Welcome to Buc-ee’s, Baby: It’s not a gas station. It’s a Texas-sized theme park for the hungry, the curious, and the deeply unprepared.



The Buc-ee’s Breakdown



How I Barely Survived the Largest Gas Station in America



I pulled into Buc-ee’s for gas and snacks. What I got was a Texas-sized fever dream of brisket chants, wall-to-wall fudge, and the cleanest bathroom on Earth.




A few years back, somewhere on a long haul north from Florida, I decided to finally see what all the fuss was about. We’d been hearing about Buc-ee’s forever—the kids were obsessed. According to the internet, it was some kind of roadside utopia where you could buy a seven-pound pail of bacon grease, nachos, and parfaits all under one roof.


We spotted the brand-new Buc-ee’s off I-95 in South Carolina. It had 120 gas pumps. One. Hundred and twenty, And still, I circled the parking lot no less than 15 times trying to find a spot. RVs, lifted trucks, little Subarus with “adventure” stickers on the back—all of us trapped in a swirling gas station vortex. After ten minutes of aimless circling and increasing blood pressure, I gave up, peeled off, and watched more cars pouring in off the exit ramp like ants toward a melted popsicle.


The kids protested. Loudly. Something about fudge, beaver nuggets, and a mythical wall of beef jerky. I quieted the revolt with Subway sandwiches and a fill-up at a place where I didn’t have to elbow someone just to pee.




Fast forward to last week.


Now I’m in Johnstown, Colorado—exit 252 off I-25—and there it is again: Buc-ee’s. This one clocks in at 74,000 square feet, with 116 gas pumps and 12 EV charging stations. It practically hums with power and smoked meat.


I park. Easily this time.


I walk in—and I’m immediately overwhelmed. One million smells hit me all at once. Brisket. Cotton candy. Jalapeños. Sugar. Cologne. Leather. Something that might’ve been deep-fried air. I lose my balance slightly and feel the room tilt.


There’s fudge. Everywhere. A wall of it. A pile of Beaver Nuggets (what even are those?). Souvenir magnets. Socks. Pajamas. Bacon-themed everything. I’m doing that thing I hate in stores—standing still in someone’s way, spinning in place, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing.


Then it happens.


A voice, loud and booming:

“FRESH BRISKET ON THE BOARD!”

And the whole store cheers.


I snap back to reality. I’m not even hungry. Doesn’t matter. I wander toward the food counter and after sifting through roughly 80 different sandwich options, I grab the classic brisket sandwich for $9. It’s huge. And to be honest—it’s delicious.


I also grab a drink, which is roughly the size of a toddler. Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. $0.79. America.


I pick out a few gifts for the kids and Jamie—nothing major, just some stuff to say “I survived.” Then I step back out into the parking lot, head spinning, heart pounding, brisket juice on my fingers.


What the hell just happened?




But wait. I wasn’t done yet.


I drank about half a gallon of soda, so naturally—I need the bathroom. And this, friends, is where Buc-ee’s goes full legend.


It’s not just the cleanest gas station bathroom I’ve ever seen—it’s one of the cleanest anywhere.


No graffiti.

No mysterious hairs.

No questionable porcelain skid art.

No phone numbers for Brenda who “likes fun.”

No mystery puddles.

No smell of despair.


Hundreds of people were in that store with me. Statistically speaking, a lot of human waste was moving through that restroom. And yet—you could’ve eaten your brisket sandwich in there and not flinched. I didn’t, obviously. But I could’ve.




Final thoughts?


If you’re a road warrior like me—someone who knows the best and worst bathrooms between counties, who’s used a porta-john at a boat launch in February—you know how rare this is. Buc-ee’s isn’t just a gas station. It’s a full-blown roadside experience.


Next time we roll through with the whole crew in a caravan, maybe—maybe—I’ll let the kids run loose. Let them grab cotton candy watermelon sticks, jalapeño brittle, and enough beef jerky to last through their twenties.


But I’m warning you now: if I hear “FRESH BRISKET ON THE BOARD!” again, I might just cry.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Bernie Story (How I Kicked Bondo Dust at a Mentor and Still Got Life Advice)

Image
There’s a saying: when the student is ready, the teacher appears. I was ready. And Bernie Obry appeared—with a red pen, a calm demeanor, and an uncanny ability to turn damage estimates into life lessons. I met Bernie in Poughkeepsie, back when the shop was bursting at the seams with talent, sarcasm, and Olympic-level dysfunction. Bernie managed the GEICO account and oversaw the overall flow of the shop. I handled State Farm, a rotating cast of misfit insurance companies, and cash-paying customers who “knew a guy” and wanted to settle up in quarters. From the jump, I was told to run my estimates by Bernie before finalizing them. He didn’t just review them. He graded them—like a junior high English teacher burning through a stack of overdue Huckleberry Finn essays. Out came the red pen. Lines were slashed, totals adjusted, margins filled with comments like SEE ME AFTER CLASS. It was humbling. But it made me better. We were opposites. Bernie read GQ . I read invoices I dropped mu...
Read more

49 Today: Why I Write, and Why I Wish I Started Sooner

Image
Today I turned 49. That’s a strange sentence to type. Not because I’m afraid of the number—but because I’m honestly surprised to see it on the calendar. Somewhere along the way, life stopped being a race toward “what’s next” and became more about remembering what already happened. Lately, I find myself spending more time reflecting than planning. Not in a sad way—just in a “wow, that actually happened?” way. I’ve been thinking about the value of capturing moments. Not the polished, posed stuff—real moments. The kind that slip through the cracks unless you write them down. The kind you forget until something random brings them back. That’s why I started writing this blog. I wish I had started at 22. Back then, I thought I had it all figured out. I had energy, big ideas, and just enough cluelessness to think I was invincible. What would 22-year-old me have written about? Probably something cringey. Probably something about music, ambition, or some job I thought was going to be my forever...
Read more

Where the Water Falls (Because Even Small Ripples Can Reach Far Places.)

Image
I graduated today. No cap, no gown. No champagne pop or emotional slideshow. Just a cheesy little Teams ceremony, a few Little jokes, with the team that went through so much together in short time, and a quiet moment when they said we were done. Cohort training complete. They released us into the wild. So here I am—on the porch, watching the water drop from Jamie Lee’s little waterfall. There’s sunlight on my feet. No Team pings. No breakout rooms. No scripted claim scenarios to run through one more time. I thought I’d feel something bigger. A spark, a fire, some kind of “next chapter” energy. But what I feel instead is stillness—and maybe that’s the point. We’re all so conditioned to chase the next thing. The hustle. The grind. But maybe this little moment—graduated, unplugged, sitting in the sun with a homemade DIY waterfall and a fake diploma—is the actual reward. A couple months ago, after more than a decade away, I started blogging again. Not because I’m building a brand or...
Read more