College football is big here.
On my humble cable package alone, there are eight stations showing six games right now, including a fine, spirited contest between Hampton and Princeton.
Needless to say, I've got my eye on the MLB playoffs, though I'll admit, if I could watch the Oregon State-Arizona game right now (or listen to Mike Parker's sweet tenor inflection describe the ensuing action), I'd certainly be getting my fair share of Beaver.
Football.
10.06.2007
10.03.2007
Nation Trekker
Wilsonville, Ore.
Centerville, Utah.
North Platte, Neb.
Webb City, Mo.
Macon, Georgia
... and finally, sunny Sebring, Fla.
Clocking in at 3,400 miles of asphalt and true grit, my harrowing journey across these United States ended Wednesday evening with touchdown in Sebring. I literally crossed city limits as a Queen double-play of "We Will Rock You/We are the Champions" blared from the stock moving-truck radio, while my weary, road-worn eyes scanned my new digs.
Say, I didn't notice that Circuit City when I came out for the interview. Oh, look — a Books-A-Million. Sarah will like that. Man, I'm definitely hitting that Red Lobster tomorrow night.
But back to the trip.
Podcasts helped. Tremendously. The "This American Life" and "Radio Lab" episodes I've purposefully not listened to over the past few months melted the miles away, and the occasional full-album listening (and passionate singing/drumming along with) between shows have made the gradual change in scenery somewhat bearable.
After 14 hours and 831 miles on the first day, I landed in Centerville, Utah (Salt Lake suburb) and met up with my long-lost buddy Jared, who graciously welcomed me into his home for the night, despite the fact that I haven't seen him for seven years. Chinese food and beers with he and his wife, some catching up, then on the road again.
I left Centerville via some of the nicest scenery on the trip, for about an hour at least. Then came the rolllllllling hills of Wyoming, which, for my moving truck's sake at least, gave way to the flatlands of Nebraska. 75 mph and loving it, I rolled into North Platte for an evening, stopping specifically at the hotel nearest food and drink ... and promptly passed out as soon as I got in my room.
After 11 more hours on the road, I stopped in Webb City, Mo. for two days for a visit with the Ogden family. Two hours after my 11 p.m. arrival, the big man rolls in, and we're off for poker, booze and mingling with his co-wokers. We finish second and third in the tournament, roll in, and, seeing as it takes a full day to cook a brisket, decide to wait out the grocery store's opening to buy the meat.
Marination ensued. Followed by sleep. All day.
I woke up to the smell of the smoked meat and more smoked meat. There were garlic cheese potatoes. Bread. A new two-liter of Coca-Cola.
Followed by more sleep.
The next day or so was spent mainly drinking the namesake drink, playing softball with the girls, and shooting cans with a Daisy rifle. It was the intermission of my journey, and really, the best part.
I headed out the next morning with a belly full of home-cooked goodness and a mind full of sports journalism knowledge and rolled through Kansas, Mississippi, Alabama Tennessee and to Georgia, where I rolled through Atlanta and called it a night at the Ramada Inn in Macon Georgia. I resisted the siren's call of the Waffle House next door and promptly passed out, waking the next day with just one more political border to cross: the Florida state line.
I hit the FLA a few hours into the day, and, mind you, having driven through the deep south already, was somewhat surprised to see the largest Confederate flag I'd ever laid my eyes on waving just off the highway, in all its ... err... glory?
Hours later, I reached Highway 27, Highlands County, Avon Park (home of Hal McRae) and finally, Sebring. I was home.
But not quite.
Centerville, Utah.
North Platte, Neb.
Webb City, Mo.
Macon, Georgia
... and finally, sunny Sebring, Fla.
Clocking in at 3,400 miles of asphalt and true grit, my harrowing journey across these United States ended Wednesday evening with touchdown in Sebring. I literally crossed city limits as a Queen double-play of "We Will Rock You/We are the Champions" blared from the stock moving-truck radio, while my weary, road-worn eyes scanned my new digs.
Say, I didn't notice that Circuit City when I came out for the interview. Oh, look — a Books-A-Million. Sarah will like that. Man, I'm definitely hitting that Red Lobster tomorrow night.
But back to the trip.
Podcasts helped. Tremendously. The "This American Life" and "Radio Lab" episodes I've purposefully not listened to over the past few months melted the miles away, and the occasional full-album listening (and passionate singing/drumming along with) between shows have made the gradual change in scenery somewhat bearable.
After 14 hours and 831 miles on the first day, I landed in Centerville, Utah (Salt Lake suburb) and met up with my long-lost buddy Jared, who graciously welcomed me into his home for the night, despite the fact that I haven't seen him for seven years. Chinese food and beers with he and his wife, some catching up, then on the road again.
I left Centerville via some of the nicest scenery on the trip, for about an hour at least. Then came the rolllllllling hills of Wyoming, which, for my moving truck's sake at least, gave way to the flatlands of Nebraska. 75 mph and loving it, I rolled into North Platte for an evening, stopping specifically at the hotel nearest food and drink ... and promptly passed out as soon as I got in my room.
After 11 more hours on the road, I stopped in Webb City, Mo. for two days for a visit with the Ogden family. Two hours after my 11 p.m. arrival, the big man rolls in, and we're off for poker, booze and mingling with his co-wokers. We finish second and third in the tournament, roll in, and, seeing as it takes a full day to cook a brisket, decide to wait out the grocery store's opening to buy the meat.
Marination ensued. Followed by sleep. All day.
I woke up to the smell of the smoked meat and more smoked meat. There were garlic cheese potatoes. Bread. A new two-liter of Coca-Cola.
Followed by more sleep.
The next day or so was spent mainly drinking the namesake drink, playing softball with the girls, and shooting cans with a Daisy rifle. It was the intermission of my journey, and really, the best part.
I headed out the next morning with a belly full of home-cooked goodness and a mind full of sports journalism knowledge and rolled through Kansas, Mississippi, Alabama Tennessee and to Georgia, where I rolled through Atlanta and called it a night at the Ramada Inn in Macon Georgia. I resisted the siren's call of the Waffle House next door and promptly passed out, waking the next day with just one more political border to cross: the Florida state line.
I hit the FLA a few hours into the day, and, mind you, having driven through the deep south already, was somewhat surprised to see the largest Confederate flag I'd ever laid my eyes on waving just off the highway, in all its ... err... glory?
Hours later, I reached Highway 27, Highlands County, Avon Park (home of Hal McRae) and finally, Sebring. I was home.
But not quite.
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