30

Rolled back into NYC on Tuesday and entered my apartment around 5:45 pm, 33 days and 10,059 miles since I'd last been home. I had just enough time to take a deep breath and a quick shower before heading out to a birthday dinner with my parents and sister.

I'd been trying to time it so that I walked through my front door at 5:13 pm, the exact moment I entered this world 30 years earlier. Alas, midtown rush hour traffic was non-compliant and it took me more than half an hour to get from the Lincoln Tunnel exit on 34th between 9th and 10th to my apartment on 34th and 1st (not including extended stops to catch up with my garage guys -- Santiago and Milton -- and pick up my mail). At 5:13, I found myself inching eastward on 34th, somewhere between 5th and 6th avenues, staring at the Empire State Building through my sunroof with renewed awe.

Those initial moments back in NYC were a little jarring. I don't think I heard a single car honk during the entire 4 1/2 weeks I was on the road... I heard more than a few during my first minutes back on the isle of Manhattan, the result of petulant drivers unable to suppress their angst. Then there was the army of incompetent traffic officers scattered across 34th street, doing what they do best: creating congestion rather than alleviating it -- I couldn't help but yearn for the North Umpqua Highway in Oregon... As I sat at a red light on 34th and 7th, next to Penn Station, I was confronted with a mobbish throng of commuters who weaved their way in and out of traffic as if the roads were for people and not cars. It dawned on me that the assembled crush of humanity at that intersection probably exceeded the total population of some of the towns I had driven through during the previous month.

In the time that it took me to go the 1 1/2 miles from the tunnel to my garage, I could have covered nearly 50 on US-18. I was content to be home, but the sudden immersion in hustle and bustle for the first time in 4+ weeks had me longing for open prairies, never ending straightaways, and whatever soundtrack DJ Mother Nature saw fit to play through my rolled down windows.

Dinner was at one of Bobby Flay's restaurants: Bar Americain. As far as I'm concerned, the man can do no wrong when it comes to food. I saw my parents seated off to the right as I walked in, and they were a sight for sore eyes. I've traveled quite a bit over the years, but never for this long. And having gone to college locally and never having lived anywhere but Westchester and Manhattan, this trip represented the longest I'd been away from home since, well, ever.

I made out pretty well in the gift department. Among other things, my parents got me a framed copy of what's arguably my favorite picture of all-time: Andreas Feininger's epic roadside photograph taken on Route 66 in 1947. I hope you've seen it somewhere else besides here, because I don't think a postcard size image on a computer screen can do it justice:


It was a timely gift; every time I'd pressed the shutter button on my camera during the previous 33 days I had that image in the back of my mind, hoping that maybe 1 of the 2000+ photos I took would come even moderately close to roughly approximating the tranquility captured in the image above. I think I snapped a few good ones, but I ain't no Feininger.

Along those lines, they also gave me a framed copy of my favorite picture taken during the trip; you can see it here. As I type this, it's sitting next to my computer, a reminder of my time on the road. I think it will remain there for the foreseeable future (read: forever). Feininger I may not be, but Erbsen I surely am.

Tucked behind the photo was a note from my mom. I'll keep its contents between the two of us, but it reminded me that she's a saint and that I'm lucky to have her -- she's been far better to me than I to her for the past three decades, something I will work to remedy. Dad, if you're reading this, you're not so bad yourself.

My sister gets the award for most unique gift. She's a partner at the same law firm as Senator George Mitchell, as in the guy behind "The Mitchell Report." Say what you will about the document, or about the state of baseball, but it's a piece of history, for better or for worse -- and I've got a copy with his John Hancock on it and a note wishing me a happy 30th. Pretty effin' cool.

My brother was at home in Minneapolis, but he and my sister-in-law sent me some cookware that I will be putting to good use. I was reminded when cooking for my friend Rob and his wife in San Jose how much I enjoy it, and how infrequently I actually do it.

I didn't do much of anything today, content simply to be home and not have 400+ miles of driving or countless things to see. I'm in dire need of a shave, my last one coming nine days ago in Abilene, TX. My "road beard" is fun to play with, but its itchiness has begun to exceed the joy that I derive from it and it needs to go. Also, I look like a vagrant, or at least more so than usual.

