14 Days, 6500 miles, 1 Cybertruck. Part 1
Vegas to Maine on electrons, curiosity, and more roadside weirdness than one stainless‑steel wedge can carry
I know it’s been a couple weeks since I’ve gotten you an article. My sincere apologies. This article will explain why. (also, I have some really good stuff that’s more “on topic” coming very soon)
I decided to take a drive, piloting a stainless-steel wedge from the future: my 2024 Tesla Cybertruck. The mission? A 6,500-mile round trip to visit Dad, haul family relics, and rediscover America’s backroads. With Nancy’s farewell hug still warm, I rolled out under desert rain. Within fifteen minutes the neon of Vegas is a muted smear in the mirrors and the wipers are drumming a steady march across the massive angular windshield.
Over 14 days, I’d touch 19 states, 3 Canadian provinces, and 45 Superchargers. This first leg—3,050 miles to Charlotte, Maine—promised unique diners, dog parks, and a few digital tantrums from Elon (FSD v13.2.8). Part road warrior, part family man, I packed snacks, audiobooks, and a resolve to savor the journey. For my kids, Nancy, and you readers, here’s the story of chasing family memories across a continent, one charge at a time.
Stay tuned for Part 2, my return trip home. I know you want comparison numbers to a gas-powered alternative; it’s all the way at the end of part 2. You can read about the whole journey, or cheat. I’ll never know your devious nature. The scroll wheel is judgment‑free!
Also Want the Cybertruck’s full scoop? I have a full truck review in the works which will include everything from the day I ordered it, through the day I write it.
The Adventure Begins
Day 1 — Las Vegas to Gallup, New Mexico | 390 mi
The trip begins with a hug long enough for the neighbors to wonder if I’m shipping out to sea. Nancy finally releases me and the robot on wheels slips me away from the curb, stainless panels already stippled with desert rain. Soon, the rain hit hard enough to bounce, and the Cybertruck seemed to love every drop. Maybe it was just me. Five minutes later I’m already wondering whether I packed enough snacks.
Kingman, Arizona, arrives just as the bladder alarm sounds. I plug in at 52%, duck inside the travel center, and emerge to find the truck cheerfully insisting I can leave at 66%. Sensible advice, ignored. I scroll Bitcoin Twitter, watch the charge climb to a round 80%, and buy an obligatory gas‑station coffee—burnt, overpriced, perfect.
Fun Fact – Giganticus Headicus was built in 2003 with eight bags of stucco and a lot of Route 66 beer lore.
Not ten miles later I’m pulling off Route 66 for a date with Giganticus Headicus—a lime‑green moai that looks like Easter Island met a piñata factory. It’s comical. I trade four dollars for a Diet Coke just to avoid feeling like a freeloader, snap a couple selfies, discover I have zero cell service, and roll on.
Hackberry’s General Store felt like a time capsule. Just stopped in for a moment to stretch the legs, but these odd Rt66 attractions are worth a gander. I’m trying to keep in mind that it’s not all about getting to Maine, it’s about the trip there too. Balance in all things when possible.
Flagstaff sits eight thousand feet above the desert floor, and so does my range anxiety. The truck predicted I would arrive with 11%; I glide in with twelve and a smirk. While electrons pour in, I assemble what can only be called a gas‑station charcuterie board: two hard‑boiled eggs, meat‑and‑cheese roll‑ups, beef jerky, dill pickles, and a purple Vitamin Water. Twenty‑five dollars, zero bread, maximum sodium. Back on the road.
Full‑Self‑Driving is flawless until a semi drifts left. I jam the accelerator to clear danger zone; FSD throws a digital temper tantrum and sulks until I pull over and reboot—twice. The learning curve, it seems, is mutual.
Gallup’s Motel 6 greets me at 10:25 p.m. A neon sign buzzes. An ice machine rattles. The bed is softer than expected, and the constant HVAC hum is as good as any lullaby.
Today I Learned – You really can drop twenty‑five bucks at a convenience store without buying a single carbohydrate. That, and exit FSD before jamming the pedal. She doesn’t like it.
