Cruisin’, on a Sunday afternoon
Anyone who grew up in San Benito County is familiar with the
term
”
country cruise.
”
This can either refer to a bunch of friends piling into a car to
go imbibe alcoholic beverages on the backroads, out of sight of
parents and law enforcement, or it can entail a boyfriend and
girlfriend looking for a secluded spot to share quality time, out
of sight of parents and law enforcement.
Cruisin’, on a Sunday afternoon
Anyone who grew up in San Benito County is familiar with the term “country cruise.”
This can either refer to a bunch of friends piling into a car to go imbibe alcoholic beverages on the backroads, out of sight of parents and law enforcement, or it can entail a boyfriend and girlfriend looking for a secluded spot to share quality time, out of sight of parents and law enforcement.
Growing up here, and since my parents read this column, I will officially say that my knowledge of country cruising comes from, well, growing up here, not necessarily from first-hand experience.
Many of us acted young and dumb when we were young and dumb, and I pray that my sons never go on a country cruise to drink. In fact, I pray that they never drink. I hope that their generation makes wiser decisions than its predecessors.
Since the boys are not yet old enough to drive or have friends old enough to drive, their version of a country cruise is much different than the traditional San Benito County type.
Last Sunday morning, after my youngest son and I picked up my oldest son from a friend’s house, I got the inspiration to hit the backroads after looking toward the Diablo Range and noticing its seemingly sudden greening. In the wake of a week of rain, the usually brown hills had donned their winter coat, which in our area is the color green.
“Whaddaya think, boys, should we take a country cruise?” I asked, half expecting them to shoot the idea down.
“Yeah, let’s go!” they agreed.
We took McCloskey Road to Fairview and turned right, heading for Santa Ana Valley Road, which takes drivers into the shadow of the hills on a meandering, two-lane road.
Making the left onto Santa Ana Valley Road, we left the traffic of Fairview behind. As is common when we’re in the car for any length of time, we decided to play a game.
“Everyone guess how many road-kill animals we’ll see,” I offered.
“One,” my oldest son said.
“Three,” the youngest one guessed.
“Five,” I said, figuring that with all of the daring, scurrying squirrels in the area, I’d have a good chance of winning this one.
To make it more interesting, I added, “And let’s count how many non-domesticated animals we can find,” meaning no cows, sheep, dogs or cats. Birds of prey would count, as would squirrels, skunks, pigs, turkeys and anything else.
We wound our way along the road, spotting no road kill for a few miles but noticing how peaceful it is in “the country.”
“It would be cool to live out here,” my oldest son said. “There’s so much room.”
The hills loom large, though they actually seem smaller up close.
We saw some crows, which my oldest son really dislikes ever since watching Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” The windows in the truck were rolled up so we couldn’t hear their caws, but we could see their heaving chests belting out their signature sounds.
After a long, flat stretch of road, we passed John Smith Road and headed up a small hill that makes you feel like you’re on a roller coaster if you close your eyes, which I suggested my sons do. I kept mine open for safety’s sake.
On the way down, the boys let out a collective “whoa!” before opening their eyes and resuming our hunt for animals – dead or alive.
The truck startled some doves from their perch on a barbed wire fence and squirrels darted in front of the vehicle, obviously not learning from the many fateful journeys of their cousins.
Next, we turned right at my favorite road name, Quien Sabe, which helps lead me into a version of Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s On First?” routine.
“Look, boys, we’re at Quien Sabe Road,” I say, setting a verbal trap.
“What does that mean, Dad?” one of them asks.
“Who knows?” I reply, stifling a smile.
“No, really, what does it mean? You don’t know?” they ask.
“Yes, who knows?” I say, getting more quizzical looks. “Quien Sabe in Spanish means ‘who knows?'”
Not bad, Dad, their smiles tell me.
We spotted a road-killed squirrel and a cat and some other creature that had been picked clean by vultures, no doubt, earning my youngest son a victory in the Spot-The-Road kill game. As the pavement took us through the hills and back down into Tres Pinos, we spotted people hang-gliding in a field that doubles as a parachute drop zone.
We turned right on Hwy. 25, noting a packed parking lot at Immaculate Conception Church (yes, my Catholic guilt kicked in as we drove away) and then took a left at Southside Road.
We drove through and across the paved part of the San Benito River, which despite the recent rains had nary a drop flowing. More winding roads brought us across a bridge, past Southside School, and along the back flank of Ridgemark.
As we neared Union Road a couple blocks from home, the boys actually asked if we could continue on our journey, choosing quality time with dear old dad over NBA Live 2009 on XBox. So we cruised a bit more, the country portion of our trip over.
Sometimes it takes little, unplanned adventures like this to remind us of how lucky we are to live in this place with the people we love, despite all the road kill and scary crows.
