1/27: 2010 Launch- Viva El Perro Sucio!

The ONLY reason Greyhound still conducts business is because it's a monopoly. Every year, they find new and astounding ways to baffle me with what I believed to be futility. I've since realized that "futility" is not the right term. They just don't fucking care... they don't have to! Why has this company been granted National Bus Line status? More on this latest vulgar display to come...

4/17: E. Tennessee

We all got up pretty late, and pretty hungover; mine more from being allowed to smoke inside a bar again. Devin had moved the bus to a theater parking lot at some point, and immediately went into cleaning mode for quite awhile. It reminded me of trying, still, to remove all remaining evidence of last night's March of the Pigs.

My skepticism surrounding Chad's veggie oil was proven ludicrous. The barrel was completely full of the cleanest oil I have seen to date, and in such a place behind the strip mall where we could simply pull along side, using the electric gas- pumpy- thingy to take it straight into the tank. Chad was working, so we gave he and his co- workers a tour of the bus and then were off, completely full, with an extra 15- gallons loaded in extra buckets they had given us. Even the weather was perfect. 75... sunny. I honestly got the impression that Tennessee was trying to make good on the night before!

While we were there, Chris received a call from his friend, Trent, who lives outside of Washington, DC confirming that we had a place to stay when we arrived. We now had our next destination solidly in place.

Devin made a quick stop to pick up filters, then we were off for a quiet day of reflection, riding, and watching the beauty of E. Tennessee pass us by. There were lots of thoughts considering that we were doing this part MUCH too quickly. This part of the country would be killer on foot! I didn't dwell on it much however; something else is driving us, and to continue the metaphor, I am making a conscious effort to play the role of that side- car passenger.

Chris and I also discussed our different perspectives regarding Oklahoma City, and some budding ideas regarding the perception of "moral superiority" as it applies to imposed dogma. I need to step the fuck back occasionally and try to remember that I often don't have nearly enough information to presume to judge. Oklahoma City was one of these times. I wasn't "one of them" because I had been brought there, randomly, as a passenger with people who DID belong! Duh, douchebag.

We finally left I-40 after nearly five full days, getting on I-81, then crossing in to Virginia sometime around midnight. Devin decided to skip Virginia Beach, choosing instead to take the route thru Washington to Delaware. We've set a tentative off- load point: Annapolis, MD. Another fucking "plan" (ha!)...

4/16: Memphis- Lawdogs

When we last saw our hero, he assumed he was riding toward Little Rock and pondering contact possibilities. In reality, he would awake in the hamlet of Searcy, AR, nowhere near Bill Clinton's old whorin... er... stomping grounds. Devin had decided to bypass it via my old friend from last summer in Asheboro, NC: US-64.

I scoped out the unfamiliar Walmart parking lot area, then Chris and I stopped into IHOP to feed ourselves and our cells. From there, it was a pleasant couple of hours riding thru back country Arkansas toward West Memphis, then across my Rubicon into "The East". I always get an odd feeling crossing the Mississippi, it's a much different world on the Memphis side, at least to me. I then repeatedly mocked Chris's goofy notion that we were now on the "east coast".

We needed veggie so, once thru the city, Devin chose an area to scavenge where Chris and I paired up for the now- familiar routine of chatting up eateries. We are quite good at this, as you can imagine, and after perhaps an hour, we hit the used- grease motherlode at The Cajun Catfish Company, a swanky seafood place.
The manager was all about bio- diesel and, more importantly, they had a FULL dumpster full of nearly pristine oil. In addition, there was ample space out back to park the bus and do our thing. The weather was perfect, sunny and in the mid 70's, and once we got going, the whole process was fun. The people we chatted with through the course of the day were all friendly, and some quite amusing. Particularly Bob at "Bob's Place". He reminded me of the owner of "The Country Bunker" in the Blues Brothers. Was that character's name Bob, too? "Well, I sure would appreciate it..."

We filled the tank and all the spare receptacles at the Cajun Catfish Company, and got back on I-40 in good spirits, happy to be in Tennessee, and making arrangements to meet up with Kim and her boyfriend when we got to Nashville to stop for the night. It was a great day... and then...

Flashing lights.

Leif had passed an unmarked cop parked in the median. We noticed them, and commented on the fact that they were gawking madly at the bus as it passed. The pullover was half- expected... what happened next was a disgusting display of misplaced power, paranoia, and pathetic futility... all under the guise of your "safety and security."

The reason given for the pullover was that they "couldn't read the dirty license plate", which is Piggie for "we think you look suspicious." If you're over the age of 15 and believe differently at this point in your life, please go away. Then keep going...

Chris has already provided a rundown of the details, so I'll try to conserve space, but it entailed having all of our IDs pulled, being interrogated (complete with poorly- veiled threats), then pulled off the bus to sit on the side of I-40. All with the machismo that even Pancho Villa would find better suited to a frat house.
I've discussed my disgust for these arbitrary, Gestapoesqe "I don't like your look" searches, and at length with Chris, Shalain, and Kim before. I see them as the primary, singular example of un- Americanism; abuses of authority. The one thing that anyone living in this country should be immune from, based on (what used to be) our ideals.

It occurred to me to ask, forcefully, WHY they were running my ID. What cause did they have to search me? My blood was boiling rapidly, but quickly realized that these weren't ordinary highway cops. These were drug- hunters looking for traffickers. To my amazement, and perhaps everlasting shame, I managed to keep my mouth shut. I answered their questions, and sat on the ground watching in quiet rage as Devin signed a search consent, they brought in the dog, then proceed to literally ransack the bus. All for NO real reason.

Amerika, I love ya!

As bad as this was for the rest of us, what they did to Leif was unconscionable. He suffers from Social Anxiety Disorder so naturally stammers a bit, and gets visibly perturbed when he's nervous. These investigative "geniuses" thought they were REALLY onto something while all four loomed over him, in ATF/ tactical- ops looking outfits complete with sidearms on display, asking him why he was "so nervous." Mocking him. I still don't have the words to tell you how disgusted I was, and still am. I've never had a great admiration for cops, due to my own "adventures in justice", but this was something different; it had a sinister, authoritarian stench to it.