I still have plenty more to write. If you've been reading, you know that I've lamented not having enough time to post while on the road. Now that I'm home again, I'm back to having more hours in the day than I know what to do with, a stark contrast to my 18 hour days while traversing the country. Over the next week or so I'll work to fill in some of the gaps from the trip. After that, I'll somehow try and wrap things up in a neat and tidy epilogue of sorts.

I don't know that I'll really be able to fully reflect on all the things I've done, places I've seen, or people I've met over the past month for quite some time. But, I've gotta start somewhere, so stay tuned.

p.s. Thanks to everyone for the multitude of text messages, wall posts, e-mails, and voicemails wishing me a happy birthday. All were appreciated, and if I haven't responded to you yet, I will surely do so in the next day or so. For everyone else, let it be known that I am accepting belated birthday wishes until Sunday, July 13. After that, I will transfer your name on my "Enemies List" from pencil to ink.

On The Road: Roswell, NM to Abilene, TX

Too tired to write anything, so these pictures from my drive last Saturday will have to suffice.

They looked better in person, but maybe one will end up as your desktop.

Still Alive...

Given the lack of recent posts, I've had some people inquire into the state of my health. I'm happy to report that I'm alive and well in New Orleans. Unfortunately, sightseeing and the demands of the road have limited my ability to post anything of late.

I'm realizing more and more that I probably won't get a chance to do as much writing as I'd like until I get back home next Tuesday. That said, I'll still be posting things between now and then.

In the interim, here's a picture I took earlier tonight in the bathroom of a Mobil station in Breaux Bridge, LA, during a pit stop on my journey from Dallas to New Orleans:



Since the writing on the wall is too small to read, allow me to clarify what it says:

The large two-lined entry reads "Don't look on the wall for a joke -- the real joke is in your hand!!!"

Below that entry and to the right, a second author drew an arrow to the end of the first statement and added "Yo mama wasn't laughing when she sucked it."

Stay classy, America.

Doh!

Just pulled into Albuquerque after driving most of the day (with stops along the way) and opened up my bag to discover that my 1.5 liter bottle of Listerine developed a leak!

The damage seems to be limited to an undershirt, a pair of socks, and a couple of pairs of underwear -- although other contents have a strong minty odor in spite of being dry...

Almost had a disaster on my hands. Was Friday the 13th and nothing bad had happened all day; I should have known something was in the works...

So Much For That Idea...

Thought I could use some down time in LA to catch up on some writing, but I was mistaken.

It's about 3:30 am local time here in Santa Monica and I'm picking up my friend Jeff at 7:30 for an early round of golf. After that it'll be a quick shower and a haircut from a woman named Pam, whom I found on the Internet. Then it's off to Vegas for the night, where hopefully I won't blow all of my gas money...

If you get call from me in the next 24 hours requesting that you wire me cash, just do it and don't ask any questions. I'm good for it.

On The Road: Gold Hill, OR

America is a big place. There are thousands of small towns across the country with their own local flavor, and their own local problems. But I find it reassuring that whether one is in Scarsdale, NY or Gold Hill, OR, there's always baseball.

I stopped for a few minutes to watch the kids play. It brought back fond memories of my own distant youth spent on ball fields around Westchester, bat or glove in hand, without a care in the world.

On the next field over, there was a tee-ball game in progress. I don't know how young the kids were, but most of the equipment was bigger than the players themselves.

I don't care what anyone says about football or basketball -- baseball is, and always will be, America's pastime.

On The Road: Central Point, OR

I don't know what a "Frog Race" is -- I can only assume (and hope) that it's exactly what it sounds like... I was about to go inside and ask when I thought better of it; anything short of what I imagined would be a disappointment. In any case, you have no idea how upset I am that I didn't pass through Central Point in time to catch this magnificent sporting event.

