August 26A

So to kick off this over the road extravaganza, as mentioned in the debut post, we were going to meet my Duluth, Minnesota internet friends Joy and Andy for the first time in person. The seeds of this friendship began in 2003-04 by way of an old school internet message centered around the erstwhile Replacements frontman and reclusive solo artist,  Paul Westerberg. It might seem a little perilous to meet and stay with people you've known only by way of social media/text, but I had met enough of the Westerberg crew over the last twenty years to know it was going to be okay.

 At nine-hundred-fifty miles the road to Duluth was going to take two days from Buffalo and we had a couple of different options. The fastest way, clocking in at just under fifteen hours, was 90W through Chicago. But we didn't want speed, we wanted beauty and we wanted experience. So we decided to go through Canada on the 400 around the perimeter of Lake Huron to Sault Ste Marie, which would eat up a little over half the distance to Duluth. We were hoping to run into the Sabres old coach Ted Nolan in Sault Ste Marie and maybe buy him a cruller and a double double at Tim Horton's.But alas, it wasn't to be.

As we're going north on the 400 there's was a big accident of some kind up ahead (circled on the map) which bought traffic almost to a standstill. Though we were only a couple of hours into our trek, I had been noticing a lot of traffic backed up in this densely populated part of Canada. 

Also, I don't what it is—some undefined bad karma I'm working off maybe— but after inching along trying to transcend this traffic problem for like forty-five minutes, just as we're being routed off the 400, with the GPS recalculating, my wife Donna launches into a work story. Now, when Donna tells a work story it's pretty involved. You get details about the principals involved—length of service, who they report to, the division, the portfolio they manage. Nothing personal, just history and the issue she's dealing with at the moment. Under the best of circumstances when she tells these stories they become a jumble of nonsense to me almost instantly. But there's a certain poignance to them when the GPS is redirecting you down some bum-fuck dirt road just as you're getting into wide open area of Canada.

Information overload quickly follows as I try to listen to the story while at the same time being pissed about not knowing where we're going—I'm not Zen enough to deal with these momentary disruptions in a positive way and snap at Donna, "Why are you telling me this? For the millionth time I don't care?" We've had this conversation before—a million times before over almost thirty years. She claps back, "You don't have to be a jerk about it."   

This passes quicky like it has nine-hundred-ninety-nine-thousand-nine-hundred-ninety-nine times before as we're re-routed to the 403 going toward Sarnia and 69 W with approximately the same destination time minus what we lost because of the accident. What I don't realize since I am not master of my domain and can't really roll with contingencies, is 69 W takes us back in the U.S. toward Flint, Michigan. There goes our beauty, our experience. As any rudimentary Zen koan will tell you to be a master of your domain you have to roll with the contingencies.

We lose another thirty minutes and $12 passing back into the U.S. but it hardly matters—69 W takes us to 75 N and past Saginaw it's an open shot for 244 miles though the heart of heart of central Michigan at 75mph. The van performs nicely and my cell service is no longer spotty like it was in Canada even though I have an International plan, We find a nice little spot at a scenic rest area off 75 N just outside of Mackinaw City to spend the night. With only 7.5 hours left to Duluth we have made our time goal. We have a couple of sandwiches, pita crackers, drinks and call it a day. 

Oh, and for the record, just like the assholes in New York, guys with big eight-cylinder Silverado's, F150's and Ram's in Michigan climb up you butt like they want to get to know you in a sodimistic way if you're going one tick below 80mph. 

Home
How we got here...
An Ode to Fire and Donna
Posts From The Road In Order
Going Mobile: What We Learned
Our Rig: A Pictorial Essay