Day 2 — Gallup, NM to Shamrock, TX | 451 mi
I sleep fitfully under an AC unit that swings from sauna to icebox with the enthusiasm of a malfunctioning thermostat with ADHD. Breakfast is powdered eggs and mystery sausage—fuel, not cuisine. Outside, sleet freckles the Cybertruck, each pellet ticking like hail on a tin roof. She is tough, she can take it.
The Gallup Supercharger delivers cheap power while I FaceTime Nancy and contemplate the fact that I have already lost my ChapStick. I’m going to need to rectify that soon. 17% becomes 88%; the sleet becomes rain. I push east.
Near Albuquerque I top up from 32% and make myself a couple road sammiches with some Keto bread I brought from home. While I enjoy my lunch, I pass the next several hours on the road by discussing historical theology with a voice‑assistant AI. The more robots on this trip, the better!
The “Musical Highway” south of Tijeras is next—supposedly “America the Beautiful” in rumble‑strip form. What my ears get is a wheezy kazoo impression. I laugh out loud and keep moving. 1 star review.
In Tucumcari I charge up, in Amarillo I miss Cadillac Ranch entirely. Bummer. But I did get to make finger guns in front of the 2nd Amendment Cowboy. I’ll take it.
Shortly after the sky begins to fall—literally. A storm sweeps dust so thick that the rain turns to chocolate milk, painting the truck in viscous streaks. The wipers smear brown arcs for miles; the washer fluid barely keeps up. The camera vision only FSD is telling me that these are hostile working conditions and forces me to either go to uber slow “for safety” or take the wheel myself. Well, going 45 on a highway where the locals are going 80 doesn’t seem safe to me. Elon, you’re out of the driver’s seat! I’m on it!
Fun Fact – The leaning water tower outside Groom, Texas, was tilted on purpose in 1989 to lure Route 66 tourists. It worked…
By the time I reach Shamrock, Texas, the storm has exhausted itself and so have I. I celebrate survival with a bottle of Laphroaig 10 from a local liquor store whose neon sign flickers like a lighthouse. The motel is fifty‑six dollars, the bottle was more. The high-pressure shower erased the days woes, unlike Gallup’s neck-high dribble. I call Nancy, sip my smoky Scotch, and fall asleep to the sound of distant thunder. It was rather relaxing. Life is good.
Today I Learned – Range anxiety is real, but mud‑rain anxiety is messier. We managed though. We always do.
Day 3 — Shamrock, TX to Vinita, OK | 392 mi
Dawn smells like wet asphalt and cattle. I photograph the Cybertruck beside Tower Station’s 1930‑era pumps, then nurse it from 33% to a full hundred while the onboard game and lack of coffee tricks me into a time warp. I was supposed to hit the road by 80%. I should buy some cold brew for the cooler.
Back on the main roads. A sign for Valhalla Ranch slides past; I wonder whether the name promises paradise for the owner or a road map for the trespassers. In Weatherford OK, I find a gas‑station convenience store with a tiny Indian restaurant hidden inside; cumin and cardamom trail me back to the parking lot. I didn’t eat here because I had other plans, but it smelled SOOOO good. If you find yourself in these parts, you have to let me know how it is.
Next stop is the Cherokee Nation trading post in Geary OK. Lovely store. I pick up several gifts, including one for myself. Out front is a visually demanding Native American “Muffler Man” style monument.
Next, lunch at Pops 66—burger, fried okra, and a coffee. 5 stars. Pops has 700 varieties of soda. It’s quite impressive. I picked up few bottles of odd flavors and a T-shirt for Dad, who I still call “Pops.”
Fun Fact – Pops 66’s sixty‑six‑foot LED soda bottle cycles flavors in neon, one color per fizz. I wish I had gotten to see it at night.
Downtown Drumright feels like an abandoned Hollywood back‑lot, all empty storefronts and sun‑faded awnings. The truck attracts a polite crowd when I park at a local store; every Oklahoman asks before touching. I hand out permission and answer questions like a wandering car‑show tour guide. Wholesome people in these parts.
The Tulsa OK, Supercharger lives beside a Best Buy, which is perfect because I forgot a power supply for the S9 bitcoin miner nestled in the back seat of my truck (a gift for Pops). One more tourist trap in Catoosa to see a massive blue whale at a small but quiet park. This would be a great place to bring the kids for a few hours. An older lady fishes at the small lake. She seems happy.
