What I learned on my summer vacation is that traveling 6,300 miles around the United States is no picnic. Not that we ever stopped to have one, although there were plenty of roadside tables along the way (or at least signs marking them).

But the way the trip went, any picnic we had probably would've ended up ant-infested. So instead, we decided to sample such small-town cuisine as lunch in Lock Haven, Pa., and dinner in Dalhart, Texas (OK, so it was Pizza Hut).

Rest was not without its share of adventure either. The manager at the Rodeway Inn along Business Route 40 in Tucumcari, N.M., was none too pleased when my girlfriend, Cara, and I roused him from his slumber in his room behind the check-in counter, so he could unlock the door, and we could get a room at 3 a.m. Needless to say, it was a short night's rest.

That was the first night of a 2,500-mile trek through 11 states, from Phoenix to Long Island, N.Y., where I worked this summer. We took a different route back to Phoenix, a 3,200-mile journey through four more states, bringing it to 15 total.

By the end, however, there was only one state that concerned us: fatigue.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

It didn't take long to catch a glimpse of those all-important values seemingly inherent to small-town America - about four hours, in fact. Somewhere along Route 40 near the Arizona-New Mexico border, a sign proclaimed "PENILE ENLARGEMENTS!" with a phone number underneath.

About an hour later, we saw another one. Gotta love that grass-roots mentality.

When you're in a car with someone for hours on end, conversations tend to wane. Many times, the signs kept it at least somewhat lively. Why, we must've talked about the "PENILE ENLARGEMENTS!" sign for virtually minutes (thankfully - any longer and I think I would've started to worry).

Some signs avoided the social commentary on America's ever-changing value system and went straight to waxing philosophical. One such example comes from, again, Route 40, east of Albuquerque, N.M. It read: "Gusty winds may exist," and was usually accompanied by a windsock.

This provided yet more fruitful minutes of conversation, much-needed during the 45th hour of our drive back.

"Gusty winds may exist," I said. "But then again, they may not. Who's to say in such matters of obvious great geological importance?"

Unfortunately, my girlfriend was asleep at the time.

Finally, there were the fast food billboards. They hit us in waves as we passed town after town, the ebb and flow of gastronomic commercialism a constant during our journey.

First was the teaser, telling us the quick culinary fix of our choice was merely "10 MILES AHEAD!" Then, the warning, usually proclaiming "5 MILES AHEAD!" and rapidly approaching. Then, inevitably, the demand: "EXIT NOW!", as if the last McDonald's was upon us, and then we would drop off the edge of the world.

We didn't. But about 20 miles later, you would've thought we were about to. Again.

No sunshine in the Sunflower State

I now know why Bob Dole wants to be president so bad - to get out of Kansas.

OK, so I probably could've picked on any of the numerous states we drove through, but the Sunflower State will bear the brunt of my wrath, for the simple reason that of all the states, Kansas embodied the essence of Murphy's Law most.

What went wrong? Well, first it was foggy. This, combined with my extreme fatigue and the total abhorrence to any further driving, made the first few miles in Kansas quite unpleasant. Fortunately, Cara took over for me, allowing me to rest.

A scant three hours later, at about 4 a.m., I was back behind the wheel, which at the time was probably not the most legal place to be. We were about 40 miles outside of Wichita, where we were to exit the Kansas Turnpike and catch Route 54.

That, at least, was the plan. The Kansas karma had something else in mind for us.

After failing to see any signs for Route 54 in Wichita, and since Cara was fast asleep, I checked the map myself (while driving - I'm sure there was something illegal about that). The freeway was marked on the map, but not on the Kansas Turnpike.

So I pulled over at the next rest stop to ask directions, but not before checking around the store for any copies of Cliff's Notes for the map I was using. Quite drowsily, I said, "I'm looking for Route 54."

Quite cheerfully, she replied, "You passed it!"

Thank you, O Queen of the Obvious!

She continued. "You want to turn 'round, head back to Wichita, and get off at the first exit. Then, you'll see two signs, one fer Highway 135, one fer Highway 235. You want 235. Then, a li'l bit after that, you'll see the sign fer Route 54.

"You can't miss it."

This time, I didn't. But before I could get off the turnpike, I had to pay - $6.50. It wasn't even that great of a turnpike. Just to be sure, I asked the tolltaker if Route 54 was where it was fabled to be.

"Route 54? You mean to get out of Wichita?" she asked, as if to add, "Why'n th'heck wouldja wanna dew that?"

Thankfully, her directions matched those previously given. A short time later, I was wishing I had missed it.

It was a two-lane highway. Not only that, but every 10 to 20 miles it was a new town, so I had to constantly speed up and slow down. Not only that, but I was rapidly approaching a state of sleep or die.

So at 6:30 a.m., I pulled into a gravel parking lot at a gas station in Pratt, Kan., population 9,702, and promptly nodded off, barely disturbing Cara's near-catatonic slumber.

At 10 a.m., our teeth brushed, we were back on the road. By about noon, we had reached the booming metropolis of Greenburg. While we were sitting at one of the few traffic lights, a truck with two dogs in its bed pulled up next to us, only the truck's bed had no walls. Just a flat bed. The dogs were reduced to what seemed to be the equivalent of surfing just to stay on this truck.

Cara, a veteran of trips through Kansas, was unimpressed. "I used to see that all the time," she said.

"What is it, survival of the fittest?" I asked. "What if the truck goes around a corner?"

This provided more minutes of conversation.

Finally, we were within 30 miles of the Oklahoma border. I noticed a sign stating that Dorothy's home from the "Wizard of Oz" was 10 miles ahead (no exclamation points). While I pondered waking Cara to witness this monumental tribute to American film lore, I decided to check my rear-view mirror. I was greeted with flashing red and blue lights.

Somewhere, Murphy was chuckling.

"License, please," said the officer, who for some reason said everything really fast. "ReasonIstoppedyouis'causeyouweredoin'79ina65. Berightback."

Cara, now awake, asked me where he radared me. I didn't know. He was just there. I had no idea where he came from. But he was back at my window.

"Signhere," he said. "Haveasafetrip." I waited for him to pull out first, picturing him practicing his ability to say sentences really fast while driving away .

Thirty minutes later, we weren't in Kansas anymore. For that much, I was thankful.

The end of the road

Among the aspects of our trip not mentioned, because they didn't fit under clever little subtitles, were the Mars Cheese Castle in Wisconsin, the bug graveyard that was my windshield, and not being able to find a hotel with a vacancy at 2 a.m. in Elyria, Ohio, because it was apparently a hot spot for people visiting Sea World who didn't want to go all the way to Cleveland.

After 77 total hours of driving, we were back in Phoenix, with just one thought on our minds: only 35 more states to go.

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