It’s twenty minutes to 10 am as I squirm my car out of this tiny hotel parking space in Wall, South Dakota.  After a quick stop at a general store for coffee I’m back on Highway 90 and heading east.  I can see The Badlands on my right, and the area has a sort of Grand Canyon feel to it.  The road is straight, with some up and downs, and I’m holding steady at 85 mph.  The cloud cover keeps the sun out of my eyes. 

It’s flat, but the sweep of the horizon is blocked by the low hill ahead.  The Badlands, from this distance, is canyon rock sprouting up from the flat prairie.  I see a sign for “Dances with Wolves, an 1880 town, movie props”.  Is this where they shot it, or a tourist trap trying to cash in on traveling film lovers like myself?  Either way I’m not stopping.  

Another billboard:  “Get your deputy badge from Marshal Jim Kinney, 1880 town”, exit 170 Midland”.  I can see it on the left side of the road, and apparently, along with little frontier houses, there was a Texaco gas station in 1880.  

This is just flat prairie land, but not Nebraska flat (like what I viewed from the cross-country train ride in ’92) because there are some sporadic rolling hills.  And once you crest them, you can see for miles and miles and miles.  The haystacks remind me of a Monet painting.  I’m doing 80 and I’m the slowest car on the road. 

I pass the Sioux Motel and Sioux Museum, and there’s a sporadic sprinkling of raindrops with the sun beating down on my dashboard.  It’s getting hot.  I now enter the Central Time Zone, and that bums me out . . . I loved being in The West. 

There’s a sign that declares with curious optimism: “Here it is! Murdo.”  Pierre, the capital, is 53 miles to the north and not on my path.  I think there was anti-caffeine in that coffee as my eyes are heavy and I could take a nap.  Sioux Falls is 200 miles away, and a lot closer there’s a casino with $4.95 prime rib.  Mmmm . . prime rib.

There’s a decent number of cars on this road, and I’ve encountered my first group of bad drivers in days.  I’m doing 85, and there’s been three cars who sped up to pass me and then slowed down to 75 once they did.  They all looked like middle-aged men, and maybe since they’re driving brand new SUVs, they feel compelled to pass my piece-of-shit car that was made in 1990.  That’s fine, but then keep at a pace that doesn’t force me to pass you! 

My annoyance is tempered when I see a sign for Al’s Oasis restaurant, declaring it’s “Udderly Delicious”.  It’s 1 p.m. CT, and I’m 150 miles from Sioux Falls.  The sky in my field of vision has become a vast blue entity, with some puffy clouds scattered about the horizon.  The South Dakota Hall Of Fame can be found, if you so desire, at exit 263, and for the history buffs, there are Lewis and Clark exhibits at a rest area. 

I glimpse my first expanse of blue (Lake Francis Case, I think), and it’s a nice sight after all that scabrous land.  But the road is still in poor condition, and I can report that most of 90 East needs major repairs.  But the same prosaic scenery returns after that Lake, and I’m entering Pukwana. About 40 cows rub up against a fence, and the road is climbing.

I consider these long drives in barren landscapes as quasi-meditation; you’re not completely engaging in no-thought, but nor are you trying to figure your life’s problems.  Pure mediation would be ideal, but I’d probably drive myself into a ravine if I did that.  But this day of driving with absolutely no stops planned, is therapeutic.  I’m allowing all the stuff I’ve seen on this trip simmer in my brain.

I am hoping this trip will be the basis for my next novel. We shall see . . .  

Bugs keep exploding on my windshield, but not as many as the time in 1997 when Ditch and I drove through the Everglades on our way through Florida to Key West from Tampa.  It’s fun to get these sporadic memories of long-ago car trips.  Like Mary Chapin Carpenter said, sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.

After the windshield wiper fluid does its job, I see signs for Ears to You, Corn Palace and the Enchanted Doll Museum.  Tempting, very tempting to stop.  What weird happenings to be found at either of those places?  The wind has once again turned wicked, and I’m detoured onto a dirt road and must battle the swirling dust.  Rolling up the window I try the radio on my portable tape recorder and see if I can get a signal. 

The only station available is a biblical one talking about Jerusalem.  The preacher sounds just like the one in Tom Robbins’ Skinny Legs And All (one of my favorite books).  Thankfully, I lose the signal.

