The Road More Traveled: When the Miles Turn to Memories.

For me, fall is a season of reflection. Maybe it’s the falling leaves that signal the end of a cycle. Perhaps it’s the subtle hint of cooler air settling over Central New York. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the road I’m traveling on now. The distant shimmer of red and gold on the hillsides feels familiar, like a favorite song I’ve heard a thousand times before but still don’t skip.

This past week, I found myself on Interstate 81, somewhere between Binghamton, NY, and Scranton, PA. It’s not exactly a stretch of highway that shows up on Expedia’s “Top 10 Scenic Drives.” But it’s a road that knows me better than some old friends, for two very particular reasons.

The first is my ongoing love affair with what might be the most understated and yet puzzling sign on any interstate in America. As you round a curve heading north, a stunning vista of rolling hills greets you, along with a sign that reads: “Endless Mountains Region Next 6 Exits.” Endless, but only six exits? I want my money back.

The second reason is far more personal. I’ve driven this stretch more times than I can count. Travel sports tournaments. College drop-offs and pick-ups. Visits with children now grown. And on this day, a new granddaughter at the end of the road waiting for a hug. The mountains may only have six exits, but my memories have a lot more.

As I cruised along, I found myself thinking about Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken and that famous closing line: “I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” Over time, that phrase has been shortened to “the road less traveled,” coming to symbolize individuality and choosing your own path.

But somewhere between the exit signs and the soft hum of the tires, I flipped that idea on its head. This road wasn’t about taking a different path. It was about taking the same one, over and over, and realizing how it had shaped my life each time I traveled it. Maybe the real trick of getting older is understanding that meaning doesn’t always come from new destinations, but from seeing familiar ones through new eyes.

The first few trips were as a young parent. A car filled with teenagers (and sweaty lacrosse equipment), heading to some weekend tournament. The kids were still young enough to tolerate my stories and musical choices. The weather was either rain or snow, the bleachers were hard, and my BlackBerry never stopped buzzing with work emails competing for my attention. But I would give anything to take a few more of those drives.

A few years later, those tournament trips turned into college visits. Few moments in life mix pride, joy, and sadness as powerfully as dropping your child off at college for the first time. Along with the education came their independence, and a little less interest in the old man’s road-trip stories. For the first time, I realized that while the mountains might seem endless, my years were starting to look a lot more like only six exits left.

Then came the work years with sales calls, airports, and late-night returns from Newark after yet another missed flight. I could have driven that stretch of highway in my sleep. Those miles felt more like an obligation than an adventure, the road a blur between meetings and deadlines. I measured time by appointments, not sunsets. Looking back, I wish I had pulled over more often, not because I was too tired to drive, but because I didn’t realize how much life I was letting pass me by.

Now, I’m a grandfather traveling that same road, but with softer eyes and a more relaxed soul. There’s less hurry in my step and a lot more gratitude. The kids are grown. My counsel is no longer required, my playlists are outdated, and my stories are more “flip phone” than “AI.” There’s a touch of sadness in these miles, along with the quiet questions that sneak in when the road is long.

Did I do enough? Could I have been better?

Then I hold my granddaughter and realize that maybe, just maybe, the answer is yes.

So, I hope they never change that road sign on Interstate 81. I would like to see it a few more times before they take away my driver’s license. The mountains may be endless, but the miles are not. And that’s what makes every trip down this road more traveled, every hug, every song, every stop along the way, more precious.

Maybe that’s what time teaches us. We don’t get to turn around and relive the miles we’ve missed, but we do get to remember them, sometimes more clearly than when we were living them. The past has a way of coming back through a stretch of highway or a little hand gripping your fingers for the first time. And without asking for it, but maybe a little wishing for it, that’s how the road gives us back what time takes away.

Dan Troup is The Sunny Side of 57. He loves to reflect and write about life, family, career, and retirement. Check out more of his reflections on his blog site. Also, consider subscribing to The Sunny Side of 57. When not playing pickleball or hiking with Sue and Rigby, he (tries) to write a new post one to two times a month.