When something is built up, I was always get that fear of disappointment. And for me, the whole Route 66 experience was massively built up. By the movies. By my university studies in American history. By my grandfather. Indeed, Nissan itself, who sponsored our trip, talked it up, too.

For me, Route 66 kind of had this aura about it. I always had this image of a road that somehow didn’t exist on the ground, but hovered just above it. It was the road that allowed you to easily cross state lines, it was the road the Okies used to escape the Dust Bowl in the ‘30s in International trucks (you can see one at the Route 66 museum in Clinton, OK); it was the road that connected America for the first time.

It couldn’t just be some normal-looking two-lane blacktop, right?

Actually, that is right, but not necessarily for the reasons described above.

Oh, the road sits on the ground, all right. In fact, it so “on the ground” in places that it’s a part of the ground, overgrown by weeds growing through the cracks in its Portland Cement.

That being said, there are still areas where the original tarmac can be driven upon (“original” being a bit of a loose term in this instance, since there have been three “alignments” of Route 66 since its inception with deviations reaching into the miles as opposed to metres); there are even places, like just outside of Hooker, MO, where the road actually runs dual-carriageway style. Yes, each lane is a little narrower than what you’ll see on the I-40 nearby, but you get the gist.

It’s instances like these that really start to bring the Route 66 experience into focus. More so than just an exploratory journey into a time capsule, it’s the mix of classic and modern that really hit home, again and again.

Yes, the 1920s was a long time ago and you’d hardly call that “modern”, but it nevertheless represents a real nexus in the American history tapestry. When it was developed, it was the first time you could (almost) cross the country by car; with its decline, we started seeing the death of the American dream, as the small guys were pushed out, to be replaced by big-box stores, big-lane super-highways and big rigs.

But you want to remember the good 'ol days. I wasn’t around for them, but like a good old race car, there’s just something so nice and pastoral about the whole thing.

That’s why it’s so bittersweet when you come across the old Whiting Bros. gas station in Moriarty, NM. This was a massive chain of gas stations in the 1900s-1970s, but even something that big wasn’t immune to the takeover of the interstate system. But oh, is it ever spectacular to behold!

The sign must be 50 ft. high if it was a foot, and it still stands there weather-beaten like some kind of totem for a time that once was. Then you look to the right, and there’s the station itself—it’s just a station now with no hotel to speak of, even though it’s on the sign that's covered in growth.

I usually associate the term “ruin” with something I’d see in Rome, but the remains of gas stations, hotels and car dealers that litter the route are equally deserving of the term. Heck, there are entire truck stops that remain—you can still see the bathrooms, the gas station, the car wash and the inn—and if that’s not worthy of the “ruin” term, I’m not sure what is.

And the cars, oh, the cars. Of course, there would be no interstate without them—no need for one, anyway—and since so much of the route cuts through arid climes, the old Fords, Edsels and Studebakers are in such good nick that even non-classic car experts could probably identify them (well, it ain’t hard to tell with the Edsel, now, is it?).

It’s crazy; It’s as if everything stopped. The cars were frozen in time, along with the network around the route. One day, the interstate opened up, and that was that. There was no decay, no half-life, nothing like that. It could’ve happened yesterday, it could’ve happened 100 years ago but since everything is naturally so well kept, it’s not so easy to tell.

If I didn’t know the history, that’s exactly what I’d think. What’s so great about this, however, is that thanks to the conditions of the various landmarks and cars along the route, you really are placed right there in the golden era of motoring.

And that, dear readers, is worth its weight in Portland Cement.

Our steeds

We pretty much split time between the Nissan Altima sedan and Rogue crossover, and while they may not be the first cars that jump to mind when considering the type of trip we were on (I always saw myself driving a ’57 Chevy Bel-Air, or maybe a modern Mustang), but they were up to the task.

Said Mustang may have the performance and Americana creds, but it’s not as comfortable as these.

Thanks to the smooth progress allowed by the Continuously Variable Automatic transmissions in each car, the NASA-developed “Zero Gravity Seats” and pliant suspension systems, we’d reach our destination (in Williams, AZ. Or Cuba, MO. Or Amarillo, TX. Or…) without feeling exhausted. Some of these journeys were upwards of 600 kilometres long.

The CVTs also help with fuel economy, and we never went over 9L/100Km in either vehicle; even the Rogue with its AWD system would tick the pumps at 8.7L/100km; the Altima, for its part, wins the fuel economy sweepstakes, with some of our group registering as low as 6.4L per. That’s after carrying 2-3 adults and their gear, with A/C or seat warmers working and sat radios blaring. Not bad. Not bad at all.