I grew up in Orange County, California. It was sprawl more by way of Ballard than Gibson: tract houses, malls, and freeways. To get anywhere, you have to learn the freeways: where they lead, when to drive them, what they’re called. Every freeway was “the.” The 22. The 405. The 55.
Oy, the 55. That was the route that took people from the northeastern part of the county to their jobs in my neck of the woods (or, usually, to Los Angeles). You could take the 55 from Riverside all the way to the beach, assuming you were willing to sit in your car and stew with everyone else crawling along the road. The 55 was purgatory.
Kim Stanley Robinson made it awesome because he had people riding bikes. On the freakin’ freeway.