It’s 5:20 am, the earliest I’ve started driving on this trip, and the sun glows directly into my eyes. A few miles back I got to see the eerie delight of fog rising from a grassy field, almost like what you would see in a horror movie.  But nothing scary about it, only pure wonder on my last day of this adventure.

I stop for gas ($17.96 worth) and get a Dunkin Donuts coffee and a jelly donut.  This is sweet, sweet nectar and I’m heading south about to enter Troy, Michigan, home of Cameron Crowe’s fictitious band Stillwater. And surprise, there is more road work to slow me down. 

Michigan, home of road work and roadkill. 

My short-term goal is Canada (Port Huron), and for the first time since South Dakota, I can report there are few cars on the road.  The land is flat, with a few stray trees, and the asphalt is strewn with potholes and bumps and depressions and blown tires and, yes, even more roadkill. 

I’m 9 miles to Canada, and when I finally get to the exit, I get stuck behind a road repair truck with a blinking arrow instructing me to go around it. I miss the bridge!  I take the next exit to turn around, and after muttering a few obscenities, I must acknowledge this is my first true driving blunder of this road trip. Not bad for someone using a ten-year-old map and scattered directions scribbled on backs of envelopes and cocktail napkins.

I pay the $1.50 toll and drive over the cool bridge with the river gushing below me.  Then its “Welcome to Canada, the World Next Door” and I’m now in Ontario, boasting “More To Discover”.  At customs a pretty woman in her 20s with blonde hair pulled back is all business, and the first question she asks is:

“What is your nationality?”

“Ahh . . .”

With my lack of sleep and staring at so many roads and talking to myself for thousands of miles, her question seems as if she just asked for the square root of 897.

“United States . . . ahh . . ”

“American,” the blonde corrects without cracking a smile.

There’s a few more inquiries about where I live and where I’m going, and do you have any firearms? Tempting to say “just the AK and my 9, like all other Americans”, though I refrain. I’m now on my way through Canada without even showing an ID heading east towards London. This is a 70-speed limit, but that’s kilometers and not miles per hour. 

My German car has the kilometer numbers printed small underneath the mph, so I don’t have to worry about the metric system we were never taught as Americans.  Not many cars on the road at 7:30 a.m. as I drive through flat prairie land with the rising sun.  Radar devices are prohibited in Ontario, and it’s a good thing I don’t have anything electronic in this car other than a cell phone that keeps telling me its searching for service. 

I’m driving exactly at the speed limit, which is 100 km or around 62 mph, and there are trucks whizzing by me.  Maybe the police, or Mounties, are not strict with tickets, but I’m not about to test that theory.  Instead I’ll just lumber along this bumpy road and battle these lunatic truck drivers. 

So much for Canada being safer.  A garbage truck passes me doing at least 100 mph, and I want to shout at him, “you stupid hoser!”  Just like Indiana, either increase the speed limit or enforce it. 

It’s not even 8:30 am and the heat is already oppressive.  The oven-like atmosphere can’t distract me from the fact that my car is pulling monumentally to the right. My tires must be shot after more than 4,000 miles.  Thinking about them brings utter fear, but there are other problems to address, like my throbbing bladder.

I take the next exit, Longwoods Road, and end up at a gas station that looks like somebody’s backyard.  Thankfully there are toilets, and I decide to fill the tank again. This also affords me the opportunity to study my directions I got from Bill’s computer, written drunk and nearly illegible on the back of a Lansing bar cocktail napkin.

Back on the road we’re finally getting some elevation on a steady, continuous incline.  We have our first Canadian cow sighting and first Canadian casino.  When did all these casinos pop up across North America? I cruise along the 402 and I’m looking for the 401 towards Toronto. 

I see a sign for Toronto saying it’s 205 miles . . . no, 205 km, much better.  The Lebatt’s Brewery is approaching, and it makes me think of the McKenzie Brothers and the time I stayed up all night before a family road trip to Virginia when I was 14.  I wanted to be able to sleep in the car, so I stayed awake all night by watching movies, one of them “Strange Brew”, starring the fictional drunk duo of Doug and Bob McKenzie.  My plan horribly backfired, and I didn’t sleep one minute during that 12-hour trip. 

