It was the perfect spot for a young man to photograph a car. Gray clouds, failing light, and Tri-X Pan in an old Nikon all added up to create a moody scene that was the “money shot” of the day’s drive through the fields and small towns of rural Illinois.
These drives represented the ultimate freedom for a young driver. Taking off into the unknown, the straight grid of farm roads allowed aimless exploration, while their structure kept you from truly getting lost. Pick a direction and go. Up and over, up and over, alongside the fields, dead-reckoning, eventually ending up at a known crossroad or town to regroup and head toward home, arriving just before curfew. Everything was new; every corner provided a view that had not been seen before and allowed me to practice gearshifts, rev-matching, and smooth cornering. My ride was an older Saab 900, well-used but well-cared for. Four cylinders, 8- valves, and most importantly, a whistling turbo that you had to let cool off for several minutes after a brisk drive. In my mind, I thought I was Erik Carlsson driving a rally car. I imagined Jackie Stewart sitting beside me, coaching me to make each move smoothly and quickly. It was a dream come true.
These drives would take me past old barns, some with rusty old cars parked up when their useful days were over. Small towns would appear along two-lane highways, most with little more than a post office and an empty store. If you were lucky, a small grocery store or diner would offer a place to get a snack or drink. These stops often inspired more photos, their worn porcelain signs still on display, not out of nostalgia, but because they still worked, and for a tiny business in a tiny town, there was simply no reason, or budget, to replace them. This was before modern dollar stores with garish signs sprung up in rural areas. Chain restaurants didn’t exist in 500-person towns, and people either made their meals or visited the diner or bar that survived to serve farmers, miners, and lost travelers. Those were the options.
Hundreds of photos were taken, some in color, most in black and white. Color film had to be processed at a lab and was expensive. Black and white required skill to develop and print, was cheaper, and added to the adventure. That film was run through an old Nikon FE2, its black body brassy on the edges, but its meter was reasonably accurate, its Nikkor lens sharp. Some photos were good, many were not, but it was all about experience. Learning the camera, perfecting the drive, and, most importantly, expanding the world that was mine to see and understand.
It is more challenging to find the unique in the 21st century. Many of the little towns have dried up, and the small businesses have gone, but if you look hard enough through the dirty windows of abandoned buildings on dusty main streets, you can still get a feel for the character of each location. Park a car in front of a rusty sign on an old building, imagine what it was once like, and create a memory of your own.