Of course they found nothing, much to their obvious chagrin. They seemed perplexed as Scooby Doo bounded off the bus to play with his handler next to the highway, while the rest of The Corp of Futility had finally had enough and told us we were "free to go". They were going out of their way to let all of us know that Snoopy had snooped out a baggie that had "once had held pot, he'll find anything!" Obviously Blondie's sniffing powers were something to behold. Yeah, that's amazing... except Wonderpup and his Band of Merry Fascists missed the jarful of weed, sitting in plain sight, next to the driver's seat. I had to laugh when a certain, distinct smell made it's way to the front as we approached Nashville.

So... consider all the shady ethical examples presented by Tennessee's Finest. THEN consider that they missed the very thing they were after? THAT'S the illusion of safety & $ecurity that erodes freedom and liberty. Maybe you Tea Party people should start there rather than with approved- party dialectics.

We all felt quite violated after this, and tried to console Leif who was feeling guilty and was obviously traumatized after the way they tried to humiliate him. I've grown quite fond of him. He's a gentle, good- hearted person who's just uncomfortable and nervous in his own skin at times. He most certainly did not deserve that.

The next few hours to Nashville were a bit edgy. I set up a place to meet Kim and Chad on the far NW side, keeping in mind that we ALL needed a drink or ten.. .

4/15: E. Oklahoma & Arkansas

After staying up late, it was slow going. Devin, Leif, and Chris made trips back to the house for coffee, to use the bathroom, etc. while I remained at the bus savoring some alone time and taking advantage of the chance to update, and think a bit.

At some point, Devin made his way back to the bus and we finally had a conversation about Chris and I possibly bypassing Nashville all together and continuing on to perhaps DC, Virginia Beach, or even the Delmarva Peninsula. Devin quite honestly doesn't care and seems to enjoy the extra help in securing and loading the veggie oil. Nashville has lost its charm since Kim's roommate backed out on her and neither of us have an urge to navigate its sprawl needlessly and see nothing else drawing us to Tennessee. Why not keep going? Devin still has to decide which route he's taking to Delaware, where he has friends to see, and that will determine much so stay tuned. No matter what, we should be within spitting distance of the Atlantic by Chris's birthday on Monday. Here's to hoping I can finally stick my foot in it, get the damn picture, and tell that residual obsession to go to Hell!

The rest of the day was uneventful outside of the search for veggie oil. We didn't really start looking until 4:00, found none in Oklahoma City, then stopped in Shawnee where we finally had some luck at a Garfield's. Afterwords, Devin stopped at Walmart for supplies while I drug Chris thru a carnival being held in the adjacent parking lot. I was feeling nostalgic for my carnie days of 2008, but thankfully the brisk little stroll thru the midway may have cured that little affliction!

While sitting in the parking lot and munching on freshly purchased Cheerios, Chris and I were approached by a pair of women in an SUV who asked if we were on our way to "Swagstock" in Missouri. My clever reply was "What the hell's Swagstock?" Apparently it's a biker- type gathering held in Salem, MO in the spirit of Sturgis. These two were on their way, and said we looked like the type who'd be going, especially with the bus as a backdrop. "Must be the goatee.", I told myself; never been confused for a biker! Maybe it's my P90X abs and goofy hat? Either way, Chris was on top of things and passed them a website card, and they were off. That triggered a flurry of thought in my head, because that's exactly the type of adventure I'd happily embark upon once I get my sea- legs, so to speak!

Other than conversations on where we may possibly disembark from the bus, and pondering the mental makeup of Chris McCandless, that was about it. We crossed into Arkansas at about 11:30 or so, putting Oklahoma behind us. There is something about that place, and it gets a bad rap. Give it a chance sometime!

Devin got us down the Little Rock bypass before stopping down for the night. I'm contemplating trying to contact a carnie friend while we're here. Tricia was part of that Easter Sunday circle- event in New Orleans last year; the one with my Chickasha buddy that led to my Indian name... have I told you that one yet?

4/14: Amarillo- OKC

Chris and I stayed awake quite awhile chatting about his post Monday night, and I was struck by the sense of familiarity I felt about his need to feel like he should entertain his rides. I had dealt with similar notions last summer, particularly with Cesar and Ken... long rides with single individuals... where I felt that I had to earn my keep with witty banter. It's funny how that has just been assimilated into the experience, and that I hadn't really considered it again. The early stages of this trip is going to be an exercise in escaping comfort zones, and redefining acceptable parameters of travel. I had been a bit self absorbed in the sense that while this is familiar to me, it is a new mindset for Chris. Don't worry... the tables will turn; my time to adjust is coming!
I was surprised at how comfortable the bunk was considering it is essentially plywood covered with a down sleeping pad. I awoke a few times due to the unfamiliar sounds and odd dreams that seem to be the norm now, but other than that, slept like a brick.

Devin and Leif were up early Tuesday maintaining the bus while Chris and I slept until noon. The main task for the day was scouring Amarillo for fuel. Collecting veggie oil is a rather tedious, dirty, and apparently sometimes dangerous task. We zeroed in on a strip of restaurants on what I believe was old Route 66. Devin gave us the talking points and soon we were off in teams of two asking about used fryer grease. Ahh, the looks! Everyone we chatted with was receptive however, and after 20 minutes or so, we had a target.

Initially, the manager had told us that we were welcome to the oil, but that the company that picks it up had already done so that very morning. As we were leaving the lot empty handed however, Devin decided to look inside the barrel anyhow and behold! 30- 40 gallons of rather pristine used oil. Leif suggested that we set up shop on a section of dirt behind the parking lot, but Devin decided against that. In the parking lot it was.

It was a sunny, warm, windy north Texas day as we went thru the process of pumping, filtering, and loading the oil into the bus. Most of the work is manual, especially the process of filtering. After it's gathered, they pour the oil into 5- gallon buckets with ordinary cotton tee shirts bungeed across the top to filter the large impurities. The wind made this process particularly messy, with veggie oil collecting on the pavement. Several times I had wondered about that, but figured Devin knew what he was doing and let it go.

The process took a couple hours, and just as we were wrapping up, two stocky cowboy hat wearing men came out of the steak house to ask "just what the fuck we thought we were doing!" He didn't care about Devin using the oil, he was pissed that we were making a mess of his parking lot. And I mean pissed! He threatened to call the sheriff and have the bus "towed the hell right outta here 'cuz this is bullshit! Ya don't do a man's property that way!" I had to admit, he had a point. I tried with some success to reassure him that we would tidy up, while the others quickly gathered our things for what was now the Great Amarillo Escape... in a slow, huge, white 1970's bus...

