In Tulsa, locals have revived a stretch of Route 66—one roadside giant at a time

Mary Beth Babcock didn’t set out to become a collector of roadside giants, some taller than a lanky giraffe. But fate, it seems, knew better. As we stand in the shadow of a six-metre fibreglass figure in a 10-gallon hat, looming over a stretch of Route 66 like a rootin’-tootin’ guardian of the highway, it’s clear she’s found her calling. Cowboy Bob is the latest addition to Mary Beth’s growing gang of oversized statues, helping transform her corner of the so-called Mother Road into a larger-than-life shrine to mid-century Americana.

“About two years ago, people started asking what I was doing for the Route 66 centennial,” says the owner of the Buck Atom’s Cosmic Curios gift shop, her eyes twinkling behind winged cat-eye glasses, a jaunty red kerchief knotted at her neck. “I decided, I’m going to collect more giants.”

I’ve come to the tiny Meadow Gold District of Tulsa, in the north east of Oklahoma, ahead of Route 66’s 100th anniversary to meet the passionate individuals working to preserve one of America’s most iconic stretches of road. Snaking for 2,448 miles from Chicago to Los Angeles, crossing eight states and three time zones, this ribbon of tarmac has carried generations westward in search of escape, opportunity or simply the irresistible thrill of the open road. A century on, it remains a symbol of the great American road trip — and that’s partly thanks to locals like Mary Beth, who continue to upgrade it for a new wave of drivers.

Often called Muffler Men, roadside giants had their heyday in the 1960s, when cross-country road trips ruled supreme and small businesses sought novel ways to lure drivers off the highway. Growing up at the kerb of Oklahoma’s Route 66, Mary Beth developed an early fascination with its curiosities. That appreciation led her to install a massive, space-age cowboy — also called Buck Atom — outside her store in 2019, and she’s since acquired four more figures. “I guess they’re like my giant paper dolls,” she says, adding that their creator, Virginia-based fibreglass artist Mark Cline, even encourages her to add her own customisations.

(As Route 66 turns 100, visit the end of the road in sunny Santa Monica.)

Kerbside renaissance

Much like its Muffler Men, Route 66 peaked in the post-war boom years, when the car was king and the open road pulsed with possibility. But by 1985, it was officially decommissioned, its maintenance funds dried up, bypassed by streamlined highways promising a quicker journey. Like many neighbourhoods along it, the Meadow Gold District fell on hard times, its storefronts shuttered and buildings abandoned. “Drivers used to skip right past Tulsa,” recalls Mary Beth. “There just weren’t enough attractions here to justify a stop.”

That all changed in 2018, when she opened Buck Atom’s Cosmic Curios inside a mid-century gas station. “I grew up with petrol in my veins, driving along Route 66,” she says. “I thought, why not?” The tiny store became a pit stop for graphic prints, logoed T-shirts and miniature bobble-head models of the giant standing nearby.

A revival caught on like wildfire. Warehouses and garages transformed into art galleries and hip restaurants. A vinyl record shop, burger joint and a tiny art deco museum opened, overlooked by a nine-metre Meadow Gold sign salvaged from a former dairy. Mary Beth added a marketplace called Meadow Gold Mack, giving homegrown creatives a space to sell their wares. And a posse of colossal figures sprang up — Cowboy Bob, as well as a cosmic cowgirl, space cowboy and lumberjack, soon to be joined by Rosie the Riveter — inviting drivers to turn the wheel, pull over and stay awhile.

Ahead of the centennial, stretches of Route 66 are being spruced up all along its length, from a new sculpture park of neon signs in the Route 66 Experience in Springfield, Illinois to restored historic storefronts in Amarillo, Texas. But Tulsa is where this renaissance dazzles brightest. Today, the Meadow Gold District is a mural-splashed neighbourhood alive with indie spirit. The paint has barely dried on Mary Beth’s latest venture, a second boutique marketplace called 66 Collective where cabinets are crammed with embroidered bolo ties and Cowboy Bob-themed colouring books.

