When I think about driving north or south in the Shake-'n'-Bake State, I'm not picturing I-5, nor Highway 99, nor the 101 freeway. Whenever practical, I try to turn these necessary journeys into adventurous mini-road trips along routes less traveled.

First comes selection of a cool and/or old vehicle that's likely to reward me with lots of troublefree miles (but will be hauling a trunkful of 'merican wrenches and a bag phone and a triple-A card, just in case). For a nostalgia race or family gathering or Billetproof -- or any type of journey requiring up to six sets of seat belts -- my first choice is the 1961 Plymouth Belvedere that's been in the family since 1962, when the original owner went blind. (My bad-taste joke about that: His eyesight must've already been shot at least a year before he lost his license, 'cuz look at the brand-new car he selected!)

I couldn't resist pulling off of Route 33 and right next to the modern version of an undercover, "white-wrapper" police car in Dos Palos, Calif. Alas, the irony was evidently lost on the plainclothes cop in the Crown Vic, who returned my knowing smile with a stare. Then again, maybe he thought his flannel shirt and cowboy boots were fooling somebody, and/or was just being wary of old longhairs in old beaters shooting pictures of cop cars. Whatever; you know what they say about people who can't take a joke?

The next decision involves routes. A majority of fellow Californians I've polled seems to believe that the only roads connecting south to north are the three major highways mentioned in the lead sentence. Please don't tell them about the networks of smaller state routes and county roads that roughly parallel those busy, scary freeways; particularly on weekends, when all the "amateurs" are out, seemingly unaware of concepts such as fast lane, slow lane, on ramp, 18-wheeler, turn indicators, tailgating, high beams, not talking on cell phone, etc.

Besides, any road with average speeds above 57 miles per hour will remove much of the fun from selecting a combination of two tons and 120 horsepower (gross). No, that 225-cubic-inch Slant Six seems happiest between 55 and 60, on flat roads of two lanes and gentle bends, running all by itself. Turn on the satellite boombox; tune in to The Village (XM-15); drop out of the 21st century -- all the way back to a time when '61 Plymouths were new and folk music was played by land-based radio stations (really!).

Thanks to XM satellite radio, I've finally got decent sounds without ventilating either the original door panels or solid dash. Belvedere was inherited from the late Wally and Helen Gillette (parents of a favorite aunt by marriage, Barbara Celello). My electrician brother, Sky Wallace, modified the boombox for cigarette-lighter operation. XM's magnetic, "external" antenna works great on the dash! Don't let that speaker grille fool ya; this is a radio-delete, heater-delete stripper. The dual push buttoms open and close a giant vent door above the gas pedal (note dangling vacuum lines, also original). Odometer went south a couple of decades ago, at 36,000 miles; actual mileage is estimated to be not more than 60,000, currently.

Contributing to the time-travel effect are the kinds of things that freeway people don't get to see alongside their lookalike multilanes. The few images shared here are the latest among many thousands of roadside attractions that I've felt compelled to capture (for reasons that sometimes escape me, later!) on negatives, transparencies and memory cards. I have a couple of filing cabinets filled with such oddities, stashed inside multiple folders marked "Personal B&W" and "Personal Color."

"Any place you're bound,
you'll get there someday.
You're the one who chooses
what to see along the way.
And when the heartaches seem
too much for you to bear,
There's a back road winding everywhere."

Even the diminished memory of a 50-something Baby Boomer can usually recall which camera family recorded each rusty truck or falling-down barn or shapely spectator (lots of those on file, for some reason). A few small, faded B&W prints date all the way back to the Polaroid that my dad used to great effect each Sunday afternoon at San Fernando Drag Strip (assuring fresh coverage in the Drag News that hit newsstands only three days later).

These are the kinds of memories that pass through one's mind while driving an old car along old roads for a couple of days, listening to songs on satellite radio that haven't been played on regular radio since Bob Dylan fell off of his 650 Triumph (about 40 years ago). Your respectable friends will all think you're nuts for spending eight or 10 hours getting some place you could reach in half the time, sure. They miss the whole point, of course. Driving the 400 miles to or from L.A. is a lot like life, the way I see it: Each of us chooses to prioritize either the destination or the journey.

The closer I get to the end of this journey, the less hurry I'm in to reach the destination.

The only high-speed running occurred on a short stretch of Highway 99 between Fresno and Merced. Midway, in Chowchilla, I stopped at the Mammoth Orange to calm my nerves with a grilled-cheese sandwich and chocolate shake ($6.92). Alas, this may have been my last meal at my favorite roadside restaurant: The last of the "big oranges," in operation since the year I was born (1949!), faces imminent closure, via eminent domain. This stretch of state-Route 99 is about to be declared an official freeway; a package deal that calls for elimination of any business within 500 feet. Watch HRN Online for a story and photos dedicated to this popular landmark.

BACK-ROADS PHOTO GALLERY

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