We took a secondary road thru the rest of Amarillo to stay off the interstate, slowly concluding that the cops had better things to do than chase us down! Once out of Amarillo, we had a good laugh and proceeded to Oklahoma, with Chris and I wondering, still, what the draw was. There was talk of stopping in Norman for the night, but as we approached Oklahoma City we learned that we were instead stopping for the night at a "punk/ collective" house on the north end of the city...

8/24 N. Carolina- Stalked!

It was a long process finding a place to camp. After walking back to the main road I was trying to decide between three different spots when from the woods, I spied a car driving by-- very slowly. This woods was between the two ramps leading to 220, and the car proceeded to stop just before the entrance to the southbound lane. I was on the phone with Shalain, and slowly crept out of the woods to see what he was doing, thinking at first that he had somehow seen me. The car just sat there, lights on, for about 10 minutes. No activity that I could see or hear, so I figured he was lost or waiting for someone.

I hung up and continued to go about my business when another car drove slowly by; slow enough for me to see in the limited light that it was the Sheriff. I dove for cover then, when I realized that he was pulling in behind the mystery car, I crept closer to play the role of spectator thinking that I may see some high- drama from the woods. This was weird, not your typical stealth- camping experience!

I watched as the cop cautiously approached the driver’s side of the car, and spoke with the driver for what seemed like eternity. Odd. Cops are generally to- the- point and it went on so long that I re- entered the woods and decided where I was going to sleep for the night while periodically peering out to check in. Cars would drive past regularly, yet still no flashing lights.

Just as I was getting ready to set up, I heard voices. Even from the woods, it was obvious that the cop was giving him a sobriety test. It was Saturday night; “typical” I thought. Just as I went back into the woods, the lights came on- scaring the hell out of me. The cop was back standing at the driver’s side door indicating the operator was back inside. This, again, went on for what seemed like forever. I just wanted them to leave so I could stealth in peace!

By now, I had gotten used to the scenario, so I went a bit deeper into the woods to be certain of avoiding detection. Just as I removed the bivy from the backpack, I heard a car start and take off—fast. I assumed it was the cop, but as I hunched back toward the road, I saw the other car FLY past me, heading east toward Randleman. Then, I heard the cop-approaching, siren blaring. Hot Pursuit! The driver had gone loco, and was trying to escape! I had visions that I would see the drunk (I presumed) crash and burn, but no such luck. The chase went directly past the intersection and through the red light that led to Wal-Mart, and into downtown Randleman. I sat by the road and listened to the siren for quite awhile. First to the north of town; then south. This chase was obviously dramatic. I could still hear the siren fading off to the south as I climbed into the bivy at about 2am, laughing at this day! I never learned anything else about the chase, and thankfully saw no more of law enforcement.

I slept quite nicely after that, in what I thought was a very secluded area beneath some pines. When I awoke Sunday morning at about 10:00, I was shocked to see that I was actually in plain sight. Under the cover of darkness I was fine, but only 75 feet off the road, and the pines had less coverage than I thought. It was too late to stress it and I figured that everyone was either sleeping one off or in church.

I thought I had been prepared the night before, bringing extra water so I would not have to walk back toward Wal-Mart and restock first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, I had lost the Gatorade bottle searching for the spot, and since it was already hot… back to civilization I went, loading up on water and on- special Gatorade figuring that it was going to be a long day just sitting.

I began to contemplate the wisdom of continuing to hitchhike after the experiences of the past two- days, and the results I had seen from walking. I knew Old 220 went all the way to Greensboro or, with some creative navigating, could take me around it to I-40 skirting the city all together. Again, I could not bare the idea of walking back to where I had just come from, so I settled for another day of hitching hoping that with some luck I could get into Greensboro early, swing another ride OUT of the city, and get through Raleigh.

This ramp was much better than the others in North Carolina. It was long, wide, and had a natural pull- out for people to use if they took pity on me sweating in the sun. Just as the last two days, I laid out on the pack, strapped on the headphones, and prepared to wait all day. I knew that I had NEVER gone a day without at least ONE ride, so I was relatively certain I would see Greensboro again by day’s end.

I sat on the ramp for 3-4 hours, only moving to heed Nature’s Call, or stand to awaken my sleeping--- posterior. As I was returning from a nature- break, a rickety old van pulled over and a woman who looked to be in her mid 50’s jumped out and asked if I needed a ride. “Hell yeah!” I said, trying to seem“Confederate”. It is rare for a single woman to stop, and I was glad that I did not look threatening enough to scare her away! As I recall, this was only the fourth woman to pick me up, and the first since the bus stop in Portland.

Jo opened up the rear doors, and warned me to be careful as I loaded the backpack because she was charging a car battery back there. Something I had never seen before. Jo seemed outgoing, and a bit odd. She resembled a few aging hippies I have met; the original ones that I respect. I immediately liked her, and we began a vigorous, mostly one- sided conversation immediately after I settled in the van. Stop me if this story- line seems familiar…

Jo was nearly 60, and a few years back had a stroke. And guess what. She had been fighting health insurance companies, the state, former employers… you have heard this before, right? I laughed aloud, shook my head, and told her that she would be amazed at the number of people I had run into with similar storylines. The insurance companies and the State had essentially thrown her away after the stroke, despite the fact that she had lost use of the left side of her body, the ability to speak, and much of her short- term memory. However,… Jo was different. Jo was old- school. Jo had lived through the 60’s, and on the right side of them. Jo had never sold- out. Jo was a fighter.

She told me about rehab, regaining use of her left- side, and re- learning how to talk. She told of how during all of this, the insurance companies were doing everything they could to avoid pay outs, and that North Carolina wanted no part of her disability claim, nor could she get assistance. Human… Kapital.

Apparently, Jo had been quite the little radical in her day, and still was. Sufficiently recovered, she began berating the health- care officials, local media outlets, and anyone else who would listen to her story—thereby creating quite a stir, and negative publicity for the state and her insurance providers. So much so, that the local officials had told her that if she did not ‘shut up or move’ they were going to ‘destroy’ her. She told them exactly where they could take their threats and publicized them. Eventually, and I believe it was with a change in administrations, the state issues were resolved. She got limited assistance.

I was now in love with Jo.

