Springfield, Missouri

I drove for too long a distance today, took too few breaks along the way, probably because of the desperation I feel to get this trek over with. And yes, the dour and daunted feeling that came over me yesterday still has not passed. If I drove a straight line home, it would only be about 700 miles, and I could probably make it in a single day, but I need to travel twice that distance to make my goal.

I realize I'm back to blogging about the act of travel itself, the mechanical details of getting from here to there, which I had wanted to avoid, and which I have tried to avoid a few of times. It's all that's on my mind right now. Nothing much interesting has happened, and it's getting to the point where one stretch of road seems very much like the next, and it all blurs together in my mind by the end of the day, until all I can think of is the numbers.

On the dark side, it's been a long time since I've been this tired of anything, and have so much wanted it to be over. On the bright side, it's been a long time since I've been this tired of anything, and have wanted so much for it to be over. And yes, that was the exact same sentence.

Fort Wayne, Indiana

I'm suddenly very tired of being on the road. It's been almost three weeks now, and I've weathered it fairly well, but just after I got back on the road after lunch, it seemed to come over me all at once, a sense of weariness and wanting to give up, take the shortest route back home, and just be done with it. I had hoped the feeling would pass, but it has hung on me, all through the afternoon and into the evening. I don't plan to give up, as it will only take me four or five days to finish the 10,000-mile trek, but I want it to be over.

If it were earlier in the journey, I would feel like taking a break for a couple of days - but since I only have a few days left, I don't think that's reasonable. It's kind of like taking a coffee break before the last hour of your shift - just seems unnecessary, and it's best to knuckle down and grind through that last hour and be done with it.

The ironic thing is that if I get done with this trip by Tuesday, I will still have about month before I have to get back to work, and don't have any plans for that time. After this trek, I don't think I will want to go anywhere, especially not by car, and around this time next month, I'll probably be back on the road, at least five or six days a month, to do pick-ups and drop-offs for Boris.

Even so, sitting on my butt (and on the floor) in my apartment for that length of time seems a terrible waste. I could use three or four days of it, but not three or four weeks. I'd ruminate on that more, try to figure out something interesting to do, but it's probably best to stick to one problem at a time - and my problem right now is motivating myself to get through the next week.

Fairmont, West Virginia

I'm sick to death of seeing ranch houses. I didn't occur to me until today, but virtually every house I've seen outside of the urban areas has been a shoebox-shaped house with a single-gabled roof running the length of the place. They've been putting them up for more than fifty years, in every part of the country, and it's time we came up with something else.

I think that may be one of the reasons I'm renting an apartment now, rather than looking to buy another house. Just about every house I see that's in my price range is a ranch house. The place I used to own, ratty as it was, at least had a bit more character. A ranch house is flavorless and generic, the architectural equivalent of sandwich bread.

And as with sandwich bread, ranch houses are probably made that way because it's the cheapest possible way to put up a dwelling. In Fairmont, where I've stopped for the night, they seem at first glance to have departed from it - but then I took a closer look. The houses here are basically ranch-style houses, but with an extra gable or two tacked onto the front in a desperate attempt to conceal the fact that they're just a ranch.

I think that's why it's gotten under my skin at the moment. There's no more plain admission that something sucks than a half-hearted attempt to disguise what it really is. Kind of like how blue-collar guys will buy a crappy car and junk it up with a lot of accessories and add-ons. I could go off on a whole 'nother rant about the number of economy-class vehicles I've seen on this trip with custom paint jobs and chrome rims.

I don't immediately know what style of building I'd prefer to see. I haven't thought it through, I suppose, but I'm sick of the sameness I've seen. The only houses that aren't ranch-style are impossibly large. Not exactly mansions, but certainly more than the average person can afford. There's something daunting about the thought that you're condemned to spend your life in a shoebox unless you somehow manage to break into the social elite, or are willing to spend three-quarters of your income on mortgage payments.