But feels nice to know that I was devising travel strategies at such a young age.

If the cocktail napkin is correct, I’m looking for exit 235, but I don’t see any numbers here. However, there’s a McDonalds and a bunch of American chain hotels and restaurants, and a Canadian flag flying proudly. Farms on my right, some powerlines, and this looks the same as Minnesota, South Dakota, and parts of Michigan. 

Jakeman’s Maple Farm is exit 230, and I salivate at the prospect of pancakes with warm maple syrup.  But what I’m really craving is a Mark’s Mess from The Cookshack in South Pasadena.  I’m so hungry but I can’t stop until Niagara Falls, and I take the 403 and rumble along this flat and straight road. 

It’s 150 km to The Falls, so that’s about what . . . 70-80 miles?  Damn Metric System. When I think of Niagara Falls, I conjure up honeymooners and Superman 3 and completely deranged people trying to go over it in a barrel. 

There is a little lake of sorts next to the golf course, and this is Hamilton, population 491,000. I must quote Jeff Spicoli by saying “way to go, Hamilton”.  I’m coming down into a valley with a rocky ridge and a gathering of tall buildings struggling to make a skyline. 

Somewhere in this city is the Canadian Football Hall of Fame, where I believe Doug Flutie is inducted.  There’s a nice church on my right, a sign for the African Lion Safari next exit, and another lake.  The road splits, either the 6 or 403, and I stay on the 403, or the QEW. 

There is rampant tailgating, and this forces me to put this section of Canada on par with Los Angeles drivers.  I’d love to have more time to explore Canada, as I know I’m not getting the best of it from the highway. I love Montreal, which until today was the only place I’d seen in this country.

I’m now going over a massive bridge (four lanes), with a lot of factories on my right and hazy fog hanging over the water.  I initially planned to see Niagara Falls from the Canadian side (which “they” say to be the best), but since this has been a journey across America, I’ll stick with that theme.  I’m not sure why it matters, but there are three interchanges at Grimsy.  Hamilton, I believe, boasted five.  Okay . . . I’m hot, tired, hungry and noting useless information. 

A Trotte Transit School Bus passes me doing at least 85 mph, and there are six interchanges (!) in St. Catharine’s, population of 130,000.  They’re really living it up there on Ontario Street.

How much longer will my tires hold out? 

I now have to angle the wheel to the left just to keep the car going straight.  The road climbs, and from the incline you can’t see anything on the left, only tops of trees on the right.  But I finally glimpse the little of the town of Niagara Falls, population 76,000, just in the distance. And there are seven interchanges.

We’re down to one lane for construction, and the road is bumpy.  At a stop light I spy the tourist center on my right, with the Clifton Hills Marvel Superhero City and Spiderman the Ultimate Ride.  At the next set of lights I see a sign for Casino Niagara (what the hell?) and pass a little Victorian house before I enter a tunnel.  And now I have Planet Hollywood, the Hershey Store, and a mess of traffic in the right lane for The Falls exit. I thought the American side was supposed to be more commercial!

I take a left on the Rainbow Bridge, and here is Niagara Falls cascading down and creating a gorgeous mist over the water!  It’s an amazing sight, but you can’t pull over here.  Instead, you have to clear customs, and there’s a stack of cars 4 or 5 deep trying to enter.  There are five lanes open, eight closed, and each car takes a long time.  When I finally get my turn, the female officer with auburn hair (maybe my age or slightly older) is very nice.  After showing my passport and answering the standard questions, she tells me it’s only another seven hours or so to Boston. 

So I take a right and search for somewhere to park. 

I can see the Falls on my left.  There’s Niagara Falls State Park, but with my disappearing cashflow I opt for street parking at the corner of Rainbow and 2nd (next to St. Peters Church).  It seems to be a little bit of a walk down there, but my destination will be easy to find, just look for the spray.