Picture the following:

1. A bunch of frogs
2. A bunch of beer
3. A makeshift race course
4. A bar in the middle of a small town in Oregon on a Saturday night

How could this NOT be an amazing way to spend a spring evening??

I might have to go back for the '09 competition.

On The Road: North Umpqua Highway, Near Idleyld Park, OR

Really?? God help the people of Idleyld if they should ever find themselves on the Cross Bronx during rush hour...

Para Las Chicas De Argentina...

Si ustedes están en Nueva York, escríbame y nos encontraremos para bebidas.

michaelerbsen (at) gmail (dot) com

Some California R&R

Arrived in San Francisco on Friday evening after driving a semi-ridiculous 2,700 miles since leaving Denver on Sunday morning, a mere five days earlier. My "Hump Day" ended up being a hump WEEK, and I was ready for a break from the road. Good thing I had figured as much when I planned this trip out months ago. From this past Friday evening through this coming Wednesday afternoon, the only major driving I have is down the Pacific Coast Highway from San Jose, CA to Los Angeles, a stretch of road that is supposed to be one of the most scenic in the country, and one that I'm actively looking forward to.

My friend Rob -- a brother from another mother since we met on the first day of 5th grade -- lives in San Jose and drove up to San Fran on Friday to meet me.

Rob has been out in California for about three years now. For the two before that, he was in business school in St. Louis. Needless to say, I haven't seen him nearly as much as I would have liked over the past five years and it's always great when we have the chance to hang out. This weekend was no different.

Friday night we did as men do and had a huge steak dinner at Izzy's Steak & Chops, up by the Marina District. It was one of the few "real" meals I'd eaten in the two weeks I'd been on the road, and it was fantastic. They've got some concoction called "Izzy's Own Potatoes" that our waiter Ryan informed us was sort of like potatoes au gratin with Gouda, Parmesan, and some other cheeses mixed in. Verdict: AWESOME.

Ryan was interesting in his own right -- he's about two years younger than me and Rob and used to be a banker in NYC. But his dream was to be a dentist, and he moved back to his native California to pursue a DDS. He's working at Izzy's until he starts school. I guess that's the difference between SF waiters and those in LA: while the latter spend their days trying to get a few lines on Law & Order, our guy could do a round of mezzanine financing for a pre-IPO company and then check our bicuspids for early signs of decay.

We off-set our manly dinner by following it up with a moonlit walk down to the water and a stop for gelato (no -- we didn't get one cup and two spoons).

I think one of the true tests of friendship is being able to be apart for extended periods of time and then pick up right where you left off when you reconnect. From the moment we met at the hotel on Friday, Rob and I talked about every subject under the sun with nary a break in the conversation. He says he'd like to move back to NYC at some point in the future -- for selfish reasons, it can't happen soon enough for me.

We slept in on Saturday and, per my request, did "nothing." Much like my day in Denver the previous Saturday with old HS classmate Emily (still need to cover that in a separate post) I needed a break from doing "stuff" and just wanted to hang out. We walked, we talked, we ate lunch outside at The Franciscan by Fisherman's Wharf (not to be confused with Lieutenant Commander Worf), walked and talked some more, toured the U.S.S. Pampanito, had a sundae at Ghiradelli's, found an old retro-arcade and played some classic 80s/90s video games, walked and talked some more... Pooped from doing nothing, we made the quick drive down to San Jose where we had dinner at The Wing Stop and... talked some more.

Our conversations ranged from the serious to the sublime. We laughed about old times and pondered the vastly different current states of our lives. I reminded him that he doesn't give himself enough credit for, or fully appreciate, the success that he's achieved, and he reminded me that I've got unlimited potential, but that I'm pissing it away. He's always been one of my biggest supporters and cheerleaders, and he offered me some profound thoughts about how to get unstuck from the rut I've been in for quite some time now. For that I'm eternally grateful -- hopefully I can turn words into action.

I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that all this was made possible by Rob's lovely wife Dana, who agreed to let me borrow him, no questions asked, for the weekend. Of course, she got her own "Girl's Night Out" on Friday and Saturday, so I think it was a pretty fair trade.

