If route 66 is America the Old, a gone-by road conquered by the new transcontinental mega-highway just several miles away, then California's coastal route 1 is the America the Deathless, America the Eternal.

Whereas route 66's abandoned structures bespeak a part of America that has left itself, route 1's cliffside majesty of crashing blue Pacific waves on one side and imperial Redwoods on the other tells a tale of an entirely different variety. The land itself directly states to the traveler: “I will gladly walk away, and crumble your highway into the sea, with all the cars on it, long before you will take from me a dime of mine or an eternal second belonging to I, the unconquerable America beyond your actor-governors and idiot-presidents, beyond even your Constitution.” It is as imposing as Mt. Olympus and as kingly or queenly as Machu Pichu.

At the height of the day, five of us – myself, my father, and three friends that were soon to drive cross country with me in the same old station wagon we were now in – were driving north up California's most famous road. We were on our way to several days of camping near the Russian Red River.

Having driven for most of the morning, through both heavy fog and heavy sun, we decided to stop and have a bit of a roadside picnic on one of route 1's many turnouts that overlooks the sea high atop a several hundred foot-high cliff.

Feeling restless from sitting in a car all morning, I noticed several cinder blocks lying in the middle of the turnout. I decided to start the first ever Roadside Olympics match. There was to be one event, the cinder-shotput: I made a line in the roadside gravel, and whoever could throw a cinder block the farthest from that line won.

It's the simple things in life that make it worth living.

Now, both my father and myself are of the physically stronger type. After a lifetime of carpentry work, for instance, I am quite certain my father could wrestle several polar bears the the ground at the same time, if need or inclination so demanded it. So, I was pretty sure one of us was going to walk away with the gold.

Of my three friends, Steve was a potential, if somewhat weak, threat to my Olympic ambitions.

Another friend, Luke, was a 6'6' lanky Brit. The sun had set on the British empire some years ago, and I wasn't too worried: I had seen British kids throw before... their background was clearly in soccer (or “football” in crazy-speak), not baseball or other arm-utilizing sports.

My third friend, Keith, had the athletic ability of a book that was completely sterilized so that any bacteria living in between its pages could not provide even microscopic dexterity.

I went first. My throw was hearty, if a bit disappointing.

Next up was my father. His throw outdistanced mine, thus preserving his twilight sense of athletic superiority for the next decade.

Keith and Steve both made lackluster throws.

Last up was Luke. I felt confident of attaining the silver metal, which I took to mean I could ride shotgun as my father drove.

In a burst of athleticism I had never seen come from this lanky, cerebral Brit, his throw greatly outdistanced all of ours.

I was flummoxed. I requested a rethrow.

Despite the look of stern determination on my face, I failed to outdistance even my initial throw.

Old Europe had bested me once again, this time in the rolling mists of California's route 1. Secretary Rumsfeld would be so disappointed in me.