Soon enough I’m in the state park, with all the tall buildings looming over the Canadian side.  Man, that’s some raging water over there!  This is an iconic site I’ve always wanted to see, like Yellowstone, Rushmore, and Little Big Horn.  I feel truly lucky I’ve gotten to view all these sites and much more on this trip.

It’s 1:10 pm and while the Falls stimulated my mind and soul, my stomach was ignored.  With my hunger I try to figure out where to go.  I’m following 190 south, with its Seaway Trail and Waterfall Viewing Area ½ mile away.  Buffalo is one mile away, and this is hostile Bills territory for a New England Patriots fan.  I’m wearing a New England Super Bowl Champions hat now. 

It’s south to Buffalo, and for some reason that sounds weird.  Looks like we a got a toll coming up, a 50-cent job, and the speed limit has decreased to the number that Sammy Haggar isn’t able to drive.

Regardless of the toll, this bridge is pretty cool, with the Niagara River zipping underneath and the steel girders presiding over the car with their stately brown and rust color.  Although it smells here, an oily stench, and I now see big oil container thingies (maybe not the technical term).   If I didn’t turn the steering wheel to nine o’clock the car would veer off the bridge. 

I’m being hammered by New York and their fricken tolls. 

I’m once again on the 90 east, but unlike Montana and South Dakota and Minnesota and all the other good states supporting Mr. 90, the New York Turnpike is going to cost me $10.05 just to drive a few hundred miles!  This is the biggest rip off of the whole trip. Figures, only the state where the Yankees play would charge $10 to use a road that should be free.  The money is probably funding (clandestinely, of course) George Steinbrenner. 

Can you imagine if you had to pay tolls through every state like this? 

It’s highly doubtful I’ve got ten dollars in my pocket. Yep, only got seven.  And something (ragweed or pollen) is making me sneeze over and over again . . . or maybe I’m just allergic to New York. The Pembroke Service Area is coming up, and I’m going to pull over, use an ATM, and get some (hopefully palatable) food.

And now I’m back on Interstate 90, and upstate New York looks a lot like Canada, Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, and eastern South Dakota.  Which is to say, it’s boring as shit.  You have flat land, trees, farmland, and asphalt.  When I see the sign “Construction, your tolls at work”, I want to pull over and batter it with a huge stick.

I now contend with a truck driver that makes all those lunatics in Canada look like Good Samaritans.  This guy is in the left-hand lane (going up a hill!) and he’s not even passing anybody.  His only function right now is to create a big mass of cars behind him.

It shouldn’t make me so mad because there will always be annoying people who do annoying shit and you cannot change them. 

I need to be like the person in the Zen Koan story I love.  There’s this monk whose master made him sit on top of a pole day after day above the town square. He naturally didn’t want to do it, fearing he would be ridiculed. Indeed he was, and not only did he have to take their insults, his master said you must pay every person who makes fun of you.  And when word spread a guy on a pole was paying people to call him names, he was inundated with scorn.

Finally the master said the monk could come down, and he was instructed he no longer had to pay anyone who was rude to him. No sooner than he’d gotten down off the pole, a villager approached and called him all sorts of bad names thinking he would receive money. The monk listened, nodded, and then laughed in the guy’s face. I hope to be like that monk someday.

But for now I’ll find enlightenment with Ben & Jerry’s ice cream as I hit a rest stop to fill up ($19.87). I get back on the road and I ascend my first hill in a long time.  These last 200 miles are going to be tough.  It is 5 p.m. and I am an hour outside of Albany. 

Haven’t been to Albany since ’98 right before I moved out to L.A. Back then I rented a van and drove a bunch of my belonging that way because my great friend and soon-to-be LA roommate Jamie was living in Schenectady, and American Airlines was paying for his move.  It also feels like I haven’t showered since ’98, wearing everything I did last night at the ballgame. 

