Man, the last time I hit the open road was through the desert on Highway 50, sunset bleeding into the sand. I had a battered guitar case, a playlist of raw riffs, and the wind was just screaming the same chords I was playing. The highway felt like a single, relentless guitar solo – every mile a note, every mirage a lyric. By the time I hit that old diner at mile marker 312, I was humming the song in my head, and the whole ride turned into a story I keep telling, because the road wasn’t just a path, it was a living, breathing track that never let me quit.

It was pure jam, man. I was riffing off whatever the highway threw at me – a riff here, a break there – and the wind just kept the beat. Nothing pre‑planned, just feel and attitude. The diner at mile 312? That’s the place where the locals call me the “road legend” ’cause I once played a midnight set for a whole row of empty booths, the kind of night where the jukebox kept skipping. They say the owner still keeps my guitar in a drawer as a souvenir, and every time I stop there, the place feels like a chapter in a road‑tale that never ends.