“The Tulsa 66 Commission [an organisation that promotes the city’s strip of Route 66] offered grants to businesses towards new neon signs,” says Mary Beth, pointing to the signage beyond the window. But the revival couldn’t have happened without the tenacious locals. “I did a lot of fundraising myself, selling miniature sculptures of my giants and commemorative bricks laid at their feet.” Even musician Taylor Hanson, a Tulsa local from the band Hanson, chipped in to help pay for the Stella Atom space cowgirl statue.

For Mary Beth, the Herculean effort was one worth making. “Route 66 offers a way to experience almost the entire United States by following a single road,” she says. “You’ve got the bustle of Chicago, the lush rolling grasslands of Oklahoma, the red rocks of New Mexico and then the vast ocean of California. It’s a true overview of America.”

A new taste for the old

The Meadow Gold District may have undergone a revamp, but not everything here’s changed. Just down the street from 66 Collective, Ike’s Chili has been ladling out steaming bowls of meaty goodness since 1908, making it one year younger than the state of Oklahoma itself.

Inside, diners perch on cherry-red stools as bowls of no-frills stew slide across a tiled counter. Through a gleaming chrome serving hatch, co-owner Len Wade stands beside a vast silver vat — so large it could plausibly bathe a child — turning out around 480 portions of the stuff, often devoured within a single brisk day of service. “Spices, tomatoes and freshly ground meat — it’s a straightforward recipe that hasn’t changed much since we first opened,” he says. He won’t divulge the nitty-gritty, but a cluster of championship belts won at cook-off competitions glinting nearby are testament to the winning flavour.

What he will tell you is that Ike’s food was designed with Route 66 cruisers in mind. “Our chilli is like fuel,” Len says as we sit in the dining room, linoleum flooring underfoot and framed monochrome photographs of Tulsa’s yesteryear lining the walls. “Its beauty lies in its simplicity.” I tuck into the signature ‘three way’, a plate piled high with spaghetti smothered in beefy chilli and topped with beans. It’s pure comfort food, the kind of warming, no-nonsense meal that sets you up for the long road ahead.

Sustained, I head a couple of miles east to the Golden Driller, a 23-metre gilded statue outside the Tulsa Expo Center. Installed in 1966 to honour Oklahoma’s oil heritage, this concrete and fibreglass figure was a looming precursor to the playful eccentricity of today’s Meadow Gold District giants.

Waiting beneath the statue’s straddled legs is Rhys Martin, president of the Oklahoma Route 66 Association, which preserves and promotes the state’s historic stretch of road through restoration projects, education and tourism. Wearing an Indiana Jones-style fedora and a shirt stitched with a Route 66 highway shield, he’s quick to explain why the road’s resurgence comes as no surprise in his home state. “We’ve always been in the driving seat here in Oklahoma,” he says. “Cyrus Avery, the highway commissioner who helped establish Route 66, lived right here in Tulsa.” Today, the city honours him as ‘the father of Route 66’ with a bronze statue and a dedicated plaza.

We make a final stop at the Route 66 Historical Village, a free open-air museum where a clickety-clack steam train rests beside a visitor centre designed to look like a vintage Phillips 66 gas station. Sitting inside, Rhys reflects on the deeper pull of the Main Street of America as it turns 100, especially among younger travellers. “Anemoia. It means nostalgia for a time you didn’t experience,” he says. “Route 66 gives you permission to stop checking emails, put the phone down and have a conversation with the stranger in the next booth. It tells you it’s okay to take your time.”

Heading west at my own easy pace, I spot Cowboy Bob shrinking in the rearview mirror, his silhouette briefly framed by the Tulsa skyline. I think back to Mary Beth, who once set out with no clear sense of where this road, or indeed her life, might go. That faith in the journey feels appropriate on Route 66, a highway that has always rewarded those willing to slow down and see what unfolds.