By nightfall I’m in Vinita at a Super 8, devouring a truck‑stop seafood platter that is better than it has any right to be. Jalapeño poppers, Butterfly shrimp, tater wedges and a Shiner Bock tall‑boy. The fish... not so much. Time to sleep.
Today I Learned – Oklahomans of all ages will queue to photograph with a Cybertruck like it’s Bigfoot, and they always—always—ask first.
Day 4 — Vinita, OK to Richmond Rest Area, IN | 533 mi
Fog licks the highway, drizzle beads the cameras, and Full‑Self‑Driving responds by humming the tires across every rumble strip it can find. In Joplin I wipe the lenses; in Saint Robert I top up while plotting a stop at the Red Rocker I never make. It’s too far off path and I’m already behind schedule.
Near Rolla a green dually pickup swings a sudden U‑turn across the interstate. FSD slams the brakes; I shove the accelerator, slipping through a gap between truck and tractor trailer with inches to spare. It was pure reaction, worried about being rearended at 80 Mph. My heartbeat stalls somewhere around my eardrums. Adrenaline is a flavor. I wonder is Pops 66 carries that one. Maybe I’ll submit a request.
St Louis redeems the day. The charger is bolted to the wall of a vast dog‑park pub. I order a pint, throw tennis balls for strangers’ 4 legged friends and just bask in the moment. This is where I want to be. We need these everywhere.
Next, I am off to the World Chess Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, its Easter Sunday and it is closed even though the website clearly allows you to buy your tickets for today. Misleading and another bummer. But check out the gyatt on the world’s largest chess piece! (If you don’t know “gyatt“, ask a teenager)
One more must-stop in St Louis; the Arch. The robot guide in my phone (AI) tells me that I can beat all the hustle and bustle of going to the arch itself, and that Malcom W Martin Memorial Park is the best place for a view. The robots win again. It was perfect. No noise, no traffic, no people, no fee. What more can a boy want from the world?
Fun Fact: St. Louis’s Gateway Arch, completed in 1965, stands 630 feet as America’s tallest monument.
Night finds me in an Indiana rest area, inflatable mattress filling the back seat, AC set to sixty‑nine degrees. Tractor‑trailers howl past all night; I sleep anyway, knees locked at ninety degrees, dreaming of larger legroom.
Day 5 — Indiana Rest Area to Bennington, Vermont | 690 mi
I rise at 5:30. Woke stiff from truck sleeping, knees cramped at 90°. Sip coffee in twenty minutes of predawn peace on the tailgate. Inside the truck looks like my 16-year-olds bedroom, but I can clean up at the next charging station. Columbus, Ohio, offers more electrons and a reminder that cameras fog as quickly as glasses when the humidity spikes. If there is weather of any type, you really should wipe the cameras every stop.
Today I Learned – The truck loses only 4% of charge overnight with Sentry Mode engaged and AC running—better stamina than my phone.
Erie, Pennsylvania, charges forty cents a kilowatt and feels every penny. I compensate with a burger and an energy drink of questionable legality. My Keto life officially died back at Pops 66 in Oklahoma. No reason to try to behave now.
A sweet young lady gives me double birds on the highway after trying to box me in rather aggressively. Elon handled it like a champ, but I quickly grew tired of it. I guess she didn’t get the memo that my ride is a rocket ship. I blast out of her toxic atmosphere feeling sorry for her. She clearly isn’t upset with me; she doesn’t even know me. None the less, she has some emotions she needs to figure out. Lot of Tesla hate out there currently. Luckily, I only felt it a couple times (The positive interactions FAR outweighed and outnumbered the negative ones).
The Salamanca, New York, Supercharger is bolted to a casino parking lot; I wander inside and watch retirees feed their fixed incomes into slot machines like homing pigeons pecking seed. I leave feeling richer of wallet and poorer of spirit. It was depressing in there. I’ll go sit in my truck.
Fun Fact: Salamanca, NY, on Seneca Nation land, is the only U.S. city fully leased from Native Americans.
