The Price of Free: Tales from America’s Worst Roads
We traveled from Erie, Illinois to South Bend, Indiana today. On paper, it was a 3 hour and 40-minute drive. We took the “free” route—twenty minutes longer than the toll roads, but hey, no extra charge. I’ll admit I can be a little stubborn about this. We pay a lot of taxes already, so tolls feel like a cash grab. Roads, in my opinion, should be free. It’s the principle.
But free comes at a cost.
This particular “free” road was a lesson in contrasts—and patience. Half of it was reduced to a single lane thanks to endless construction. Another quarter of it was technically an interstate, but let’s just say the definition of “paved” was debatable. The final stretch routed us through small-town traffic, stoplights, and cracked asphalt that looked like it had been patched with duct tape and prayer.
I’ve started calling these routes The Poor People’s Interstate. Can’t—or won’t—pay? Then you don’t get smooth pavement or fast access. You get detours and potholes, school zones, and anxiety. And then of course, there’s the joy of skirting past Chicago, which never fails to deliver chaos. Our 3 hour and 40-minute drive stretched to almost 5.
We’re lucky, I remind myself. We had the time. No deadline, no schedule. But not everyone does.
This wasn’t our first rodeo on the Bumpy Road Express. Earlier in our travels, we took a soul-jarring drive from Lake Havasu City to Williams, Arizona on I-40. That stretch left a lasting impression—on both my memory and Lucy’s suspension.
How many potholes can an interstate have? Apparently, there’s no limit. Not just on the right lane either—both sides were craters waiting to eat tires and test your faith. And yet, the speed limit signs proudly declared 75 mph. I wanted to crawl. Every bump hurt my heart. Poor Lucy (our RV) shook so much I thought she’d rattle into pieces. I swerved so wildly that if I’d been pulled over, I’d have simply told the officer, “No drunk driver could’ve done worse.”
It’s maddening. And yet, Arizona gets away with it—maybe because it distracts you with the Grand Canyon, Sedona, and desert sunsets that steal your breath. But one pothole can steal your alignment just as fast.
After surviving that stretch of I-40, we parked among truckers in Williams, AZ, who battle that broken blacktop regularly. I remember pouring myself a strong drink and toasting the fact we’d made it through without blowing a tire or losing a tooth.
There’s freedom in the road—but only if you can afford it.
That’s the uncomfortable truth that’s starting to settle in. Toll roads offer smoother, faster travel—if you’re willing to pay. Otherwise, you get what’s left. Crumbling asphalt, stop-and-go detours, and endless construction zones that no one seems to be working on.
We’re still choosing the road less tolled. Sometimes out of principle, sometimes out of frugality, and sometimes because we simply didn’t know what we were getting into. But either way, I’m starting to see the literal cracks in this version of freedom.
Maybe next time, I’ll pay the toll.
Or maybe I’ll just pack extra ibuprofen, hold Lucy’s steering wheel with both hands, and keep swerving toward the horizon.
