This past weekend, I took a day off work to head to Indianapolis. And while I had a lot of fun in the city, the real joy, it turns out, was the road trip itself.
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They always say it’s about the journey, not the destination. This was truer than ever as I drove through some beautiful fall scenery. While the leaves haven’t been changing much in the Riverbend, out east, the reds, yellows and purples are as vibrant as ever. I ooh’d and ahh’d my way across Illinois.
Indiana was equally gorgeous, though I became a lot less sentimental when I actually got to the city. I’ve been to Indianapolis three times before, usually just for day trips or for a quick overnight.
Once, my friend and I drove from Decatur to Indy to see dodie in concert, then made the drive back to Illinois that night, arriving home around 1 a.m. Last year, my buds and I spent one night in an Indy hotel to see Taylor Swift, which was an absolutely fantastic experience. With all these good memories of Indiana, I was eager for another quick trip.
Except, of course, for the one-ways. Oh my goodness, the one-ways. Indianapolis is not of the same caliber of stress as my visits to Chicago or New York City; as a city, it’s probably more comparable to St. Louis, and I drive downtown STL pretty often.
But the one-way streets stumped me. I shuddered through the traffic, totally intimidated, quickly overwhelmed.
Fortunately, I’m happy to report that I survived. I made it to the concert venue. (For anyone wondering, The Hi-Fi, which holds only 400 people, and hosted one of the most intimate shows I’ve ever seen. Jensen McRae performed to the sold-out venue and crooned about lost loves; I sipped an Oktoberfest beer and sang along and tried not to cry to some of my favorite songs.) And then I made it back to the Airbnb. A success!
But as morning dawned, a new challenge arose: Time to get out of the city. I dodged Indy natives and navigated the one-ways and only got honked at once or twice. And then I was on the interstate, blessedly, and off to Illinois.
This is where the fun began. I left early, around 8 a.m. Central time, so as I drove, I realized I had all morning to sightsee and hang out. I blared some of the saddest music in the world — my favorite — and sipped a frappe. I was thriving.
And as I drove, I passed a sign that was too fascinating to ignore. At the next exit, I could see the world’s largest rocking chair.
In fact, that’s only a fraction of what I could see. In Casey, Illinois, they have the world’s largest wooden clogs, the world’s largest golf tee, the world’s largest pitchfork. I pulled off immediately. I had to see what was going on.
It wasn’t too hard to find the world’s largest everything; after all, it’s all pretty big. I stopped first at the world’s largest windchimes. Towering above me, the windchimes swayed in the wind as a little kid pulled on a huge string and made them chime. It was awesome.
And then I crossed the street and stared up at the magnum opus of Casey, Illinois: the rocking chair.
Weighing in at over 46,000 pounds, the giant wooden chair allegedly rocks, but I can neither confirm nor deny this as true. As it was, I was fascinated.
And the people of Casey were so kind! As I stood there admiring the chair, a woman asked if I wanted my photo taken. It reminded me of Alton on a sunny Saturday morning: everyone out and about and happy to stop and chat. I posed next to the chair and felt incredibly satisfied about my journey.
The rest of the trek home was pretty uneventful, and I collapsed onto my couch as soon as I arrived back at my apartment. My quick trip to Indy was exhausting in the best way, and I enjoyed every minute.
I also learned a valuable lesson about taking the time to stop and smell the roses. I could’ve kept driving right on past the world’s largest rocking chair, but I let myself stop and experience something new. It was fun! It was unique. It was a joy. Going forward, I’ll be looking for more of those weird, interesting experiences to try.
But while the world’s largest rocking chair was pretty neat, I’ve got to say, Casey has nothing on Collinsville’s catsup bottle. That’s the coolest one of all.
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