Back in my high school days, mornings didn’t start with books—they started with engines and rock ‘n’ roll. Before the first bell ever rang, we made our laps around the high school parking lot—windows down, cigarettes burning, and radios blasting. Somebody had Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” and “Fire Down Below” playing—the kind of songs that felt like they were written for kids like us—chasing moments, living for the nights.
Most days, we would make it to class, but on a few occasions, we’d skip school altogether, wishing we were in a “Jet Airliner,” but instead, we were in our cars heading straight out to Powell’s Lake, listening to songs like Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” or Queen’s “We Will Rock You.” When we arrived, we’d climb up on the spillway, the cold water rushing below as we took turns diving in, the summer sun beating down. A few of us had smuggled in some beers, popping the tops as The Eagles’ “Take It Easy” and “One of These Nights” played from a radio set on a tailgate. It was the kind of day where time didn’t matter—where the only thing to worry about was how to make it last as long as possible.
Later on, sunburned and a few beers in, somebody would fire up Foreigner’s “Head Games” or crank Aerosmith’s “Back in the Saddle Again.”
On weekend nights, the town came alive. Hampton’s Dairy Mart was the main hangout—always buzzing with people grabbing a burger and a shake, catching up on the latest, and seeing who was around. As teens flipped the dip, every car rolled by with its own soundtrack—windows down, stereos blaring songs like Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” or Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion”—a seductive rock anthem that blends raw energy with a hypnotic bassline, capturing the thrill of desire.
The Rebel Fun Center was just as good, packed with familiar faces and pulsing with energy. Songs played like Bad Company’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love” or maybe the classic by Don McLean, “American Pie”—an enigmatic folk-rock epic that mourns the loss of innocence in American culture through cryptic storytelling—playing while we shot pool.
After things started to wind down, we’d head over to Texaco. That’s where the guys would sit on their tailgates at night, engines cooling, shooting the breeze, and checking out the girls as they drove by—windows down, music up, and laughter floating through the warm Kentucky air. Some of them rolled past with Elton John’s “Bennie and the Jets” and Linda Ronstadt’s “You’re No Good” cranked so loud it almost drowned out the sound of our own radio playing Jackson Browne’s “Doctor My Eyes.”
If things weren’t happening in town, we’d hit the back roads. Late at night, the roads belonged to us. Todd County had its fair share of “The Long and Winding Road,” and we knew them all. Sometimes we had a destination, but mostly, we just drove. That feeling of freedom—the roar of the engine, the way the headlights cut through the dark—it all felt bigger than it was. If we were on a “Slow Ride,” somebody would pop in a tape of The Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane,” and we’d push the pedal a little harder, chasing that rush.
On the weekend days, the only plan was working on a car. We’d gather under a shade tree in somebody’s backyard, the smell of motor oil thick in the air as we wrenched on an engine, passing tools and stories back and forth. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” played from a radio sitting on a workbench, followed by The Eagles’ “Take It to the Limit” or maybe even Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain”—the soundtrack to another evening spent with busted knuckles and big dreams.
And then, of course, there were the date nights. A freshly washed car, a pretty girl in the passenger seat, and nowhere in particular to go. Maybe we’d hit the back roads, maybe park somewhere quiet, just listening to Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind,” Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” and then Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” as the cool night air drifted through the windows. She didn’t know it, but in your mind, you were singing Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me.” Those moments felt endless—like nothing outside of right now even existed.
As the night stretched on and we took our dates home—at or before midnight—we’d always find our way back to Texaco again and sit on our tailgates. At that time of night, we were all just “Running on Empty.” The parking lot became our meeting ground, headlights illuminating the pavement, radios playing soft but steady. Somebody always had “Hotel California” ready to go, and when that opening guitar riff rang out, we’d just sit there, soaking in the haunting, metaphorical masterpiece by The Eagles that paints a vivid picture of excess, entrapment, and the dark side of the American Dream. It felt like the anthem to everything we were—young, reckless, and convinced we had all the time in the world.
Later on, driving home, not wanting to “Rock and Roll All Nite,” I was a “Free Bird” alone on an empty road. Elton John’s “Rocket Man” would come on, making me wonder what was out there beyond these little roads, this little town. But that was a thought for another day. Tonight, all that mattered was the music, the cars, and the feeling of knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
Looking back now, I realize we were living “Dreams” we didn’t even know we had. The nights, the songs, the friendships—they were ours, and nothing could touch them. We weren’t just kids in a small town. We were running “Against the Wind,” sometimes trying to make “Night Moves,” while trying to “Take It to the Limit” and “Take It Easy” at the same time—we were feeling “Hot Blooded,” burning up the back roads, living “Life in the Fast Lane,” and chasing something bigger than ourselves.
It was always the music that tied it all together—the cars, the nights, the friendships. Every memory had a song behind it, like a soundtrack we didn’t even realize we were writing.
And damn, did it feel good.