Route 66 was called the road of flight. People left the Dust Bowl on it, headed west with everything they owned tied to the roof of a car, chasing something they could not name but trusted was out there. That is still the only honest description of what thinking does to a person.
HTTF runs the same corridor. Chicago to Los Angeles, inland to coast, landlocked certainty toward open water. The road is paved with questions because questions are the only things that fit in our carry-on bag 💼
The hitchhikers along this route are not going anywhere you would expect. Somewhere in Oklahoma you will find Socrates walking the shoulder in no particular hurry, asking everyone who slows down where they think they are headed and whether they are sure. Most people speed past him. The ones who stop are never the same after.
Epictetus is further west, near Amarillo, sitting on a fence in the full sun, entirely unbothered by the heat, mildly curious about your distress.
Hume is at a diner outside Gallup, telling anyone who will listen that the coffee probably exists but he cannot be certain the cup does. He is pleasant about it. He orders pie. 🥧
The road was decommissioned in 1985 because the interstates were faster, more efficient, better lit.
HTTF has never been decommissioned because no one has built anything faster than a thought, and efficiency was never the point of philosophical inquiry.
The point was the going. The point was what you notice when you can’t get there directly and the detour takes you through somewhere you did not know you needed to see.
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