I'm also thinking that trying to depart from blog entries about roads and miles may not be altogether a good idea. Reading over the past couple of posts, it seems I'm in a cranky mood lately. I don't feel like it at first, but the moment I start typing, it just comes out. Sorry 'bout that.

Elizabethtown, Kentucky

If you know this already, I probably seem like a dumbass for mentioning it, but you can't just drive through Fort Knox. It didn't occur to me that I couldn't do that, because I've passed through plenty of towns that were called "Fort _____" without being told by a man with an assault rifle that I'd have to turn around. I've even driven through a couple of "forts" that were actual military installations, where I could see tanks and hummers parked in lots alongside the road.

Which brings me to today's rumination: more often than not, people who carry guns are polite. The soldiers at the gate to Fort Knox were extremely polite, as are most policemen I've encountered, at least when the encounter was accidental in that I hadn't done anything to draw their consternation. The border patrol officer back in El Paso was a dickhead. I don't believe he was carrying a gun. If he were armed, maybe he'd have been more even-tempered.

In the Southern states, where there are probably more guns-per-capita than in any other part of the nation, it's generally accepted that people are more polite - though by far, the most friendly and accommodating people I've met on my trip have been in the rural areas of Texas, where the gun-to-person ratio is probably the highest in the world, outside of a war zone (or probably even including war zones).

It's not my intention to make a political stand here, just a social observation - though the gun-control faction probably wouldn't be too happy to hear it.

Back to social observation: people who carry guns tend to be more polite than people who don't. I'd guess there's a logical correlation. If you have the ability to blow someone's head off, you probably don't feel the need for all the petty rudeness that you might otherwise resort to. And the other person is well aware you could blow their head off, and is therefore reluctant to behave in a way that might cause the notion to cross your mind.

On a personal level, I asked a lot more questions of the unarmed border patrolman than I did of the armed soldier. I didn't think about asking the latter fellow why I couldn't drive onto the installation. He didn't feel the need to explain to me the reasons he wouldn't let me pass. He just told me I'd have to turn around, and I turned around. In a way, it was a lot easier for both of us.

And yes, this post has been one long meander - but I've found it more interesting to write, and hope you'll find it more engaging to read, than how many miles I went from here to there and where I stopped for lunch.

Memphis, Tennessee

I'm going to try to avoid blogging about the obvious for the remainder of the trip - where I've stopped, how many miles I've covered, where I'm planning on going next. I can't imagine it's too interesting to read, and I don't think it will be very useful to me when I read back over these pages in the future, in hopes of remembering some of the details about the trip, only to find a mechanical blow-by-blow description of the route.

On my mind today: hitchhikers. I finally got off the major freeways and onto the state roads again today, and saw a few of them. I used to see them when I was driving west, on the state roads, and I noticed them today only because they have been almost completely absent on the interstate highways.

I'd estimate that I see three or four people each day who are trying to thumb a ride. I haven't picked any of them up, and don't intend to change that. It's not something as strong as fear, but there is some level of concern that they might try to rob me - pull out a gun or a knife and demand my wallet and the keys to my car, leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere. It's just not worth the risk.

I suppose that there are people who would be desperately lonely on a long-distance trip, lonely enough to pick up a hitcher just to have someone to talk to, or listen to, for a while. I'm just not that social, and prefer the company of my own thoughts. But I know that "normal" people feel the need to have other people around them, for no other reason except to feel some sort of connection. There are times I regret not being more like that, but most of the time I prefer the way I am.

Or perhaps it's just that a person alone on the road feels at least a little bit vulnerable and lost, and helping out someone who is even more vulnerable and lost gives them some sense of empowerment. And that may be what makes hitchhiking a good dodge for a roadside bandit. People who are in a position of strength seldom feel the need to help out others - in much the same way as the richest people are notorious for being stingy with tips. They've never needed help, never had to depend on others, and can't identify with those who do. Those who are weaker and more vulnerable can empathize, and that empathy makes them easy marks.

