In "Booze, Babe, and the Little Black Dress," author and innovation historian Jason Voiovich takes readers on a captivating journey through the fascinating decade of the 1920s.
There are so many wonderful stories from the book I could share, but here's just a quick snippet from the beginning of Chapter 20: How You Got Your Kicks
On May 26, 1928, fifty-five sweaty skeletons shambled their way into Madison Square Garden.
Despite their sorry state, they weren’t quite finished with C.C. Pyle’s 3,422-mile Great Transcontinental Footrace, also painfully and appropriately known as the “Bunion Derby.” Finalists ran the final 20-mile indignity by circling the Garden’s 1/10-mile track two hundred times. Most of the 257 competitors who set off from California in March took the “rabbit” approach. Given the climate and terrain immediately east of the starting gate, one struggles to imagine a more foolish strategy.
Seventy-five runners called it quits before sunset on the first day. (Early stops along the way included the Mohave Desert and the Dead Mountains. They’re not named that because of the pretty flowers.) The field continued to dwindle throughout the dusty fields of the vast middle west. Only ninety-nine made it to Chicago, the symbolic halfway point.
The winner (survivor?) was a 20-year-old, part-Cherokee farm boy named Andy Payne. He clocked the best time at 573 hours, 4 minutes, or just shy of 24 days of elapsed time from Los Angeles to New York. His tortoise-like victory proved the adage: Slow and steady wins the race. Payne speed-walked the U.S.A. instead of running it. Smart kid. You’d think an epic cross-country footrace charting the nation’s brand new “Mother Road” (much of which remained unpaved during the race) would generate more excitement in New York. You would be wrong. Runners nearly outnumbered spectators when they finally panted their way across the finish line. The final indignity must have been hearing the applause from a couple of dozen spectators echo through an empty stadium.
The big idea was to promote the completed-but-not-yet-fully-paved Route 60. Whoops. Route 62. Dammit! Route 66. (Road numbering is a whole other story. We’ll get to that later.) Cy Avery and other boosters had worked like dogs for years to get this route to pass through several towns in Oklahoma on its journey cross-country. He had faced delays, grifters, and racists along the way. Avery stuck with it because he knew each little town along the route would benefit handsomely from the expected traffic along the best new route from Chicago to Los Angeles.
No one at the time could have foreseen the migrations of the Great Depression and the Hippie Counterculture along the length of America’s highway. But Avery knew that the automobile was the next big thing. He had a feeling people would use it to get out and explore the country. His job was to ensure every wanderluster would need to stop off in Tulsa for a meal and a bed.
“One of the book's strengths is its ability to connect the past to the present”
This is my favorite part
There are so many wonderful stories from the book I could share, but here's just a quick snippet from the beginning of Chapter 20: How You Got Your Kicks
On May 26, 1928, fifty-five sweaty skeletons shambled their way into Madison Square Garden.
Despite their sorry state, they weren’t quite finished with C.C. Pyle’s 3,422-mile Great Transcontinental Footrace, also painfully and appropriately known as the “Bunion Derby.” Finalists ran the final 20-mile indignity by circling the Garden’s 1/10-mile track two hundred times. Most of the 257 competitors who set off from California in March took the “rabbit” approach. Given the climate and terrain immediately east of the starting gate, one struggles to imagine a more foolish strategy.
Seventy-five runners called it quits before sunset on the first day. (Early stops along the way included the Mohave Desert and the Dead Mountains. They’re not named that because of the pretty flowers.) The field continued to dwindle throughout the dusty fields of the vast middle west. Only ninety-nine made it to Chicago, the symbolic halfway point.
The winner (survivor?) was a 20-year-old, part-Cherokee farm boy named Andy Payne. He clocked the best time at 573 hours, 4 minutes, or just shy of 24 days of elapsed time from Los Angeles to New York. His tortoise-like victory proved the adage: Slow and steady wins the race. Payne speed-walked the U.S.A. instead of running it. Smart kid. You’d think an epic cross-country footrace charting the nation’s brand new “Mother Road” (much of which remained unpaved during the race) would generate more excitement in New York. You would be wrong. Runners nearly outnumbered spectators when they finally panted their way across the finish line. The final indignity must have been hearing the applause from a couple of dozen spectators echo through an empty stadium.
The big idea was to promote the completed-but-not-yet-fully-paved Route 60. Whoops. Route 62. Dammit! Route 66. (Road numbering is a whole other story. We’ll get to that later.) Cy Avery and other boosters had worked like dogs for years to get this route to pass through several towns in Oklahoma on its journey cross-country. He had faced delays, grifters, and racists along the way. Avery stuck with it because he knew each little town along the route would benefit handsomely from the expected traffic along the best new route from Chicago to Los Angeles.
No one at the time could have foreseen the migrations of the Great Depression and the Hippie Counterculture along the length of America’s highway. But Avery knew that the automobile was the next big thing. He had a feeling people would use it to get out and explore the country. His job was to ensure every wanderluster would need to stop off in Tulsa for a meal and a bed.
This looks super interesting - excited to read it!