She apparently has spoken out against more than just the corrupt healthcare system. She has radical viewpoints that make me look like Reagan. She told of how before the stroke, she was involved in ‘Economics’, and that in 1997 she had seen indications that the country was on thin economic- ice, only to be rescued by the dot- coms. Then in 2000 the same thing was happening and that without a major influx of something, the country would go bankrupt. She pointed out that in 2000, PNAC had long since begun planning the Iraq invasion, and of course the next year: 9/11 and the ratcheting up of the famous Military Industrial Complex, conveniently generating untold billions in corporate revenues. She is convinced that the World Trade Center was the 21st Century Reichstag Fire, and has been outspoken enough for the CIA to add her to their “Dissenter List”. Quite an honor! She even told how she found out about that; losing her mail or having it delivered weeks late, then a friend working for the Postal Service informing her that it was due to the government snooping through her stuff. That’s our Patriot Act; keeping us safe from 60- year old stroke victims!

Amerika!!

Interestingly, she was also one of the few liberals I have met who have a strong religious conviction…as the theme of religion continues. She spoke about that “Splinter”, the “Calling” (all unprovoked), and said she stopped because she sensed that I was on a "Mission from God." I left it there; I had had enough God for 24- hours! Nevertheless, the prevalence of southern religion, even amongst the heathenish- left, struck me. This ride lasted only thirty minutes, and I did not do a lot of talking. In Greensboro, she gave me her phone number and invited me, not just to call, but stay with her whenever I was in the area. What an interesting person, and seemingly as emphasis to her memory loss, she almost left before I could get my backpack out of her van!

Jo dropped me off on the south side of Greensboro, at what they call the “spider- web”, or “black hole”; I forget now, but something denoting that this is where all major highways converge. And, it was Randleman Rd.; Old 220— the same road I had considered walking.

I was not exactly pleased with this spot.

It was perhaps the most urbanized setting to date, and it was nearing 4:00. It reminded me of Boise, and I tried to encourage myself with a reminder that I had been out of Boise in 20 minutes. I sat down beneath a tree at the Shell station where Jo had left me, and looked at the Atlas. In the two- days, since Francesco had picked me up, I had progressed two- miles. Sobering.

I was directly across from the ramp leading to I-40 east, so I crossed the street and assumed the position: lying against the pack with headphones blaring. I was encouraged because the traffic volume was extremely high and consistent. I was however in the ghetto; there were a portion of Greensboro’s projects directly next to me along the frontage road, and I was a point of curiosity. This made me a bit uneasy, not so much that I was there, but that I was attracting silent attention. Shortly after I arrived, a ragged woman joined me on the ramp, thumb in the air, shouting something to no one in particular. She kept rambling as she continued right past me, down the ramp, and on to the I-40 shoulder… her thumb still waving.

I was optimistic I would get out of there if I exercised some patience, so there I sat… and sat… and sat. I must have been quite the spectacle. A middle- aged man in a Geo Tracker gave me short- lived hope at about 7:30 by stopping, but rather than offering a ride, said that he “wanted to take my picture, because I was the most relaxed looking hitchhiker he had ever seen! Bwaaaahahahaha!” I let him; he left.

Dick.

At different times, I thought about following my crackheaded- contemporary and walking the grass that ran next to the highway, if only to get a change of locales. The projects next door were beginning to be abuzz with life as dusk approached, and although they never said anything, it was apparent I was attracting more attention still. On the verge of moving, I remembered the ill- advised attempt Friday, and decided against it. That… was a mistake.

Soon, the vibe turned VERY negative. As the sun fell, the looks from the almost exclusively black motorists went from curiosity and indifference, to something else. Then rather than ignoring me or just gawking, they began to get-- interactive. Cars actually began swerving toward me in an effort to spook me and force me to jump out of the way. I sat there like a stone, never flinching. I had seen this once or twice before and had come to half- expect it occasionally, but this was just different; ominous. It was not a time to sing Kumbaya, and mentally extol the merits of well- intentioned man… it was high time to get the hell out of there. There is a line between adventure, courage, faith, and naïve, foolish, idiocy—and everything in my being told me I had crossed it. So, it was back to the Shell station for water and directions to the next exit.

It was now about 8:45, and almost completely dark. When I got to Shell, I was surprised to discover the doors already locked, and the cashier closing out his register. The store had closed before 9:00, even though the sign on the door said they were open until 10. I wondered why a Shell, right off I-40 in Greensboro, would close AT ALL, let alone 10… or NOT EVEN 10. Not all was lost though, as I looked around, I did see what seemed to be promising places to camp close to the interstate. I sat down leaning against the wall facing Randleman Rd., plugged in the phone, dug out the Atlas, and prepared for the employee to shoo me away when he left. Then the plan was to explore the on- ramp for places to sleep.

After sitting there for about ten minutes, I looked up to see five people crossing Randleman Rd., coming from the projects toward the Shell. As they crossed the median, they went in slightly different directions, spreading out a bit going toward different parts of the parking lot. One of them kept shifting their eyes from me, to the side of the store, to his left, right, then back—directly—to me. The others actively searching, but looking everywhere but at me-- AVOIDING looking at me. They all looked to be relatively young, skinny, and hip- hopped out with the full, latest ensembles delivered directly from Stereotypical Ghetto Garb, LLC.

There was no conscious decision needed. I calmly, but quickly, unplugged the phone, shoved it in my pocket, and in the same motion, put the pack on and began walking toward the north end of the parking lot, directly in front of two of them, (neither of which were very large), and generally away from the others. That was the moment I knew I was not “just being paranoid.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other three abruptly change course, toward me, while these two were sizing me up. They never said a word; didn’t need to. I had no idea what they were after, but I was relatively sure I had just strapped it to my back. My knife was right there on my shoulder- strap, but what would that do against five? Other than perhaps find its way into my own gut? With a split- second thought, I realized that this was the FIRST time I had been in any real danger.

Then a stroke of luck. Two cars pulled in, both loaded with guys from Virginia. I needed friends at that moment, so I politely told them they might not be able to get gas because the station had closed early, hoping to start a conversation and open a window of escape. This temporarily stalled and apparently confused the Welcoming Committee. Apparently not able to improvise, they all began to congregate together on the far (south) side of the parking lot, leaving the north side open for me to get out of there. That is exactly what I did. I crossed over Randleman Rd. to the raised median and walked a short distance down the middle of this temporary divide. I then crossed the rest of the way over, to the east side of Randleman Rd. I looked back, and saw all five Committee Members following a measured, yet uncomfortably close distance behind me; maybe 75ft. I picked up the pace, thanking God that I had lightened the pack, and crossed over I-40. When I got to the other side and looked back, they were gone. I have no idea where, nor did I care. Just gone. Now what? I went in to a well- placed (for me!) BP station to catch my breath, grab a Coke, and process what had just happened.