It occurs to me that this is a stark observation, and I think I'm writing myself into a dark mood, which wasn't my intention either. It's a sign that it's time for me to shut up and go find some dinner, I suppose.

Longview, Texas

This evening finds me in Longview, Texas, at the very same motel where we ditched Andy last summer. Traffic through the Dallas are wasn't as bad as I expected, but then I stayed on highway 20, which lies on the southern edge, so I probably dodged the worst of it.

I've spent more time on interstates on the way back east than I had going west, and the miles are passing faster. When I started my journey, I wanted to take the state roads and see more of the countryside. The scenery along interstate highways is to the eyes what fast food is to the palate: bland.

But the scenery matters less to me now than before. I find myself watching the odometer, counting down the miles - or more aptly, counting up the miles - toward my goal of ten thousand. It's not looking too good right now. By my estimate, I'm only about 700 miles from home, a drive that I could make in a single stretch, which would leave me some 3,000 miles short of my goal.

I need to turn north, though I'm reluctant to go too far in that direction on account of the road conditions I assume that I will encounter this time of year. Tomorrow is the first day of December, and I expect much of the roads to the north to be icy. I'm no good driving on ice, just don't have much experience with wintry conditions, and it's worse now that I'm in an unfamiliar car.

I was starting out to say that I want to shake off this goal-oriented mindset and the compulsion I have with the odometer - and ironically enough, I departed from that thought and went off on a tangent about my goal and the mileage. It's how my mind is working these days.

Anyway, now that I'm back in the flat lands, and in a part of the country where there are more options for getting from point A to point B, I'd like to go back to traveling the back roads. It will take more time to log the miles, but I think it will be worth it. If nothing else, I hope it will take my mind of the numbers game I'm playing with myself.

Odessa, Texas

I hung around the motel room until late in the morning and tried to cross the border into Mexico, but it didn't work out. The border patrol officer told me that I needed a passport to cross into Mexico. I also needed a tourist card and Mexican car insurance if I was planning to drive their roads. And even if I had all of that, he'd advise me not to go there in my own car unless I had plans of walking back.

All of that sounds very helpful and friendly, but the guy was grouchy and vulgar, and peppered his advice with a lot of phrases that might have been offensive if they weren't completely nonsensical. I wish I could remember a few sentences exactly as he spoke them, but it was confounding and practically incomprehensible. He use the term "cock weasel" as a verb, and he called me, or something else perhaps, a "jack hat fuckeroo" at one point. I think that both of those came out in the same sentence. Wish I could remember the rest of it.

Anyway, it was past noon by the time I cock-weaseled myself out of that situation and was back on the road again, and drove about three hundred miles to my present waypoint in Odessa. It's not much of a town, and the curious thing about it is that they number their streets (1st, 2nd, 3rd, and so on) as if it were a large city. More like the town planners just didn't have the creativity to come up with names and the citizens didn't care enough to rename them.

The word that keeps coming to my mind as I try to think of a way to describe the towns I've passed through in this part of the country is "forlorn." There's something sad and dull about them, and the people just seem tired and beaten-down. From time to time, I wonder about what it must be like to live in some of the places I'm passing through - and here, more than anywhere else, it's a depressing thought.

El Paso, Texas

I've crossed the halfway point on my 10,000 mile journey. In truth, I crossed it a mile or so after I set out this morning, but this is the first opportunity I've had to blog since "officially" crossing the midpoint. I probably could have gone further today, but decided to stop at the border between Texas and Mexico, with an eye toward crossing over for at least a short part of my journey. Or maybe I'll just go over for an afternoon and come back, as I don't see many roads that run close enough to the border that it wouldn't be a long detour.

The desert continues to be a disappointment. No sand dunes. No wind-cut rock formations. Just miles of loose dirt and scrubby plants. It's not even all that hot here. Granted, it is almost December, but I had expected that the desert would always be hot, like the high mountains are always cold. Not so.

