Day 01: New York; 413 miles

A late start, but it was such a gorgeous day, it was hard to care. I took the highway to South Burlington, then shot down 7, hitting greens all the way. I crossed into New York at Crown Point. I stopped to get a few photographs of the lake. No good ones. From there, I weaved through Essex County, all twisting blacktop and dense woods.

Lake Champlain, New York side.

Checkpoint One: Newcomb. The man I called my grandfather lived there at one time. He volunteered at the local ski hill. There's a plaque dedicated to his memory there. I didn't stop, no pictures, but it somehow felt important to start the trip here. He died when I was nine.

The land flattened out as I moved westward. By evening I was nearing Rochester. The sight of wind turbines off the side of the highway – lazy spinning blades, tinged pink by the fierce backdrop of sunset behind them – almost took my breath away. I would've stopped for a picture, but it wasn't worth dying for. Traffic and all that.

I missed my exit in Rochester, but Google rerouted me quickly. A few tense minutes was all it cost me. Somewhere around 9:30, I pulled into the parking lot of a big blue box store in East Aurora. I stayed awake for an hour after they closed, expecting a knock on the window and the directive to shove off. It never came. I slept, albeit fitfully.

Day 02: New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky; 559 miles

Breakfast at the Blue Eyed Baker. The overall ambiance is more Starbucks than anarchist cafe. White walls, raw wood seats, faux marble tabletops. Blue wall accents keep things from sliding too far into Millennial Beige. I ordered an oatmilk latte and the Pour Some Maple On Me sandwich – egg and sausage on a croissant. The latte was delicious (Oatly milk, espresso by Intelligentsia). The sandwich was a mixed bag: the croissant delightfully flaky and buttery; the eggs cooked into leather; the sausage apparently vulcanized. 

Lake Erie, Dunkirk New York.

I stopped at the Dunkirk community boat launch to photograph Lake Erie. A man with close-cropped hair and a salt and pepper beard asked if he could take a picture of the Moxie Mama – specifically, her bumper sticker. “I have a friend named Moxie who'll love it,” he said. “But I didn't want you to think I was, you know.” I knew. I told him to go ahead. 

Rain hit as I was passing through the vineyards near Barcelona. I crossed the Erie Triangle, then into Conneaut, Ohio. Took an hour-long nap at the Welcome Center before continuing to Checkpoint Two.

Ashtabula, Ohio is one of those small Rust Belt cities that you can tell at first glance used to be quite something. Downtown is still mostly old brick, stately, a bit crumbly around the edges. I drove past a “Welcome to Ashtabula” mural on my way into town, but on foot later, couldn't figure out exactly where I'd seen it. I took a photo of a different mural instead, and wandered along the main streets a while. A lot of empty storefronts, their floors littered with debris from half-demolished interiors.

Ashtabula, Ohio.

Checkpoint Three was Athens, Ohio. I'd hoped to connect with an old friend there, but he wasn't available. Oh, well. Rule III. I wandered downtown, with its brick-paved streets. Popped into a disorganized record store. Took a gander at the beautiful campus of Ohio University. I decided to move on.

A mistake, as it turned out. The sky opened up almost immediately. By nightfall, visibility was down to almost nothing. Traffic was heavy. Somehow I made it to Covington, Kentucky – alive, pants unsoiled. I pulled into a Wendy's parking lot to wait things out. Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening, et cetera. 

Eventually the storm dissipated. I found another big blue box store, climbed into the back of the car, and almost immediately zonked. End of Day 02.