Day 1

After a bit of a late start Sunday, we've made it across the Appalachians and officially into the Midwest. We stayed the night at the home of Scott's friend, Frank Jackowiak, who has the most incredible collection of Elvis and 3 Stooges memorabilia. I slept in his den, which is papered with pictures of the King (notice how everybody does that--use the word "King" for the second reference instead of a proper name?), and those 3 lovable numbskulls. I'm not sure whether I want to be somebody's Teddy Bear, or poke somebody in the eye.

Travel was pretty easy yesterday. We received a lot of admiring/curious/shocked glances from our fellow motorists. And for good reason: the Rover's roof is topped with a custom-made rack stocked with our camping gear (safely tucked in waterproof bags, thankfully; it's raining this AM), 4 5-gallon jerry cans, a 2nd spare tire, equipment, and heaven knows what else. It may also be our Phillip-designed sign, which touts us as a National Geographic Explorer expedition "In Search of Bigfoot." (Wonder how many subscriptions we'll help NGS sell? "Yeah, I want to read about that Bigfoot expedition; we saw those guys on the road!") We should've rigged up loudspeakers blaring the National Geographic theme song as we speed through the cornfields.

Actually, we did have a reverse "brush with greatness" experience, sort of. The drive-through girl at the McDonalds in Somewhere, Indiana, asked if we really worked for the Geographic. Scott was able to answer that he has done some work for their books. She seemed pretty impressed with just that tidbit from his resume. Good thing she didn't ask about me. Not that my work is anything to be ashamed of, but it just doens't sound like the common image of freelance writers. ("Well, I haven't written anything for National Geographic, but I did do that hard-hitting look at seismic detailing for brick...Wait! Come back!")

Loaded up as it is, the Rover takes a little getting used to when you're behind the wheel. 'Course, I'm used to my low-riding, lawn mower engine-powered Honda. This thing is big and sluggish, but it does ride vey well. That's due in part to the suspension modifications we made (heavy duty springs and shocks). They're paying off already, and we have yet to hit the first tundra road. That old saying about "an ounce of prevention" does hold true.

One disappointment: I've yet to "see" Indiana. The only other times I've been through the Hoosier State was on my 1990 train trip to Seattle, and both times we went through at night. Yesterday, we crossed the border after dark. There were no grandly illuminated sights, and without the highway signs, I could have just as well been in Manassas instead of Indianapolis. What did I miss? Sure, maybe it's just farmlands, factories, and gas n' goes. But if the place too desolate, nobody would live here at all. What is it about Indiana that makes it "Indiana?" (OK, I'll make an exception for Gary; if you've seen one congestedr rust-belt behemoth of a city, you've seen 'em all.) Does everybody walk around making jokes like David Letterman or tossing chairs like Bobby Knight? Are local high school basketball heroes really treated like gods years after they sank their last jump shot? Is there something to Indianapolis besides a 2.5-mile racetrack?

I still don't know, and depending on when we come back through, the Indiana mystique may still elude me. But thanks for Frank, at least I've seen Elvis. Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.