Turnpike Tom

My name’s Tom Nycum, though most people know me as “Turnpike Tom.” I never meant to fall for Breezewood, but here we are. It started innocently enough—just a pit stop that turned into a traffic jam that turned into an overnight stay at the Breezewood Motel. By morning, something had changed. The neon lights still hummed, the truck engines still growled, and the air was still faintly spiced with diesel, but I wasn’t in a hurry anymore. For the first time in years, I sat with my coffee, watched the sun rise over the Sheetz parking lot, and thought: This is it.

Breezewood isn’t just a place—it’s an experience. Sure, it doesn’t have monuments or sprawling vistas, but what it does have is a strange, undeniable charm. Where else can you find a motel that feels like a time capsule from the ‘70s, a diner that serves coffee strong enough to fuel you cross-country, and enough neon to rival Vegas? This is where the highways converge, where stories collide, and where America’s weird, wonderful soul shines brightest.

I wasn’t born here—was anybody? But Breezewood gave me something I didn’t even know I was looking for: a reason to slow down. It’s the kind of place that sneaks up on you, where the rhythm of the road pauses just long enough to remind you what you’re driving for in the first place. That’s just the way of the road.

Now, whenever I’m passing through, I linger a little longer than I need to. Breezewood isn’t the kind of place you plan to stop—it’s the kind of place that happens to you. It’s where the hum of the road quiets just enough to remind you that some of the best moments in life aren’t destinations—they’re detours.

See you at the next red light,
Turnpike Tom