Today we headed out for a round of golf at a nearby course. We were paired up with Leo and Kevin, an accountant and real estate agent respectively. I don't know how they knew each other, but it seems like they'd been friends for a while -- perhaps they met on the first day of 5th grade too. If you guys are reading this, it was good to meet you and shoot the shit for a few hours.

For me, golf is only partly about the sport aspect. Mostly, it's a nice diversion from whatever it is in my life that happens to be causing stress. One of the things I miss most about home while being on this trip is golf filled weekends with Gideon, Hammer, and whomever else happens to be around. As frustrating and humbling as the game can be, there are few better ways to spend afternoon.

Today, I spent five hours in the warm California sun with one of my oldest and closest friends, met two pretty nice guys, bullshitted about nothing in particular, and more or less didn't have a care in the world for the day. On multiple occasions throughout the round, as the warm sun cascaded down upon us, surrounded by lush fairways and a vista filled by not-too-distant mountains, I turned to Rob and said "Yeah, I can think of worse places to be..."

As a thank you for putting me up for the weekend, I cooked Rob and Dana dinner tonight. Whipped up some of my special potato salad (R.D. -- yes, I used capers) and used my secret marinade on some flank steak that I grilled to friggin' perfection. Some caramelized Vidalia onions on top of the beef rounded things out. (For Loop Type People reading this: the steak was along the lines of the one cooked at Casa Whelan on LBI in Summer '06, not the mediocre beef served at Rivergate BBQ '07). Rob, would you please post a comment and bear witness to how good my meat was? And say something about the steak too... HEY-OOOOOOO!

Dana doesn't cook much, but she's a helluva baker, and she put out a homemade chocolate cake that was fantastic. After eating in restaurants (and Subways) for 2+ weeks straight, it was nice to have a meal that I saw transition from raw to cooked with my own two eyes.

As I type this, Rob and Dana are fast asleep in the other room (at least I assume they're sleeping, though you know never know... they're a frisky couple of kids). They need to get up early in the morning and go off to work like normal people, while I'll continue south to LA on this absurdly privileged journey that I've embarked on. I'll bum around the bizarro world that is Los Angeles for a couple of days before turning back east on Wednesday.

This weekend was the mid-point of my trip and I'll spend a few more days relaxing before starting the long trek home. I'm 5,305.6 miles in and expect to log almost as many more between my departure on Wednesday and my final push into Gotham on my 30th birthday -- Tuesday the 24th.

While in LA I'll try and catch up with some old HS friends who live out there. Langer has hinted at trying to get in a round of golf at some point, and I don't suspect I'll put up too much of a fight. Benny Dice lives pretty close to where I'll be staying and I'll try to grab lunch or dinner with him. Tom G., apparently having discovered this blog via Facebook, sent me a message the other day saying I should get in touch if I'm in town. I haven't seen or spoken to him since 1996 and it would be nice to catch up. If I can get a hold him in the next day or two, I might even be able to meet up with Fenway Ben, whom I believe is working as a real estate agent in Santa Monica.

One common thread between these four guys is that we were all baseball teammates at one point or another while growing up. I'm sure that if I manage to meet up with any or all, there will be some rehashing of stories from back in the day... Jeff's mad dash to first during that summer league game in the early 90s, Donovan's smooth glove work at second, Ben E.'s mystical black bat, and the time during that J.V. game in 1995 that a stray dog urinated on Tom's backpack (I think it was after that same game that a bunch of us bought hot dogs from some sketchy dude in a van -- half the team got sick that night). Tom, if you're reading this you should know that I periodically say "COACH! -- IT HIT HIM RIGHT IN THE DICK!" to no one in particular... Always brings a smile to my face.

All in all, things are good so far. I'm still floored by the number of e-mails and posts coming in every day, and I can't thank everyone enough for reading and staying in touch. I'm going to try and use my time in LA to catch up on some of the stories that I haven't yet had time to tell -- I think some of them are pretty good.

As I said to Rob earlier this afternoon, and as I've thought to myself countless times over the past 16 or so days, I can think of worse places to be...

Coast-to-coast...