Oddly enough, I would not define any of what I felt as “fear”. The decision to leave the Shell was instantaneous; instinct. The rest was adrenaline, a razor- sharpening of senses, a quickening of thought, and almost literally involuntary action.

The reality did not really set in until I got to the BP. I quickly began to realize the gravity of the situation, and realized that if I was not VERY smart about the next few moments I could have real problems. I needed to either find a place to get out of sight, or get the hell out of this area.

A quick survey showed that, on this side of I-40, there was nothing. There was nowhere suitable to hide for the night, and I had cut off my known- escape route by crossing I-40. I looked up Randleman Rd. and saw nothing appealing, but by now, my survival instincts were in overdrive. Not the paranoid ‘instincts’ from Wyoming mind you; real ones! I was estimating everything—buildings, cars, semi- trailers, houses, yards, trees—anything I could use as shelter. However, those survival instincts also told me that my young stalker- friends knew the area, and since I had no idea where they had gone, they could be watching me even then, waiting for me to make a move. Paranoia? Maybe. Justified in this case? You bet.

It was becoming painfully obvious as I was at this ghetto- BP that I was in a bind. If I left this sanctuary, I had no idea what I would find; knowing nothing of the area other than what street the bus station was on. Like quicksand I realized, desperate, unmeasured, and irrational action could make things much worse. It was now shortly after 9:00, and this BP closed at 10. Fortunately, I had a 45- 50 minute haven where I could think.

Conclusion?

I’d had enough of Greensboro. Enough of North Carolina. To hell with the Atlantic Ocean. It was reminding me of Ft. Morgan, where just getting to Nebraska was bordering on impossible. The difference being that, in Colorado, it was Mother Nature (tornadoes) seemingly blocking my path, rather than roving bands of Ghetto Kings. I already had the bus information, thanks to Friday’s drama, and knew I was relatively close to the terminal. I called Shalain again to tell her about this little adventure and to try to get some perspective.

Her assessment: “You need to get the fuck out of there!”

I agreed. We discussed the ticket, and since I still had the $20 Will had given me the night before (forgot to mention that, didn’t I?), I had cash for a Taxi if I needed one.

The attendant inside was very helpful. I asked him how far it was downtown, and when he told me it would take a couple hours to walk, I asked how much the taxis would charge to get me down there. He said he could not imagine it being more than $10, so I borrowed the phone book, wrote down the number, and thanked him. We then chatted for a few minutes about the trip, as he was intrigued by where I had been, and how far to this point. I left what had just happened of my list of preferred anecdotes. I am not sure why, other than it was the ONLY example of its kind, and it seemed like a shame to bring it up. When he asked me why I was taking the bus, I again ignored the obvious, in favor of “I’m just tired.” which was not exactly a lie.

The clerk had to get busy closing, so I went outside and on a whim decided to give calls to Ken & Cesar, on the off chances that they may be in the region. A slim chance, but it was a slim chance when I called Ken from Denver the last time. I had really hoped that I could get a hold of Ken. He had made an offhanded comment on the way to Nashville that if I ever got a ticket to Tampa, I could hang out, and perhaps ride out with him. Not only would I get to see Tampa, but also the trip would continue, and the ticket would cost less than Albuquerque would! I got voice mails for both of them, so called the taxi and after 20 minutes, it came and took me downtown to Greyhound, costing me $10 even.

As I got to the desk, and began pricing different locations (Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, etc.), Ken called back. Good timing! I quickly gave him the rundown, and said that if the offer was legit, I could come to Tampa and see what happened. Ken said that he was actually planning to leave the next (Monday) morning however, and would be long gone by the time the bus got there. He suggested instead that I go to Atlanta, where he was almost certain he would be picking up his usual load, and then heading somewhere that he would learn early Monday morning. Perfect! I could get the same bus out of Greensboro tonight, get to Atlanta at 7am, meet up with Ken, and then ride off to Parts Unknown and perhaps continue this little adventure, with another neat little wrinkle in it! At the very least, I figured I could ride back toward Denver, and if that was were where I wound up, the ticket home would be a fraction of the cost. The only slight reservation I had was if something happened the next day, and he DID NOT pick up in Atlanta. Atlanta is not a good place to be stuck, although if I were stuck it would be at the terminal, or a truck stop. I was taking a slight risk, but the odds were heavily in my favor.

That was that. After getting some vague directions from Ken on where to meet him, I bought the $71 ticket from Greensboro to Atlanta and left at 11:40pm. I was happy that I had gotten a hold of Ken and was not just heading to New Mexico, although a significant part of me just wanted to relax, and begin to process everything that has happened over the last three months, which was daunting! Nevertheless, with September fast approaching, and with it yet another 29th birthday, I concluded I had better keep going; make use of the time I have this summer. Again, I was astounded at the progression of the day: I had woken up in woods near Randleman, North Carolina hoping to get, finally, back to Greensboro then to Raleigh and toward the Outer Banks. 12 hours later? I would soon be in Atlanta, Georgia.

Whudathunkit?

The ride to Atlanta? Other than stopping in Charlotte, the driver being half- crazed, the bus being over packed, riding through Hurricane Fay’s remnants, and the door flying open in the middle of the night? Other than that? Uneventful. Typical “Dirty Dog”. I dozed off half- hoping Ken would not show up, so I could follow Sherman’s March to Savannah, and stick my smelly feet in that damn ocean just to spite it.

In the end, these events in Greensboro did not faze me much. Ultimately, they were my own fault. I have purposely avoided urban centers for exactly this reason. I never conferred with Jo when it could have mattered, and that is no one’s fault but mine. In Colorado, Wyoming, California, Oregon, and most of Idaho, I was VERY good about this, but after pulling off “urban- stealthing stunt” in Pocatello, then getting lucky with the location in Winston- Salem, I lost sight of things.

Secondly, I lingered there long after I realized the setting could get dicey; long enough to where it was too late. I relied, again, too much on getting a ride, and should have simply hiked out. There is a reason that this was the only significant danger I have ever found myself in on this journey, with the exception, some would say, of the freight train. It is telling that it was due to a failure of discipline and common sense.

