An old term for avoiding the mains.  Once one reaches a particular
milepost in life one does tend to look for the prettiest route.
Personally, I think the superslab has it's advantages for quick
passage when time enroute eats into time onsite.  But when it means
hours of white-knuckled, hemorrhoid-hammering, survival-mode tunnel
vision, I opt for the Blue Highways told in the story by William Least
Heat Moon and his van, Ghostdancer.

 If the journey is the thing and the Lincoln Highway calls (US40) or
the Mother Road (US66) or the Lonliest Highway (US50) then pottling
along poppywatching and contemplating the clouds to the strains of
Jerry Garcia and entourage (on Sirius Radio) has major benefits.
Plotting the route to include little off the track spots such as the
Owl Cafe in Austin, or Gene's Valmy NV, or the Atomic Cafe, or the
cheese factory in Loa, or Moms Cafe, or Vermillion Pass, or Watson
Lake, or Terlingua is a worthy enterprise.   Yes, it takes a little
more planning, but for some that's part of the charm.

Waking early to sit outside in the thin grey line between dark and
dawn and watch the colors unfold with the morning cup warming your
hands, is a fine state of affairs and all too rare in the crowded
west.

After all, the vanagon is pretty much the ideal touring car, the
Westfalia even more so.  I invite you to watch Rubber Tramps by Ken
Kesey a story of 'at home on the road', or spend some time with
Roadhaus, for inspiration for the journey.

Change those fuel lines.  Change the oil.  Think good thoughts and mosey on.