I don't know if Seattle is considered the West Coast or not, but it's on Puget Sound, which feeds into the Pacific... So I'm counting it as having made it cross-country.

I left there this afternoon, heading south, and for the for the first time in nearly two weeks the sun set off to my right and not directly ahead.

Below is a rough approximation of the route I've taken so far. It doesn't represent everywhere I've been, nor every mile I've driven, but it should give you a rough idea if you're curious:


View Larger Map

So far, I've covered 4,550.5 miles across 16 states in about 12 days. Two of those days I pretty much didn't drive at all.

I'd love to delve into a detailed breakdown of the trip so far, including what, if anything, I've discovered about myself. Unfortunately, the only thing I can say with strong conviction is that it's difficult at best to sit down and write at the end of a long day of driving and doing stuff. What I haven't had time to write about DWARFS the little bit that I've been able to get down. I still need to cover Pittsburgh, Chicago, Wrigley, Parkersburg, Badlands, Mount Rushmore, Fort Collins and Lt. Col. Tim, Denver and Emily, Vail and Jane, UT-128, Mt. Rainier, Seattle, and Portand and Cousin Sara... I'm probably leaving out a few other things.

At least once a day I question why I'm actually writing this thing. And at least once a day, I get a pretty nice e-mail from someone telling me how much they're enjoying reading it. At that point, I remember why I'm writing.

So, if you'll bear with me until I can find the next large chunk of time to write, I'll try and make it worth your while to come back.

It's past 3 am local time here in Roseburg, OR, a place I'd never heard of until this morning. It's out in the boonies, but it's convenient to where I'm going tomorrow, including Crater Lake.

Until next time...

Congrats!

Wanted to post a special shout out to my good friend Steve, who joined me for the first few days of this trip.

On Monday evening, the Scarsdale Board of Education had the wisdom and foresight to to grant him tenure at our alma mater, Scarsdale Middle School.

Inasmuch (isn't it strange that that's a word?) as the junior high years are undoubtedly the worst and most awkward of adolescence, there's a part of me that wishes I could go back to 8th grade, just so I could have Mr. Scharf for Social Studies.

For the past two and a half years, I've heard Steve speak passionately about teaching and trying his best to prepare his students -- his "kids" -- for the future. He's put in countless hours preparing lesson plans that were both entertaining and educational, and he's done it under the microscope and pressure of being a non-tenured teacher in a highly competitive and desirable school district. I could not be happier for him.

I'm already starting to research which lines from the final scene of Mr. Holland's Opus I'm going to plagiarize for his retirement dinner sometime in the 2040s... But one that I'll cherry-pick right now is from an earlier scene in the movie, when Principal Jacobs is lecturing Mr. Holland, then relatively new to the job, about a teacher's role:

"A teacher has two jobs; fill young minds with knowledge, yes, but more important, give those minds a compass so that knowledge doesn't go to waste."

I have no doubt that my friend Steve will handle both those tasks with aplomb.

Congrats, buddy. You deserve it.

Well, I'm glad I got THAT out of the way...

Every road trip has one -- I'll call it a "Hump Day." It's a day that's designated for driving, and lots of it. There's no stopping to smell the roses -- it's just pedal to the metal for the whole day. It's a necessary scheduling evil of road trips that allows for a more leisurely pace during the days preceding and following it. The typical Hump Day schedule goes something like this:

Drive. Stop to piss and gas up. Repeat.

At some point during Hump Day, usually in the late afternoon or early evening, you come to the awful realization that you've been driving for most of the day and yet you're barely halfway to where you're going.

For this trip, Hump Day was today.

The plan was to leave Provo, UT no later than 11 am local time and start the 740+ mile trek to Yakima, WA. Anything short of this destination would be a dismal failure. Never mind that I had already arrogantly booked a non-refundable hotel room in Yakima -- money aside, not making it there would severely screw up my schedule for the coming days.

My first of two wake-up calls came at 10 am. I always schedule two -- the first is merely to prepare me for the second, usually 15 minutes later. After the "real" wake-up call at 10:15, my cell phone alarm went off at 10:20 -- that's my last line of defense in the "awakening process."