I also don't have the feeling of being far away from civilization, which makes me wonder if there still exist vast areas of nothingness where a man could wander for days and not see anyone, or any building. That's not to say that the place is piled-up and suburban, but there seems to be a settlement of some kind every ten miles or so. I don't think you could get lost and starve to death out here, because you're within a few hours' walk of a town, or at least a road, wherever you go. You'd have to be dropped off dead-center of nowhere - even so, if you walked in a straight line, you'd surely come across a road within a day.

But then, they say that the air is clearer out here, and you have to multiply distances by ten. The hills that look like they're three or four miles away are probably more like thirty or forty. Still, that's just a long day's hike from the road.

I'm scanning Google Maps now, looking for a giant gap among the yellow lines that mark the interstate highways and major state roads. Even when I see a promising space, it's crisscrossed with roads when I zoom in. Maybe it's a project for another day, a goal for another time when I get an extended break, to find the place in America that's furthest from any paved road, and go there. Chances are, there's a Starbucks or a Macdonalds built right on that spot. Possibly both.

Casa Grande, Arizona

I had another fairly short drive today, from Indo to Casa Grande, a distance of about 326 miles. The traffic wasn't bad at all, and the road was fairly good - I stuck to the I-10 all the way, but I was too tired to carry on. I couldn't get much sleep last night - the stink of the room at the motel in Indio kept me awake, and that's quite a feat, given some of the places I have stayed and the smells I've encountered.

Anyway, I left the place at about four in the morning, giving up on getting any rest, and drove for about six hours straight. I might have stopped sooner, but most hotels won't let you check into a room until 11:00, so there was no point. The desk clerk at this place took pity on me, and let me check in at 10:30, and I laid down for a nap.

When I opened my eyes, four hours had passed, and now I'm worried about screwing up my circadian rhythms and being unable to get to sleep tonight. In a way, that might be a good thing - if I go nocturnal, I could sleep during the day and drive through the night, which would mean a lot less traffic.

But on the other hand, making "good time" on the road really isn't the point. I'd like to see a bit of the country on my journey, and there's not much you can see if you're driving down a dark highway in the middle of the night. I'm going to have to find a liquor store and drink myself into a good sleep this evening.

Going back to the topic of scenery, there isn't much of it right now. I'm in the desert of the southwest, where there's miles of nothing but scrub and dirt. It's impressive at first, but it quickly becomes bland. How depressing it must be to spend your entire life in a place like this.

What I'm hoping to see is the kind of desert that was depicted in the old Road Runner cartoons - dunes of yellow sand with improbable orange rock formations, but I'm beginning to wonder if that really exists.

Indio, California

I made it just over 200 miles today, in eight hours of driving - an average of 25 miles per hour. I had heard that traffic in Los Angeles is a bear, but thought that people would be at home with their families on Thanksgiving Day. I was wrong.

I didn't pass through the downtown area, but skirted the north side of town. Took the Ventura freeway to the Foothills Freeway to the Orange Freeway to the San Bernadino Freeway. I don't normally know the names of freeways, because I am generally not on them for long enough, and am generally driving fast enough, that I don't notice the signs. Not so, here.

It also didn't help that I stopped for lunch (and a much-needed break) and got lost in a town called "Rancho Cucamonga" - a completely ludicrous name for a place - and got totally turned-around and lost for the better part of an hour.

Generally, I have a good sense of direction, and can get my bearings enough to know that the highway is "over there" - but somehow ended up driving the wrong direction, down the wrong stretch of road, into the San Bernadino Forest, where there aren't many opportunities to get off the highway and turn around.

And to top it all off, I had a difficult time finding a motel that had a room to spare. Probably on account of the holiday and all, so I should have expected it, but I went to four different places trying to find one. The place that I'm at is a real dump. I'm generally not picky, but the place is very shabby and smells like a pickled turd. I mean that literally - there's an overpowering stench of shit and vinegar in the room. Foul.

It's still fairly early, but I felt completely wiped out from driving in the traffic and decided to call it quits. I had hoped to make it to Yuma today, but that's not going to happen.