The construction ends and I’m finally crossing back over to east lane of 90.  But this road is still bumpy, and it probably will be until I reach Sioux Falls.  I’m now in Desmet, home of Laura Ingalls Wilder of Little House on the Prairie fame.  I turn the radio dial and find Madonna singing about how she’ll remember.  After more searching, I settle on a country station that comes in clear.

There’s a sign for Bridgewater, Exit 357, and that brings me back to the late 80s and early 90s.  I did my Freshman and Sophomore years at Bridgewater State College in Massachusetts, and that seems like that was 50 years ago, not 15. Another familiar town name, Salem, which is famous outside of Boston for their witches.  But in South Dakota it’s “Salem, a town to grow in”.  I pass a “Trust Jesus” billboard and a metal sculpture of steer horns.

I still have no cell phone reception, even as I reach Sioux Falls.  If this is a thriving city, it’s one that’s hidden from the highway and might not have any cell phone towers.  I’d like to get an oil change, but I don’t see anything resembling society here.

And before I can even ponder Sioux Falls, there’s a sign that declares Minnesota Welcomes You.  It’s not often you think, wow, Minnesota really came out of nowhere. But here we are.  I’m surrounded by farmland, and I can only hope that Laverne, 10 miles away, is a place to get my oil changed. 

It’s 3 pm CT now, and I guess I’m officially in the Midwest.  This is Viking and Packer territory, the land of cheese and borderline Canadian-type accents.  I take exit 12 at Laverne and search for Jiffy Lube or something comparable.  I drive down the main throughfare and this quest will not be achieved here. 

But I don’t consider it wasted time, because I get a taste of small-town America, with it white banner for “Buffalo Days”, old redbrick buildings, a bowling alley with a cool 1960’s sign, and the vintage Palace Theatre playing “American Graffiti”.  I fill up at Casey’s General Store ($1.46 a gallon, the cheapest I’ve seen) and I’m back on the highway at 3:25 pm. 

The road is beat-up, and it’s flat farmland on either side with manure scented air.  A sign says we’re at County 61, but two miles later for mysterious reasons we retreat to County 9.  Coming up on Worthington (a Minnesota Star City, whatever that means) it doesn’t look too promising.  Seems like a cow town with a few gas stations, a general store, and probably the usual suspects of chains.  I’ll give it a whirl, and if there’s no place to get an oil change, I’ll buy a sandwich instead. 

There are hotels advertised for $28 a night, and that’s what I was expecting last night but did not find.  I drive around and, once again, a Jiffy Lube or equivalent is nowhere to be found.  It’s 4:10 pm, and I see service stations but they’re not open. 

Defeated and now famished, I enter a McDonalds drive-through . . . something I’ve avoided for thousands of miles.  In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I had a Big Mac (maybe 1998?).  The last five years, if I had a craving for a fast-food burger, it was always In-N-Out.  But I will find no Double-Doubles in Worthington, Minnesota. 

I ask the cashier if she knows where I can get my oil changed, and it turns out Walmart is The Place to do anything in this town.  On the drive there I eat my burger, and as I pull into the garage I’m greeted by a high school kid with a Palm-Pilot type thing.  He asks for my information, and when I gave him my phone number with the 323-area code, he questions if I’m sure. 

“Yes, I’m pretty sure. I live in L.A.”

He stares at me as if I just told him I was a Vulcan.

Finally he shrugs and says,  “You came a long way to get your oil changed.”

I sure did, kid.  I splurge for the deluxe 15-point service (why not live a little) for $22.  In the service lounge I drink my Coke (an aberration for me, only done for the caffeine since I gave up drinking soda six years ago) and call my friend Bill who lives outside of Detroit.  Three loud kids all under ten enter the small room.  The mother lets them run rampant, and I’m forced to cover my other ear with my hand so I can hear my friend speak. 

I write down the directions to his house on the back of an envelope and we talk about going to a Tigers game when I arrive in Detroit.  When one kid screams, I can’t help but turn and see what happened.  The biggest child has taken a cup of soda from the littlest.  My cup of soda.  I had put it on the table next to the phone booth, and now I’m the victim of a beverage crime.  Serves me right for drinking that carbonated sugar-water shit. 

But soon afterwards they call my name, and now my car is oiled up and ready to go.  It is 5:30 pm, and the Walmart adventure will be my excitement for this day.  Back on 90 East and the clouds are now a mass of gray, most likely a full-fledged storm.  It looks to be off to the south, and hopefully it will keep going in that direction. 