The Catskills roll under the tires like I am stitching a green quilt. Stone walls, hipsters, and a smell so sharp and leafy it slices years off my memory. By dark I’m in Bennington, Vermont. The motor inn sports lace curtains that hide nothing, but a microwave that resurrects kielbasa beautifully. I eat, email Nancy a gaggle of photos, and sleep.
Fun Fact – Bennington’s Grandma Moses Schoolhouse preserves over fifteen thousand of her letters and doodles. Sheesh.
Day 6 — Bennington, VT to Hancock, ME | 326 mi
The world outside the motel smells like wet pine needles and woodsmoke. New England’s nostalgia hit hard. Route 9 to Brattleboro threads between babbling brooks and stone‑walled pastures. I feel like I’m piloting a spaceship in colonial America. A bearded Vermonter wearing flannel walking by the next charger stares, smiles, and asks about the truck. “What’s that?” he asks. I tell him. “Never seen one before. Looks like it’s from the future”. A DeLorean with a lift kit. Hard to argue. I wish mine ate banana peels.
Tolls in New England insist on cash. It’s 2025, really?! Goodbye nostalgia. The collector studies the stainless steel a moment and says, “You’re one of those future guys, huh? No cash at all?” I get a receipt that I can use to pay online at a later date. Scarborough, Maine, delivers the fastest charge of the journey—two hundred fifty‑six kilowatts, six hundred thirty‑six miles an hour on the screen. I can watch the battery climb in real time.
Fun Fact – Scarborough’s 1926 snowplow was Maine’s first calibrated for coastal nor’easters; it sits one mile from the Supercharger.
Bangor supplies a Ruby Tuesday dinner—chicken, broccoli, polite waitstaff—and then, finally, the 100 miles of two‑lane roads that lead to Dad.
By the time I get to Charlotte, the Cybertruck wore a crust of desert mud, prairie dust, and Atlantic salt—a rolling scrapbook of everywhere I’d been. I arrive with 41% charge. The silence of the EV lets me sneak down his 1.5-mile-long dirt driveway. Thats forgiving, it’s more like going off road than a driveway. Anyway, I walk into his house and he, nor his dog had any idea I had arrived. Thats another point for the robots from the future.
Today I Learned – Stainless steel holds dirt like memory, and every bug splat is a new badge of honor. I got bugs from every state it would seem.
Interlude — Three Days in rural AF Maine
Chinese food, chess, and the whir of an S9 miner humming in Dad’s basement. We call Nancy to share the day’s adventure. His home off grid battery setup is quite a bit smaller than my truck capacity, so we run a test. Let’s charge off his solar and see how far we can push it. The truck sips 4% over night-cheap rent for a spaceship- but come 2am, his batteries called it quit. They’re down past 10% and they shut the whole operation down. Test complete. It doesn’t matter; we wake up with the sun and heat is provided via wood stove. In 2 hours his solar has him back up and running and we learned a couple things along the way.
The whole point of this trip was to go get some family relics. It’s a hodgepodge of things, everything from boxes of photos to furniture built by family members in the 1800’s. After a couple days of visiting, playing pool and going through old things, it’s time to pack up the truck. One of the things Pops taught me well was how to Tetris the hell out of a truck. I still got it!
The outbound leg confirmed a few truths:
Roadside weirdness is the point. From lime‑green moai to leaning water towers, America still specializes in delightful distraction.
Full‑Self‑Driving is a talented teenager. Brilliant until you floor it in a panic, then it sulks until you pull over and reset. Just like my 16-year-old daughter, it’s a great driver. But I won’t be closing my eyes any time soon.
Range anxiety fades; curiosity doesn’t. After the third state line I stopped worrying about chargers and started wondering what oddity waited at the next exit.
Mostly, the drive reminded me that a road trip is a machine for stretching time. Hours unspool into thoughts you didn’t know you had; strangers become tour guides; every Supercharger is an excuse to look around.
The truck is repacked, antiques strapped down, miner humming autonomously. Tomorrow the wedge pivots west and the real experiment begins: Can the return trip out‑weird the ride here?
Stay tuned for Part 2, where we talk about Canadian customs, $0.19 kWh jackpots, and a sunrise detour through Mars‑red Moab.
Cool trip, Good vibes, and fun facts. Keep it coming. I look forward to the final economic data on the stainless steel wedge and the trip home story!