Thanks to everyone who has commented. It makes me feel like I’m actually writing to someone and not just babbling aimlessly like a hobo talking to a parking meter. Here’s some answers to your questions…

and make sure you do lots of fun things…i’m living vicariously through you. — Stephanie

I will definitely make sure and detail anything that I think you’d want to hear about. I will probably not castrate any pigs, however. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Please stop off at some greasy spoons and start some fights. They would make great writing material. — Don

But don’t listen to my brother’s advice about the fights in a greasy spoon. — Mom

When faced with conflicting advice, I am probably more apt to choose the option that doesn’t involve me getting beat up by a herd of truckers.

I always wanted to travel across the US by motorcycle. Your log makes me want to do it. — Don

Apparently I chose Sturgis week for my road trip - I saw bikers, bikers, and more bikers from Iowa to Montana. Also, you’ll enjoy this Don, I saw a few guys cycling up towards Yellowstone’s trailheads from the entrance - probably at least a 6% upgrade for 10 or 12 miles.

As in, this:

^ Pain. Ful.

How about some info on the tunes you are listening to that are getting you thru all that corn? The newest Rick Springfield CD was just released… –Ann

This is embarrassing. I very carefully transferred 80GB of my music over to an external hard drive that I brought with me, and purchased an 8GB MP3 player for use in my car. And then…I never got around to putting any music on the player, except for a few Ben Harper albums which got me through the Carolinas. Even right now, as I’m writing this and thinking about it, my external hard drive is buried somewhere in my truck and I don’t want to root around for it.

This probably sounds awful, but I honestly haven’t listened to any music for the past 2 or 3 days, not even the radio. I just think.

And Ann, I don’t know where you got your information, but you are way, way off. Rick’s last name is spelled J-a-m-e-s.

Whats the gas run out there? — Seth

It’s interesting. In Iowa and Nebraska, 89 octane with 10% ethanol was $3.79 but pure 87 octane was over $4. I guess those states have a subsidy for the corn usage. In Wyoming gas was $3.79 or so but that was 85 octane and my truck started knocking. I filled up in Washington today for $4.19.

If you had a bigger slope could you break 100? — Seth

This isn’t as clear-cut as it seems, either. My truck chronically underclocks, a fact I discovered in Nebraska while timing the mile markers with a stopwatch. At 75 cruise, it took 45 seconds to tick off a mile, which is actually 80 mph. At 80 cruise, 42 seconds (85 mph). The 98 mph figure I gave was based on driving a mile in just over 36 seconds. So I’m sure that at some point in that mile my truck broke triple digits.

To carry your idea further, I’m sure I could hit some pretty impressive speeds on a -90^o slope, but braking would be a problem.

A seal ate Buster’s hand! OMG! Now he’s got a hook. LOL! — Tom

I told you something would happen to Buster! “He’s going to be all right…”

oh, and you’d have been better off eating the sandwich then having the scent with you the whole time — Einar

Yeah, I didn’t explain this one very well, either. I had a tupperware container with four plain pieces of bread and two unopened metal tuna fish cans. I opted not to open the tuna cans until I got back to the visitor’s center and was surrounded by slower, plumper people.

Spokane, Washington. Continental breakfast.

Hotel clerk, restocking coffee cups, clipped accent: “Good morning sir, are you finding everything alright?”
Me, munching on a bagel: “Yep, thanks. Can you tell me how long it takes to get to Seattle from here?”
Clerk: “Well, sir, that depends on how fast you’re driving.”
Me, chuckling: “Oh, Ima goan’ be hoofin’ it.”
Clerk: …
Me: …
Clerk: …
Me: “Pretty fast.”
Clerk: “Six hours.”

What can I say? I speak The King’s English.

Side note: I don’t know if that guy was talking Segway travel time or what, but it was only 275 miles. Took me four hours.

