It started off with a thought I had once I was finally in Arizona in mid-August after spending the summer in Seattle. I was returning from visiting my parents in Tucson — as I often do. Once I passed the IKEA I knew that, 15 minutes later, I would be coasting up the Third Street exit and straight into downtown Phoenix.
You know the exit I’m talking about — on the carpool lane on Interstate 10, the off-ramp exit that drops you right on Third Street. It is the golden child of left-lane exits. This ramp shows the world that in the concrete wastelands created by the Valley’s freeways, beauty can be found.
I pitched the idea for this column to our editors; of course, it was unanimously approved. We all love this exit, the guiding beacon to our downtown home. Well, everyone except for our public policy editor, who explained that he’s “from Chicago.”
Yet I encountered a problem. I couldn’t decide on the best way to profess my love for the world to hear. Would I write this from the perspective of my truck? Would it be a poem? One of those exercises where I tell you to close your eyes and tell you you’re on the I-10? (I actually did write that last one, to horrible results.) Week after week, the story got pushed back, until it became a running joke that I would never finish the thing. I could hear the exit ramp teasing me as I coasted on top of it on my way to the ASU Downtown Phoenix campus.
“You must not really love me,” it would say. “You are fake.”
“No, ramp, please,” I would reply. “I can’t be fake. Please, anything but fake.”
But I knew I was being fake. I wasn’t being fair to this exit. I needed to carry this column through, as my beloved exit had carried me throughout my years living downtown.
It carries me back to the place in the Valley I really care about. When coming back from shopping at the mall or eating a nice dinner at Buca di Beppo (yes, these are things I do), it’s the Third Street exit that guides me to my Roosevelt Point apartment (I’m probably not making any friends as I write this). Downtown is where I live, where I need to be, and it’s the Third Street exit that will take me there.
It’s as versatile as freeway exits come. You can join the carpool lane about a mile beforehand or cross over (during the right hours) from the far-right lane and avoid the Seventh Street exit, which is trash. Our community editor Sarah Jarvis detailed the source of her undying love for the Third Street exit:
Once you’re on the ramp, you can let go of the pedal and coast to the top, only a short stoplight away from your destination.
“You’re almost there, buddy,” the ramp says. “You are the best driver of all time, [your name].”
The Man will tell you to take the inferior Seventh Street exit if you’re driving alone. Do you want to listen to The Man? The risk of just lightly drifting over to the left lane, right before the exit, is so miniscule, the reward so grand. We do it because it works.
And there aren’t a lot of things that work in this world. As we get older, we become more naturally disillusioned with the world around us. People don’t pursue their passions. They grow old, get bored, get married. They move to the suburbs to raise their kids. They die, shells of their former selves.
The Third Street exit does not like that. It knows you’re better than that.
It surpasses the expectations of freeway exits all across the country. It glides us to our homes, our work, our schools, our friends, our families, our bars and restaurants. It is a textbook example of proper degrees of elevation, asphalt consistency, being lit. Like Sex Panther or Colt 45, the Third Street exit works every time.
“I’m just doing my job here,” the ramp says. So humble.
Yeah, so burning fuel is bad, and freeways are as uncool as they can be. Why would you even want to leave downtown anyway? Downtown is hip. Hip is cool. Cool is good.
But you have to leave the bubble. It’s annoying, sometimes even scary. But when you feel like the outing will go on forever, the Third Street exit is the one that will lead you home.
I know this has happened to you. This is your moment to thank the exit. Go on, do it.
“[Your message of appreciation. Maybe some flowers, a song gently strummed on the guitar],” you murmur with deep love and appreciation.
“Wow, I didn’t expect all of this. Thank you so much. You really shouldn’t have,” the Third Street exit says.
I hope you don’t think I’m fake anymore, Third Street ramp.
I hope I’m real, just like you.
Contact the columnist at motarola@asu.edu
