played
outside, and already several couples were swinging each other
around the concrete dancefloor. We spoke to some locals, who
were impressed with our luck on happening upon Seligman on
this night. Everyone got drunker, Will and I got pulled onto the
dancefloor and we reluctantly gave in, deciding we needed to be
at least as drunk, if not drunker, than the rest of this crazy town.

We met Jeremy, somehow, a hick from San Bernadino. He was
driving his dads classic car on the fun run; tradition couldn't be
let down, and his dad was sick.

Jeremy had troubles of his own. Four sons; none his, a new
baby on the way; his.

He shared his problems with us over Coronas and country music.

We met Jenna, from Calgary, Canada. Driving with her boyfriend.
We swapped road stories and danced and drank.

We spoke with countless others, sharing tales and advice; all of
us accustomed to a life on the road. The life that exists away
from the the interstate, the superslab. The small towns, home
to many, are but rest stops to us; each one linked by the 66, the
history of the migrants, and the journey west.