Love Bites: Dual Carriageway Dreaming

The places many dream of visiting to restore personal peace are typically locations of idyllic escape – tropical beaches, Mediterranean verandas, or cypress tree-filled Tuscan fields. But my desires lead me somewhere different: motorway service stations. Yes, I choose to fantasise about the concrete complexes that border our dismal dual carriageways.

I recognise that fixating on these glorified car parks perhaps suggests a grim reality, but my love for them is bound up in the romance and adventure of cinematic road trips, from renegade lovers hitting the open road in Badlands, to the daring abandon of Easy Rider. I think fondly of the rustic glamour of rest stops presented in American film, with their Googie architecture and kitschy signage; I think of the wheels of a Cadillac or camper van scuffing sandy desert ground as it exits Route 66 and pulls up to the pump; I think of True Romance and Thelma and Louise. And so, as I descend the stairs of my National Express bus somewhere outside Penrith and take in a panoramic view of Eddie Stobart trucks, I indulge an Americana delusion that I too am an elusive vagabond – high on counter-culture and low on gas.

When refuelling, re-stocking, and relaxing in this liminal space, I feel revitalised and bound by no law, only loosely tethered to society by the headlines on newspaper stands. I revert to a toddler-like state: I dance on the linoleum floor, I’m in desperate need of the toilet, and I’m overly excited at the prospect of a snack. With no duty to be productive, I am free to play, nap, and surrender to silliness. Whenever my inner child hits those brakes, I find myself reimagining Tebay Services as Utah and my Costa coffee as bootleg cargo. 

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