8/22 N. Carolina- Winston/ Salem to Asheboro

I woke up with Friday’s sunrise; happy to see it- hoping it would warm me up a bit. I spent most of the night cold, but not enough to merit digging out the sleeping bag. I took a couple of pictures of the sunrise, and dozed off again until that old- familiar time: 8:30.

Packing was simple. Eating? A challenge! Generic, unheated Spam is not that great anytime, but it does offer many calories to go with the almost standard stomach upset. The digestive agony would linger most of the day. I went from my tree straight to the on- ramp and set up, having no idea how long I would be there.

Thankfully, it was not long at all, maybe a half- hour. I did not get the guy’s name, but he drove a fancy pick-up and said that he had stopped because he too “had been there, understood” and thought that he was doing me a favor by getting me out of Winston- Salem to the “better people” of Greensboro. The ride was quick. We discussed why people do not pick up hitchhikers any more, and his opinion was that people are simply afraid of “losing something”. I did not know what to make of that, but it made sense on some level. He dropped me off on the west side of Greensboro, just past the “Big Sandy” exit.

I lost an old friend when I got out of his truck. My coffee- cup lid fell off, never to be seen again after leaving the nomadic life for the temporary stability of the truck. I gave the rest of the cup- carcass a solemn, open- air burial there in Greensboro... just for the Hippies.

The new spot looked promising. It was on a high- volume ramp and came complete with good stealthing spots if the need arose. It was only 9:30 or 10am though, and I was feeling optimistic after the 270 miles the day before. I had visions of getting all the way to the Outer Banks that day, or at least through Raleigh to pick up US-64. I settled in after treating Spam Gut, loading up on water, and grabbing the first $1.80 pack of cigarettes I had seen in years.

Then, I waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

After a few hours of baking in the North Carolina sun, I made my way to the I-40 frontage road, following it the mile or so to the next exit hoping for better luck.

From the beginning I have avoided urban areas, or at least tried to be sure that I was dropped well before, or on the other side of them so that I could walk if need be. But now? Trapped. Unlike Oregon & Idaho, it is illegal to walk interstates in North Carolina, and the new vantage point was even worse than the old: an industrial area with much less traffic. The traffic that WAS there: business- to- business. So, back I went, again tending to the Spam's Revenge along the way.

I was resigned to fate by the time 4:00 came. I had been there six hours doing not much more than working on my sunburn, so on my final trip to McDonald's I picked up a piece of cardboard to make a little sign, mostly to feel like I was doing something rather than actually hoping it would work. It read “Raleigh/ OBX”, and as I sat back down, I had a strange, familiar feeling of defiance. It was funny in a way. I just laid back with my shoulders resting on the backpack, put on my headphones, and enjoyed all the strange looks I got from the commuters. It was fun! And, it worked.

After about 20- minutes, a car stopped driven by who I discovered to be Latino; one that speaks next to NO English. We could barely communicate. All I understood was “Asheboro”, and he nodded when I said “I-40”. I knew that US-64 passed through Asheboro, but again my lack of preparation bit me. I really had no idea where the town was in relation to Greensboro, other than “a bit south.” I DID know, however, that I was sick of “the better” stock of people I was supposedly going to find in Greensboro. I decided to take the “adventuristo” attitude. “Screw it”, I said. I wanted off the interstate and I liked the idea of playing the hand dealt me. I really wanted to get back to walking. Hitchhiking was getting old.

Into Francesco’s Cavalier I went for the quietest ride ever.

We could not communicate beyond simple phrases, so we just listened to the radio as he got on US-220/ I-73- 74 (one road) and drove south. I did learn that he was from Guatemala, and I wished that I spoke Spanish because I would have loved to pick his brain and learn a few things that would pertain to the winter trip south. No such luck.

Francesco surprised me a bit when he pulled off 220 and drove into a little town named Randleman. He never tried to express what he was doing, so I was a bit perplexed when he began driving into the countryside. He stopped at a house where another family of obvious immigrants lived, and picked up a license plate and what looked like registration. “That was a bit strange!” I thought to myself as we drove back into Randleman.

I really liked Randleman. It was nice to be in a small town again, rather than driving past it. The parallel of I-40 and Route 66 struck me, and I was so smitten with this little town that I was on the verge of getting out right there. I, to this day, do not know why I just didn’t.

From Randleman it is another 20 minutes into Asheboro. I envisioned it as being quite small. Not quite. It was VERY spread out. Francesco, trying to be helpful, drove me all the way to the eastern fringes of the city, 6 or 7 miles down US-64. As we rode through town, I felt lucky that he had not just dropped me at the intersection, although I noted that there were many places to sleep out of sight.

Francesco dropped me at a furniture store across from one of the omnipresent BP gas stations. (BP’s: locust of NC) I noticed something as I exited the car that I had observed before, but assumed it was an anomaly: NO shoulders or sidewalks.

Repeat: The entire state of North Carolina seems to have NO shoulders and barely any sidewalks!

This is a problem.

As I looked down a very busy US-64, I became horrified. This was a major 5- lane thoroughfare connecting Charlotte and Raleigh, therefore the traffic was very heavy. I just could not believe there was no way to hitch it OR walk it but as I studied the traffic patterns, I saw that the cars were hugging the right edge of the lane, and that there was no way to walk next to the road without stalking through people’s yards. In addition, it was getting to be Friday night. I saw the Stephens; their coolers loaded with Bud Light, and thought that it would be foolish to try it. Choose your poison: Hood ornament? Target practice?

This was new territory. The first time that I had NO idea HOW to hitch AND feeling unable to walk, despite being highly motivated to. I sat down by the side of the road, but I was just past a stop light so there was no way anyone could, or WOULD stop there. Unless they needed a new dinette set or coffee table.

After a few minutes, I realized the futility and crossed the highway to try my luck at the BP. The only luck I had there? A man who I now believe wanted to take me on a date, or role-play my now- LEAST favorite movie: Deliverance. Full of questions, praise, overly- friendly smiles, and all the while saying he had “done all of this back in the day”, seemingly enthralled with my story and most of all, my ‘courage’ and me. Yet, he never indicated he would help get me out of there, nor did I ask. It later dawned on me that he was looking for the Larry Craig “foot- tap”.