Now I head down into a valley and admire the expanse of trees on my left.  The land is beautiful except for the billboard advertising a chain hotel way up on the hill.  Cooperstown Hall of Fame is Exit 25a, and as a huge baseball fan, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never been there.

“Welcome To Albany, Capital of NY State” makes me smile, but “Mass Turnpike/Boston Keep Right” nearly brings tears of joy.  Am I really that close to home?  Yes, there’s the Mass Pike sign with its little pilgrim hat.  It’s Exit 21A, and I cross a light blue bridge with the Hudson River below me.

I’m now cutting through the mountains and a Falling Rock Zone, eventually reaching a valley, with trees unfolding as far as the eyes can see.  And right after I pay the ludicrous ten-dollar toll, I am forced to blow my horn, the first time in nearly 5,000 miles of driving.  I was in the left lane and a guy towing a camper on the right, attempting to pass a truck, nearly creamed me.

And here it is, for the love of all that is good and holy,  “Massachusetts Welcomes You”. 

It’s 6:50 p.m. and I collect my ticket that says I’ll only owe $2.70.  I feel the need to complain about New York again, but I’ll refrain. Those tolls were just unexpected and a big hit to my dwindling, unemployed back account.   It’s feels so wonderful to be in Massachusetts, like I’ve crossed into my hometown instead of a state. 

Stockbridge is exit 2, and I can’t help but sing James Taylor’s “With 10,000 miles behind me and 10,000 more to go-oh-oh.”  And now Pittsfield, home of Larry, my roommate sophomore year of college. Strange, I think on this trip I’ve driven by all of my old college roommates’ hometowns- Jamie, Larry, Dan, Greg & Nick…everybody except Takaki from Tokyo, who roomed with me only briefly at BU. I would absolutely love to visit Japan someday, but that seems so far away.  

I stop once more to call home, getting to talk to my Dad to let my family know I’m close to arriving, and I also dial my great friend Ditch, who is getting married in a week.  Boston is 103 miles away and the sun is setting behind me, creating a golden glare in my rearview.  I’m heading down out of the mountains and am about to pass the Basketball Hall of Fame (unfortunately haven’t been there either). 

Maybe, just maybe, there might be enough juice in the portable radio to give me the Red Sox game.  Yes, oh yes . . . there is Joe Castiglione’s voice!  At 8 p.m. I pass Old Sturbridge Village, a place I visited many times as a kid.  It’s dusk and the sun is setting in my rear-view and side-view mirrors, and I’ve completely lost the game.  I feel like S.E.T.I., the search for Extra-Terrestrials, as I scan the dial up and down to hear how Nomar and company are doing.

As I get closer and closer, is there anything I can say to wrap it all up? 

The trip affected me in many ways, but as far as a list of highlights, lowlights…I can’t do that now.  Boston is now 38 miles away, and I can say for certain it will feel wonderful to get home. I’m also sure this is a pivotal point in my life, even if I can’t fully comprehend it, and this journey was just as much an external one as an internal one.

The tollbooth guy says “How ya doing?”, and I can’t begin to describe how nice that made me feel. 

This morning I woke up just outside of Detroit and now I’m entering the Boston area.  I’ll say one thing, it doesn’t seem possible that I drove from L.A. to Seattle and now into Boston. 5,000 miles by myself seems way too far. I think back to that marathon I ran in San Diego three years ago, and this last 30 minutes of driving is equivalent to running the last mile.  I knew I had it, and it was a feeling of pride, accomplishment, and utter exhaustion. 

It’s getting dark and I’m passing the Wakefield exits.  Walnut Street, Saugus/Lynnfield 1 mile.  That, my friends, is my last exit off a highway, byway, freeway, tollway . . . that’s it. 

I enter Saugus, cross over into Lynn, and go by Tranfagliar Ave, site of my high school graduation party where I slept in my parents car (first time I ever did that).  I pass Frey Park where I played countless times as a kid, Tom’s Convenience Store where I would get snacks after school (sadly called something else now), and then I turn right onto Wyman Street.  This is the place I grew up, my childhood home. 

There’s no place like home.