I have no idea how long it’ll take to get to Bill’s place in Michigan (which I for sure won’t reach today).  It would be nice to catch a Tigers game at the new ballpark tomorrow. I remember when Bill and I were 21 or 22-years-old, and we plotted out a grand road trip to visit as many ballparks as we could.  That never happened, but seeing the Tigers in Detroit would be cool.  

There’s an Iowa radio station coming through and they’re playing, appropriate enough, “Riders on the Storm”.  Hardly any cars or trucks on this road.  When the song ends the DJ speaks of possible hail, and I think of possible tornadoes.  I check the cell phone again, and it communicates its usual “searching for service”.  I think the storm is going to stay south because there are blue skies ahead.

Coming up on a town called Welcome, and I’m passed by a couple of big rigs topping 90 mph. The pavement sucks out here, the scenery is boring (not even any cows), and the only station coming in now is a gospel one.  Weird to think that 24 hours ago I was in the sacred Black Hills, and soon I’ll be in Wisconsin. 

Now I’m in County 221, but eighteen miles later it’s County 12.  Clearly the county system here is not based on geography. I’m tempted to visit “The Spam Museum, Believe the Hype” at exit 178b, but I keep driving and driving and driving.  

The sun slowly sets, casting a shadow of my car on the right, and I get my first cow sighting in many miles.  Crossing America and experiencing the gamut of stunning scenery and grand attractions to your most average and prosaic sights, it makes you realize it’s the differences that make this country great. We need to embrace and celebrate these differences.  Being the same is fascist and boring (I’m paraphrasing Crash Davis, but he was right).    

The road begins to go down and I see a lot more trees, but I’m not through with the farmland yet.  There’s a gray-blue sky through my windshield, and the rear and side-view mirrors provide me with orange and a little yellow.  The sun is getting closer to the horizon, and the highway curves slightly, very welcome after that vast straightaway. 

I continue downward and the trees become denser as I come upon Great River Bluffs State Park.  The sun casts a shadow on the trees, and this is the prettiest scenery I’ve seen since leaving Mt. Rushmore.  A sign that tells me its 146 miles to Madison, Wisconsin and wonder if I can make it there.

I’ve been driving way too long.    

I glimpse a body of water with hills and trees and a rocky ridge.  After a short spell of going back up, I’m driving down again, curving to the right with the mountains.  There are pink clouds mixed with some vestiges of white puffy ones, and I’m crossing, while it’s hard to believe, The Mississippi River!

The Old Miss, Mighty Miss, and I can’t help but sing “Old Man River” in a deep voice like Chevy Chase did in Vacation.  This is a wonderful long bridge, and I’m back in familiar territory.

Wisconsin Welcomes You . . . my last trip here was 11 years ago.  Nice memories, including sailing on Lake Michigan with Darcie in Racine.  My college roommate was from Beaver Dam, and I wonder if Greg still lives there.  While I was driving through Southern Minnesota, I wasn’t too far away from Strawberry Point, Iowa, hometown of Nick, another one of my roommates.  The last time I saw them was when they visited me in Key West in the spring of ’94. Has it really been 9 years since I’ve seen them, and 11 years since I was last here? 

That Wisconsin trip we went to Summerfest, a huge music festival in Milwaukee.  Greg also threw a party while we were there and that was the 1st time I ever bought a keg.  We saw a Brewers game at the old ballpark, and also drove to Chicago and got to experience Wrigley Field (Mark Grace hit a walkoff homerun to win it for the Cubbies).   There were fireworks over Grant Park on the 4th of July, and we got to drink beers at Mother’s, the bar from About Last Night.

I’ll never understand time, and for me it’s just as easy to conjure up the past as it is to live in the present.   

There’s a nice glow behind me, with yellowish tinting to the tall grass and the trees.  It’s 9 p.m. and I wonder if I’ll be going anywhere near Kaukauna (home of Dan, another B.U. roommate) or Beaver Dam.  The road just got really wet as I begin another descent, and the fog drifts around my car.  I’m seeing a lot of signs for Wisconsin Dells, but I don’t think I’ll stop there because it seems touristy and the hotel prices will certainly be jacked up. 