I managed to charge my phone and get a better geographical- bearing of the area, but NO luck getting out of there. After a couple of hours, the frustration began to get to me. After sitting most of the day in Greensboro, I was now having déjà vu. This time however, I was nowhere near a road that might offer ANY significant ride helping to get me past Raleigh, AND I was no better off than Greensboro in that I could not walk out of there either! Grrrrr…

After a frustrated phone call home, one that killed my freshly charged battery, I'd had enough. I topped off the water, angrily threw on the backpack, and started walking back from whence I’d come.

“Fuck the traffic; Fuck Asheboro; Fuck North Carolina! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” I said to myself, repeatedly.

The traffic going west was much lighter, but frankly, I did not care. “I can sit on my happy ass in Greensboro!” I said aloud as I huffed back toward 220. I was angry that I had so far to walk just to get back there, and knew that the likelihood of catching a ride BACK to Greensboro that night was nil. Nevertheless, tomorrow was Saturday, and I knew there were places to stash myself for the night in preparation for a full day of weekend traffic.

This whole psycho- drama was VERY reminiscent of eastern Idaho, I later realized. I wish I would have realized it THEN but I was not feeling connected- just as the day before; going through the motions. I was growing tired of North Carolina, and the EAST in general. Feeling, and being aware of the negative energy that permeates nearly everything on that side of the Mississippi probably contributed to my lack of patience, but I held hope that it would pass.

The difference between Idaho and North Carolina was both obvious AND critical however. There was nothing NEW for me to see here! I knew what to expect when I got to the Outer Banks, since I had already spent time there as I had all along the east coast. An east coast that I was not exactly stoked to see it again. That being the case, what was the motivation to endure the frustration? I began to feel as though I was continuing this leg of the trip to satisfy expectations again, both my own and yours! These were the thoughts racing through my mind as I walked back into Asheboro. I had also had Shalain check the bus schedules for me in case I DID get back to Greensboro and wanted out.

Then something remarkable happened… again.

As I was walking, full of piss n’ vinegar, I reconnected. Just as in Idaho, that defiant anger that has always served me so very well (when not taken to extremes!) served to motivate me. I stopped looking for rides; quit concerning myself with my locale. I quit analyzing the fact that ANOTHER gas station AGAIN wanted money for water, and just laughed at her while I snuck outside to use their water spicket.

I felt like I was back in Idaho hoofing it down I-84 talking to cows, antagonizing dogs, jumping through irrigators, and taking pictures. This was the best night since then. I felt at one with AND completely separate from everything at the same time.

I eyeballed the train- yard for quite awhile, examining access to it just in case I decided to hop yet another freight, and I seriously considered it.

I paused to watch Asheboro High’s football game as I strolled by.

Finally, after 3- hours or so I came once again to US-220/ I-73, exhausted.

I collapsed at the gas station just before the on- ramp, sitting right next to the still shoulder-less road on the off chance that someone would deduce that I needed a ride.

The only attention I garnered was, of course, from the local cop. He asked me why I was sitting there, and I told him politely that I was resting--- which was the truth. He then asked what I was doing, and when I told him “trying to get the hell out of Asheboro”, he asked how. I told him I was hitchhiking then he proceeded to act like a 5- year old, “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that!”

What... the... hell?

It seems that hitchhiking was illegal! I had checked on the state laws before I had left, but some municipalities have local statutes against it. Asheboro is apparently one of them.

Mr. Fife then sped off to thwart what I am sure he thought was a major caper. Probably some kids trying to buy beer, or an uppity black- guy crossing the street.

The gas station and I bonded for the next couple of hours, until I had finally had enough. Barney Fife had made me a bit paranoid, so with much stealthiness I snuck down the ramp to my familiar spot. Much to my surprise, I found “Hiders Paradise”: a grove of what I assumed to be Palmettos. I stand about 6’ tall, and these ferns stood at least 5’6” with a tapered- base, meaning that there was PLENTY of room for me to lie out. Perfectly concealed even from above! SWEET!

After being molested by spiders the night before, I fought off the Lazy Bug, and dug out the bivy. I had no idea how to set it up, and the fact that it was dark and I was literally up to my neck in ferns made set- up a bit difficult, but it was much easier than the tent had been. There was plenty of room within, and I was glad to keep the arachnids frustrated & hungry for the night.

As I contemplated the day, I realized that I am a fool. Instead of walking BACK to US-220, I should have aimed my defiant, ornery ass EAST and tackled US-64. I would have essentially made it to the next town and been closer to getting through Raleigh by then, and who knows? Maybe I would have gotten a ride. The realization of how much good walking had done for me forced the consideration that I should turn around… AGAIN… but I just could not bare that thought. I resolved to ride it out, and trust that I had “connected” while walking back for a reason.

Saturday would prove me correct in that final act of faith and provide me with, intellectually at least, perhaps one of the most interesting days of the entire trip. New perspectives seen. New doors opened. Different avenues- of- the- mind opening.

These days make life on the Road, or anywhere, worth living.

8/14 Ken II: Ft. Smith to Nashville

We were back on the road at about 8:45 after our coffee & hygiene routine. The night before, we had missed that the Cherokee Truck Stop had a full Internet kiosk, complete with full- computers, and charged only $2 per hour. Had we noticed that, things would certainly have turned out differently!

We immediately crossed into Arkansas where of course I tried, and failed, to get my silly little picture. There was nothing of note worth talking about in Arkansas. It was Arkansas. I was again struck by how green every thing is out here. I have grown accustomed to New Mexico and Colorado’s lack of vegetation, and the brown texture to everything… even where it IS ‘green’! Also, the humidity. I am no longer conditioned to deal with higher humidity levels, and as soon as the truck’s windows went down or I stepped outside, it felt damp. This will take some adjusting.

Little Rock came and went. From there it was 150 miles or so to Memphis. I was stationed near Memphis, in Millington, during my brief fling with the Navy eons ago. Memphis triggers funny memories whenever I drive through, and it struck me how long it has actually been since I have lived there! Ugh!

"I’m still only 25... I’m still only 25... I’m STILL ONLY 25!!"

From Memphis it’s 200 miles up I-40 to Nashville. I had called Kim the night before to tell her that I was indeed coming, I was arriving Thursday, and I would call her when we were close enough to know when we would be in the city. I thought Memphis would be that point, but Ken had more time than he originally thought thus he was less stressed about arriving late. I put off the phone call until we were almost IN Nashville where we had stopped at a Petro truck stop which had a shitty little “Quick Skillet” restaurant. “Quick Skillet” is like “Iron Skillet” (my favorite restaurant), but… shitty. No buffet, just a … shitty… salad bar. We decided mid- meal to forego “Quick Skillet” in favor of whatever awaited us at the T/A in Nashville where we were meeting Kim. It was that bad. The two plates from the salad bar wound up costing us $13. We won’t be visiting your neighborhood Petro again, unless they rename "Quick Skillet" "Shitty Skillet".