Not yet content to get up, and knowing full-well that I had never really expected to be out the door by 11 am and was just lying to myself about the possibility, I "snoozed" my alarm twice to 10:30 (only a five minute snooze on my cell -- not sure why Palm didn't go with the industry standard of nine minutes, but I digress...).

At 10:30, I decided that with such a long day ahead of me, a little more sleep was probably for the best, so I reset the alarm for 11, and when that time came, I reset it again for 11:30.

At 11:30, I realized there was no way I would have time to shower and do all my pre-trip tasks and still make the check-out time of 12 pm. So I called the front desk and they said they were able to extend check-out until 1 pm. Figuring that I now had a full hour and a half to go, I reset my alarm for 12 pm, at which point my feet finally hit the floor.

I'm a dawdler -- especially in the morning. Don't ask me what causes the dawdling, but it's inevitable. I find things to keep me busy and time passes by at an accelerated rate. This morning was no different. At 1 pm sharp, just as I'm toweling off from a shower (an hour after getting out of bed), a Guest Services rep knocks on the door, wanting to know when I'll be vacating the premises.

"Five minutes," I promise.

At 1:30, I finally check out.

In need of gas and a Red Bull (though not necessarily in that order) before I start the day's drive, I make my way over to a 7-11/Chevron -- the best of both worlds. On my way there, I realize my hotel was just blocks away from the BYU campus -- a fact that had escaped my attention during my late arrival the day before. I briefly ponder the "what if" scenario of trying to find a campus keg party to crash the previous night, though my thoughts are quickly squashed when I remember it's BYU.

Red Bull chugged and car gassed up, I finally get going for real at 2 pm -- a scant three hours later than planned. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans...

Knowing that this is Hump Day, I try and make my peace with the "no stopping for anything but gas and bathroom breaks" rule, but... As I drive north through Salt Lake City, I can't help but think to myself, "When the hell am I going to be back here? I need to see The Great Salt Lake."

My navigation system told me that there was some state park in the middle of the lake. I cross-referenced the name on Wikipedia using my cell phone and discovered that Antelope Island State Park "holds populations of pronghorn antelope, bighorn sheep, 600 American Bison, and millions of waterfowl."

Great -- I get to see the lake and check out some animals that I might eat at a later date.

The scenery was beautiful, and I did indeed get to see some bison. I even got to pet a horse. Pictures are at the bottom of this post.

But when you screw with the rules of Hump Day, Hump Day screws with you.

As I finally returned to the mainland to continue my trek north (including an attempt to find a car wash and a 10 minute stop to address a window wiper blade malfunction), I made this startling discovery: it was 5:45 pm -- a full six hours and forty-five minutes afte my scheduled departure time -- and I had traveled a grand total 0f 68 miles north. Out of 741.

Hump Day had just bitch-slapped me.

Realizing that I had angered the Road Trip Gods with my blatant disregard for the one and only rule that mustn't be broken, I asked for repentance and swore I would not wander off again. I was driving non-stop to Yakima, WA no matter what. If Jessica Alba (the non-pregnant version) appeared by the side of the road holding a "Free Head If You're Name Is Mike Erbsen" sign, I was going to blow (pun intended) right past her. I wasn't going to blow (pun intended again) my second chance.

Renewed with the vigor that comes with facing a daunting challenge, the next 9 hours flew by in the blink of an eye.

I spent nearly five hours on the phone with various people. I listened to CDs that hadn't been touched in nearly 10 years. I contemplated why Darth Vader seemed to have no recollection of C-3PO, even though he had built him as a child.

I found a gas station/mini-mart in bumble-fuck Utah that ALSO had a Subway in it. Dinner, a piss, and gas -- all in one shot.

Sometime before sundown, I had my closest run-in yet with The Fuzz. An Idaho State Trooper managed to sneak up on me from behind. By the time I noticed him, he had clearly clocked me going above the limit of 75 -- I imagine I was somewhere around 90. As he paced me for a few minutes, clearly deciding whether or not I was worth the effort to pull over, I knew that in fact he was powerless to make such a decision. It wasn't that HE was deciding whether or not to give me a ticket... Rather, the Road Trip Gods were trying to make up there minds about punishing me.