So I shine it on until Madison (I walked around the campus with Greg and B Doane back on that trip in ’91), but there are no rooms to be had in Wisconsin’s capital.  Five different hotels are booked, and the clerks all tell me I’ll find the same no-vacancy all around this area.  No memory lane strolls tonight . . . good-bye, Madison.   

I keep on driving and thirty minutes later I’m in traffic.  This is the first time I’ve seen such a high volume of cars since Seattle.  All these vehicles are especially freaky after being on so many roads for thousands of miles with nobody.  Although I’m not tired, I’d really love to get out of this car and drink a few beers and not look at any asphalt.  There’s a town coming up called Beloit and I see a billboard for a Comfort Inn at exit 173.     

No rooms there.

I really do not understand this.  It’s not like I’m in Vegas or New York City on fucking New Years Eve.  This is Wisconsin!  There were vacancies at Yellowstone and Rushmore, and that was a Friday night. All right, calm down.  I’m not that mad, just weary and annoyed.  From the Badlands to Milwaukee, this is one weird day.

I’m now welcomed into Illinois, my fourth state today.  The Northwest Tollway is coming up . . . what the fuck is this?  I fumble around for forty cents, and I see a sign for Rockford.   The desk clerk at the Best Western said she spoke to somebody in Rockford, and they were also booked solid.  I’m not even going to try, instead battle more roadwork, fog, and idiot drivers.  It’s sixty miles to Chicago.

I’m now I’m in Cook County, and I’ve known that Chicago is in Cook County since I was 12 because of The Blues Brothers, one of my favorite comedies of all time.  But before I reach the city, I decide to try a town with riverboat gambling, getting another NO VACANCY. 

If I go to another place that doesn’t have a room, I might drive my car through the front door.  There’s a toll road island, and I’m stopping so I can take a few breaths and get something to eat.  I do, and then sink to new lows by ordering a filet-o-fish sandwich from McDonalds.

And now it’s 2:20 a.m. CT and I’m heading into the Chicago area.  I’m driving again because that’s what I do.  I’ve also become adept at paying tolls, this will be my fifth one (including the one I had to fork over by my failed attempt at a room by the riverboat gambling).  I see a Marriott hotel, and I think that’s the one I stayed with Greg, Brian, and Dan in ’91.

I’m now in the Chicago Loop, and The El just passed me going towards O’Hare in the opposite direction.  People are driving like complete assholes, and I’m probably catching the drunkards who just stumbled out of bars.  Just saw a sign for Wrigley Field, exit 44A, and that brings back great memories.

But I’m too tired for nostalgia, too pissed off at the worst drivers I’ve encountered since L.A.  And of course the cell phone isn’t working.  If it isn’t getting service in Chicago, I don’t know where on the planet it will.

The skyscrapers have been shrouded in fog, but I finally glimpse the skyline on my right.  The Sears Tower holds a lot of memories, getting to the top of it in 1991 (with my buddies) and 1992 (with Darcie).  From all the wilderness and prairie land I’ve viewed today, it’s quite eerie seeing the tallest building in the world.

It’s still foggy, but I have trouble picturing it rolling in on little cat’s feet.  But that’s a great poem by Mr. Sandburg.  Carl, not Ryne. 

It’s like the Indianapolis 500 here, and I giggle maniacally when I see the sign for Indiana.  There are too many damn signs, in fact, but I think I want the Ryan Expressway.  That means I must get into the left or, as I like to refer to it in Chicago, The Suicide Lane. 

I make the switch and a cabbie gets right up on my ass and gives me the finger (even though I’m driving 75 m.p.h.).   If I had the energy, I’d run him off the road and into a ditch and I wouldn’t even call 9-1-1 as his car burns to a crisp.  No, I wouldn’t do that . . . or would I?

I’m in Indiana now, the fifth state line I’ve traversed today.  The cars have thinned out, but I’m forced to slow down when I see a dog or a cow or some sort of wild beast cross the freeway.  Did I imagine that?  Quite possible.  There’s a town called Portage and I must see if there is a room.

Thank the Hotel Gods, there is vacancy and it’s cheap.  The front desk clerk is behind glass like he’s in a bank, probably not a good sign, but I don’t care. I started the day with the odometer at 120,559 and finished at 121,519 . . . that’s a total of 960 miles.  There’s two beers in the cooler (lukewarm), but I need to drink them both before I can fall asleep.