The "Shitty Skillet"was a quick 20 minutes from the Nashville Sprawl, and after navigating rush hour traffic then hunting down the hidden T/A off I-65 next to the football stadium, we were finally here. The ride from Denver had taken 49- hours.

Ken parked the truck; I called Kim to give her directions, and bought Ken dinner as a token “thank you” for the ride. We chatted about other possible connections, and he again said that anytime we were in proximity, I was welcome to tag along. I told him, again, how appreciative I was for the rides then he actually thanked ME, saying something to the effect that it was nice to have someone intelligent to chat with on the road. The fact that HE was thanking ME for anything astounded me.

We had dinner, and Kim predictably called saying that she too was having trouble finding this poorly- placed T/A with no visible sign! I guided her in, by phone, and for the first time since 1995, I was hanging out with my broadcasting school- pal Kim. I introduced her to Ken, we retrieved my pack from the truck, I said goodbye to Ken, and we were off. Time to see exactly why I am in Nashville. That was a mystery to me; for about 45 minutes. And, oh! how that mystery was solved.

8/13 Ken II: Oklahoma

The alarms went off as planned, and we were coffeed- up & on the road by 5:30 am headed down US-287 (that damn road again!) toward Hugo, Kit Carson, the Sand Creek Massacre site, and Oklahoma. I had a twinge of missed- opportunity as we passed the turn- off to Sand Creek; it's a place I have wanted to visit since I first read about it. You REALLY should Google it, but I'll help you out: Sand Creek Massacre.

The first part of the day was a bit difficult. Our turn- off/ go- east point was Boise City, OK which, I quickly noticed, is VERY close to NE New Mexico. The second guessing began, and didn't cease. I saw that I could hop out of the truck and probably be to I-25 near Springer or Clayton within a few hours, or the next day. “Home free-- for free“ I thought. I attributed much of this mental ping- pong to the fact that I was exhausted. I may be a grizzled, salty, skanky- smelling road- dog, but getting up at 5am still sucks! I decided to sleep a bit more as we passed through the rest of Colorado, to see if it would pass with a bit more rest. I slept for about an hour, and awoke just before we passed from Colorado into the Oklahoma panhandle.

The sleep helped a bit; not much. I began looking more closely at the map plotting how long, and through what sort of terrain, I would have to hitch to get to I-25. Then, again, I thought back to California. The Marin County Epiphany where I sat on the hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and the San Francisco Bay/ skyline while fighting the impulse to return home, then coming to the realization that I would not have sacrificed ANY of the experiences to date, and if I stopped then I would be doing EXACTLY that. I was proven right, time and time again, through the rest of California, Oregon and Idaho. These thoughts, along with the realization that summer is quickly coming to an end and that I would have PLENTY of time to work come October, kept me in Ken’s truck. They kept me in the truck, but did NOT stop the second guessing.

The drive through the Okalahoma panhandle, on US-64, US-270 and ultimately I-40, toward Oklahoma City was quiet. I was consumed by my own self- absorption, and we were mostly kept company by Ken’s Sirius radio. I grew weary of hearing some retarded song that repeated over and over again “I kissed a girl and I liked it… hope my boyfriend don’t mind it…”

Shakespeare. Pure fucking Shakespeare.

The last real test for me on the way to Nashville was just west of Oklahoma City when we stopped at a gas station that doubled as a Greyhound station. I asked the older- guy behind the counter to fire up his dial- up and get me a price to Albuquerque. $89. Nope… not spending that when I could have spent $59 from Denver.

“Hey, dumbass! Remember San Francisco!” I got back in the truck, and forgot about returning to New Mexico.

I had sent an email off the night before to a guy I had worked with at a radio station in St. Joseph, MI in 2003. He now lives in Ft. Smith, Arkansas which is on the Okalahoma border. Ken was planning on stopping for the night there, so I thought I’d have a little fun. Corey has always been one of those types of ‘friends’ that irritate me. Especially the ‘radio friends’ Flighty. They remain just enough of a ‘friend’ to keep the ‘networking‘- channels open (never burn bridges, Todd!) in case they need work sometime and you would be in a position to help further their descent into Hell. Usually, when they find out I’m no longer in radio and how I despise seeing them whore themselves out, they disappear. With Corey, there was no real ‘disappearing’ to do. I hadn’t talked to him in at least 4- years, and I knew exactly how this was going to go. He had called me while we were in Boise City, and we did the generic ‘whatcya dooin now’ stuff while he complained about his latest radio- gig, and I told him I was ‘done’ with radio- while trying to avoid the ranting for which I seem to have become famous.

I told him we’d be in Ft. Smith, and to call if he wanted to get together to catch up. I knew full well I wouldn’t hear boo from Corey, joked with Ken about it, and we proceeded on. We both laughed quite hard later that night when Ken said “Hey… you never heard from your boy!”

Oklahoma City was as boring as ever, although we did pass Tinker Air Force Base which has an old Air Force One on display next to I-40. I was happy about the fact that I was actually traveling a stretch of Heartland Highway I had yet to see: I-40 between Oklahoma City and West Memphis, AR which includes Bill Clinton‘s personal harem: Little Rock. (woohoo!)
Little Rock would have to wait until Thursday however, as difficult as dealing with THAT anticipation was.

We finished off Oklahoma, and stopped at a T/A just before the state line, got showered, parked the truck, and set off to find something at least resembling food.

We found a little diner called the “4 Star Diner”, which wasn't, and featured a seemingly cracked- out redneck waitress. ENTIRELY too much freakishly- energetic southern hospitality oozing from this middle- age woman! Ken’s pork chop sucked, although I thoroughly enjoyed my greasy mushroom- swiss burger.

From the ‘Four Star’, it was off to the Cherokee Casino next door where we spent $3 to win $1.75. Funny how that works; glad I’m not a gambler.

I wrote in the journal trying to process the mental- turbulence from earlier in the day, and got to bed. Ken planned to leave a bit later on Thursday, so we would get to sleep in a bit. He’s a madman I tell you!