I woke early on Thursday morning - six o’clock - after collapsing into bed at nine the night before while the last remnants of the sunset still stole through the window blinds. I would be leaving Cody and heading north to Montana to join I-90 west for 700 miles to Seattle, then turn north again for Vancouver. I had a thousand miles to go and two days to do it.

I pulled out of the dusty gravel hotel parking lot at eight and headed for Wal-Mart, where I bought bread, sliced turkey, salami, and cheese for lunch. I crossed into Montana an hour later. Northern Wyoming had been mostly uninhabited but farms sprouted up across the Montana border; huge irrigation systems watered fields of corn (ack! more corn!) and horses and cows munched on grass in front of sprawling ranch homes set far back from the road.

I was on a two-lane road, speed limit 75. There was almost no traffic but I was the middle car in a convoy of three, racing northward through the plains at about 85 miles per hour.

That’s when it happened.

The brake lights of the white Ranger in front of me flashed once, then again. I punched off my cruise control and sat forward, squinting. A lone female peacock stood confused on the white passenger-side road line up ahead. She heard or saw us coming and skittered off the shoulder into the grass as we bore down upon her. The Ranger passed and gave her a wide berth; I relaxed and rested my foot back on the gas pedal. I could only see the tail of the bird now, walking away from the road into the tall weeds.

This mentally-challenged avian then pulled an about-face that would impress a Marine and took waist-high flight. Across the road.

I knew better than to swerve at that speed so I guided my truck to the right as sharply as I dared. The large bird with outstretched wings filled my vision. Neither of us were quick enough. I hit her flush - I mean DEAD on - on the lower left-hand corner of my windshield. BOOM!, like a shotgun report.

Stop.

Right now you might be half-grimacing and half-chuckling to yourself. But understand, this was a good sized specimen. This was no sparrow-flying-into-a-glass-door scenario, although I’m sure you’re aware that those can be surprisingly powerful in their own right. Picture a 16 ounce sirloin steak you’d order at Outback, extra rare. Now toss 12 or 14 of those into a duffel bag and hammer-throw it into oncoming interstate traffic. I was going about 65.

She ricocheted of the windshield into my driver’s side mirror and I saw glass flash as it flew past me. The carcass - it had to have been dead by then - whirled over my truck, somersaulting like a field goal attempt. There was no blood. After asking myself if that actually just happened and receiving an answer in the affirmative, I pulled to the side of the road to survey the damage.

^ Objects in mirror do not appear.

When she hit, I thought she had taken off the entire outer mirror casing, but only the mirror itself was knocked off. I found it a few yards from impact.

Close by, I saw the bird, flatter than Carrottop’s standup.

^ I can only operate under the assumption that this is a peahen. I didn’t want to touch it to confirm. I don’t know what other bird it could be except an oddly-feathered female turkey. It was much too big to be a pheasant.

^ Rest in pieces you dumb bird. I don’t know how your race isn’t streaking towards world domination with instincts like that.

An old man with a toothless grin sat in his idling truck as I walked back to mine, and I explained what happened as I passed. “Gotta be careful out here, son.” Thanks.

It was about 9:30 in the morning. Hi Montana, nice to meet you too.

After that, the rest of the day seemed uneventful. Montana for 430 miles. I passed the highest peak in the state, Mt. Hannah, Montana. (Sorry…I couldn’t resist.)

It was surprisingly warm when I stopped for lunch at a rest area near the University of Montana. As I continued west, the terrain began to change from what I’d seen in Wyoming. Streams began to appear - wide, flat bands of rippling water with trout fishermen standing on the smooth rock bottoms. The stark silhouettes of the jagged rock mountains against the sky grew softened by trees, and the overall effect slowly changed - less Louis L’Amour and more Jack London. Lakes winked in the distance.

I crossed the 70 miles of Idaho’s panhandle, losing altitude the whole way. The Pacific Northwest began to appear. I crossed into the Pacific timezone and settled down at an EconoLodge in Spokane, Washington. I went to bed early. That was the third 25-hour day out of my last five. Jet lag by a thousand paper cuts.

^ I am still in Montana, right?