I stood in the breakfast room of a weathered motel in Amarillo, waiting impatiently for the coffee maker to finish its cycle. I had no real schedule that day, no urgent destination; just a restless need to move. This was the return leg of a cross-country trip, a journey that had started as a favor to a family member and turned into a chance to explore before heading home to work and routine.
I was chasing moments like souvenirs, trying to collect as many experiences as possible before ordinary life called me back.
The room was quiet. Still dark outside. Striped wallpaper clung to the walls, and the “continental breakfast” advertised on the motel’s sign had boiled down to coffee (still brewing) and a tray of uncertain danishes. I passed on the pastries.
A tall, older man in jeans and a T-shirt entered, a half-smile on his face, like he was quietly amused by life itself. He nodded at the coffee maker.
“Still brewing?”
I nodded. “Getting there.”
“Good deal. I’m ready to get on the road.”
I figured that would be the end of it; just two strangers in a tired motel. But he kept talking.
“Today’s my last run,” he said. “Can’t wait to get home. My wife’s got everything packed. We’re headed to our cabin by the lake.”
He told me about that lake. About the fishing, the boat, the solitude. About the years he’d spent behind the wheel of a truck so he and his wife could afford to retire the way they dreamed. And now, that dream was finally real.
What struck me wasn’t just the story. It was the moment. He didn’t have to share any of this. But he did. A quiet room, a slow cup of coffee, and a stranger who happened to listen.
I forgot about rushing. We talked for over an hour. We talked about his routes, my road trip, alternate highways, and the way long stretches of road make you think differently about time. There was something about him—his calm, his ease—that held a kind of weathered wisdom. He knew where he was going. And he was already home, in a way.
Eventually, I packed up and got back on the road. The interstate was faster, but I took a side road instead.
After all, what’s the hurry?
Rod Price has spent his career in human services, supporting mental health and addiction recovery, and teaching courses on human behavior. A lifelong seeker of meaning through music, reflection, and quiet insight, he created Quiet Frontier as a space for thoughtful conversation in a noisy world.