The minutes ticked by agonizingly slow, but after what seemed like an eternity, Smokey moved on and I breathed a sigh of relief. The Road Trip Gods had spared me.

My second gas break came a few hours later. I needed a little more sustenance to get me through the final leg, and I decided a milkshake would do nicely. Confronted with both a McDonald's and Burger King located next to each other across the street from the gas station , I called the only man I could think of for advice on such a monumental decision.

Steve doesn't eat much fast food nowadays, but back when, he was an expert on such matters. Figuring that he'd have a long memory, I was disappointed when he couldn't provide me with a definitive answer about who made a better shake. But just as I was about to venture forward and made an uninformed purchase, he offered this gem:

"Why don't you buy one from each and blog about it?"

Perhaps it was because I was slightly delirious from the road, but that struck me as the most brilliant idea in the history of mankind.

Alas, after purchasing a small chocolate shake from McDonald's, I was informed by the drive-thru attendant at BK that they had just shut down their shake machine for the night. So while I can't provide a detailed comparison for your own milkshake education, I can tell you that the McDonald's shake tasted oddly like strawberry and was a nondescript shade of beige.

Around 12:55 am, less than an hour away from Yakima (I picked up an hour when I crossed over from MST to PST) a large bird came within inches of flying into my car.

At first, I thought it was another test by the Road Trip Gods. Then I remembered that I was in a 4600 lb SUV going 90+ MPH and that the bird must have weighed no more than a small jug of water. I would have quit literally DESTROYED that thing. So with the benefit of hindsight, I can only surmise that the bird in question must have done something to piss off some Bird Gods earlier in the day, and that they were deciding whether or not to punish him... I was his Idaho State Trooper.

So here I am, all checked in at the lovely Hilton Garden Inn in downtown Yakima. I survived Hump Day, and perhaps finished it just a bit wiser than when I started. The final tally for the day, including my Antelope Island transgression, came to 790 miles. As I pulled into the hotel's garage, I checked my trip odometer to see my progress since I left NYC roughly 11 days ago.

3,999.4 miles.

Goodnight from Yakima.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words...

One more from my US-18 adventure (see post below) -- but I felt like this one deserved its own entry.

If they ever make a movie about my trip, I'm going to insist that this be the art for the poster. Until then, it'll have to make do as my new desktop wallpaper.

I sure am glad I remembered to pack that tripod...

You can click on the image for a larger version.

US-18

I figure that since I first got my learner's permit almost 14 years ago, I've driven just about 200,000 miles.

The 171 from Keystone, SD to Orin, WY that I covered on Friday afternoon and evening may have been the most enjoyable yet.

The trip represented the first half of the 330+ mile journey from Mount Rushmore to Fort Collins, CO, where I was spending the night. It took me down winding mountain switchbacks in the Black Hills of western South Dakota through wide open plains in eastern Wyoming. While there was ostensibly nothing to see, I couldn't stop staring and taking it all in.

The highlight was US-18, which covered more than two-thirds of the 171 mile leg. With little traffic, few curves, and no cops, the posted 75 MPH speed limit was really more of a suggestion.

It's amazing how one's sensation of speed can be altered when you're surrounded by nothing but open space on all sides. The plains were so expansive that I could literally see different weather systems depending on what direction I looked. Storm clouds and rain would be 40 miles off to my left while sunny skies were ahead and haze would fill the scene to my right. With virtually no man-made structures by the road side, I constantly found myself zooming past triple-digits while feeling as though I were going 65. I rarely dipped below 90 for most of the trip, and with straightaways lasting for miles and the sharpest curves unable to slice even warm butter, it was the easiest 90 you could ever imagine.

As I cruised through the middle of nowhere like a bat out of hell with little to keep me occupied besides jaw-dropping scenery and my own thoughts, I felt a level of freedom that I'm not sure I've ever experienced. Nowhere was somewhere, and it was far away from worried contemplation about an unfulfilled past and an undefined future.

