Adrenaline road trips are the only time I feel alive, like actually alive, not just scrolling TikTok in my boxers alive. I’m typing this in my Austin apartment at 1:17 a.m.—fan rattling like it’s about to quit, leftover brisket grease on my fingers, and I swear I still hear the engine whine from last week’s Big Bend disaster. I once forgot to fill up in Marfa and coasted into a ghost town on fumes, praying to the gas gods. Spoiler: they answered with a $7/gallon pump that took my card and my soul. Anyway, here’s the messy truth about planning adrenaline road trips before I pass out.
Why Adrenaline Road Trips Are My Brand of Stupid
I’m not built for calm. Give me a spreadsheet and I’ll light it on fire. But put me behind the wheel on Route 66 in Arizona at 3 a.m. with zero cops and a full tank? I’m grinning like an idiot. My buddy Jess still won’t forgive me for the time I took a “shortcut” through a dry riverbed in New Mexico—car got stuck, we pushed it out while coyotes laughed at us. That’s the high, though. Planning adrenaline road trips just means stacking the deck so the chaos is fun chaos, not “call AAA” chaos.
How I Kinda-Sorta Plan Adrenaline Road Trips (Without Crying)
Used to be pure vibes. No map, no plan, just “west sounds cool.” Ended up in a Nebraska cornfield at midnight because Google Maps thought “scenic route” meant “haunt my nightmares.” Now I do this half-assed system:
- Anchor the crazy: Pick one spot that makes you go “holy fu—” Mine was Zion’s Angels Landing last spring—chains, drop-offs, the works. Plan backward from there, even if it means 14-hour drives.
- Budget like a doomsday prepper: Gas, snacks, random $80 motel because you’re too tired to care. My last adrenaline road trip? $600 in fuel because I kept chasing sunsets. Fuelly helps, but I still ignore it.
- Pack the dumb stuff: Jumper cables (used ‘em twice), a real flashlight (not phone), and like six kinds of hot sauce because priorities.
My Top-Tier Adrenaline Road Trip Screw-Ups (Laugh So You Don’t Cry)
True story: tried to “drift” a sandy turnout in Moab. Buried the car to the axles. Spent three hours digging with a plastic spoon from Sonic while a Jeep full of influencers filmed me. Another gem—I packed zero water for a 105°F day in Death Valley. Hallucinated a Whataburger in the dunes. Hydrate, idiots. Check Weather Underground like your life depends on it—because it do.
Detours That Broke Me (And Made Me)
- Great Sand Dunes, CO: Thought I’d “just climb one.” Slid down on my ass, lost a shoe, found God. 10/10.
- Random New Mexico hot spring: Found via a burner Reddit account. Soaked till my fingers pruned while a storm rolled in. Car smelled like eggs for 400 miles.
Gear I Love (And the Crap I Threw Out a Window)
- Yeti cooler: Keeps Whataburger spicy ketchup cold for days. Worth the hype.
- $20 Amazon dash cam: Caught me singing Taylor Swift at 90 mph. Blackmail material.
- “Waterproof” boots: Lied. My socks were soup after one puddle. Get Merrells.
The “Don’t Do What I Did” Adrenaline Road Trip List
- Tell someone where you’re going. I ghosted my sister for 36 hours—she filed a missing persons report. Oops.
- Offline maps or bust. Maps.me saved my bacon in zero-bar zones.
- Eat real food sometimes. I lived on Flamin’ Hot Cheetos for four days—my tongue filed for divorce.
Yeah I’m Rambling But Whatever
Adrenaline road trips are my glitchy little rebellion against adulting. I’ve blown tires, lost friends (temporarily), and once peed behind a cactus because the next restroom was 80 miles away. But every dusty sunrise, every near-miss with a deer, every gas station burrito that fought back—it’s mine. So steal my dumb tips, ignore the parts that sound insane, and go make your own disasters. Drop your worst road trip story below—I’ll read ‘em while I pretend to work tomorrow. Drive fast, take chances, don’t die. Peace.