I'm posting a few pictures below -- you can click on them for a larger view. At some point I'll get a more detailed album up on Flickr or something, but this will have to suffice for the time being.

Priceline

Have to give a special shout-out to Cousin Cory for giving me the idea of using Priceline's "Name Your Own Price" feature. Cory, you might not even remember, but you mentioned to me a while back that you snagged a four-star hotel in LA for a ridiculous price a year or two ago, a fact that I quietly filed away in the back of my head for future reference. I'd seen the ads for Priceline, but you were the only person I knew who had ever used it.

Flash-forward to this trip.

With just a few exceptions, I'm staying in hotels every night. My plan had been to stay at budget places like Motel 6, Super 8, etc. But remembering the Cory Story, I used Priceline to book a few nicer places for the the first few days (as well as the crappy Ramada in Cleveland -- but that was my own fault).

I'm now a total Priceline addict! It's like crack (or so I imagine).

As I write this, I'm staying at the absurdly nice Grand Hyatt smack dab in the middle of downtown Denver. How nice you ask? My room has better furnishings than my parents' house. The bed has three decorative pillows to go with SIX "regular" pillows for sleeping. There's a leather club chair with an ottoman, a 32-inch LCD TV, an alarm clock with an iPod dock, and the marble bathroom has its own phone.

Yeah, it's "Phone-Next-To-The-Crapper" nice.

For all of this, I paid $72 + tax. To put that into perspective, the going rate on Orbitz for the stinkin' AIRPORT RAMADA was $89 + tax.

So, if you're keeping score at home... I paid $17 LESS for one of the best hotels in Denver -- a 4-star gem in the middle of downtown -- than what I might have paid for a crappy Ramada by the airport.

I actually think I could have paid even less than $72 -- maybe somewhere in the mid-$60s. Unfortunately, I'll never know. I didn't want to get too crazy with my bidding, which, as I'm learning, is a somewhat nuanced art form.

Now, I'm not sure it's always as easy to get as a good a deal as this, but I've been having pretty good luck thus far. Logic would dictate that I could probably get 1- and 2-star places for next to nothing, but at some point you start to get diminishing returns. And I just took a shot at a 4-star hotel on a lark. In many places I think I could get an upscale 3-star place for $50-$60.

I've stayed in more dumpy roach motels on previous road trips than I can recall (had an actual roach in one outside of Richmond, VA in 2006 -- thing was HUGE -- I'm pretty sure its antennae received UHF broadcasts). Generally, I don't mind them. As long as they have (relatively) clean sheets and hot water, I'm OK. But I've had some looooong days behind the wheel on this trip and I've realized that there's something to be said for settling in at a place that's just a little bit nicer (actually, the jump in quality from 2- to 3-star places is more than just "a little bit") than the true budget places. I suppose it's the one quasi-luxury I'm allowing myself on this odyssey (I've been averaging two meals a day at Subway, which will be covered at a later date).

My whole point with this is not to dwell on where I'm staying, but rather to say that if you're not using Priceline's name-your-own-price feature, you're screwing yourself -- BIG TIME. If you're not brand loyal and don't need to stay at a specific hotel for an event, this is absolutely the way to go. I'm routinely saving 40+% of normal rates.

So just like Cousin Cory spread the gospel to me, I'm using this little corner of the Internet to pass it along to others. If Priceline were a cult, I'd be drinking its Kool-Aid by the barrel.

p.s. If you feel like screwing the system, here's a link with some advice.

p.p.s The bathroom came stocked with some pretty fancy looking "renewing body lotion with lavender & citrus extract" from some snooty sounding spa. Figuring that I could use some renewing, I availed myself of the freebie. Frankly, I've never used body lotion and didn't even know where to put it. The only exposed parts of my body at the time were my arms and neck (I'm assuming -- probably naively -- that one's face isn't considered part of the "body") so I decided to go with that. I'm not sure that I feel renewed, but I smell like a mix between a hot chick and Elton John.