Between the hours of four and eleven this morning, it was just me, an engine, and a path of asphalt running down the good ol’ American Midwest. If there’s anything worth knowing about roadtripping solo, it’s that an audiobook of Austen’s Emma can’t be endured for more than five minutes. And that there are as many McDonald’s on the way as there are miles.

By sunrise, I was cruising through Wisconsin. And by cruising, I mean indifferently going ninety miles per hour on a 65-limit highway. I feel a particular urge to flaunt that fact because it made me feel like a daredevil and complete boss happy. To add to the blissful idiocy, visibility was minimal; a dense fog had draped itself over the surrounding hills. It was somewhat eerie watching pine trees and other sinister-looking foliage emerge from the shroud. Rest assured, the road was completely abandoned except for me. I was happily going ninety-nine at one point.

I associate Wisconsin with cheese and poor driving habits.

As morning wore on and more cars appeared on the road, I realized that slowing down would be a key factor in staying alive. By six o’ clock, Miss GPS cheerfully displayed numbers that, upon interpretation, proved the reduction of my estimated arrival time by many digits.

After a breakfast break, a gas break, a lunch break, and a dozen toll stations, I was in Illinois. I felt like an outsider with my Minnesota license plate but I found comfort in a couple Wisonsins, Indianas, and Michigans. I thought about Illinois. Lincoln. Chicago. That’s pretty much it.

Somewhere along the way, I decided to give Emma another chance, only to realize a few minutes later that I was never really paying attention. All the familiar radio stations had dissolved into the distance. My iPod was somewhere within the bowels of my backpack, out of reach. The sound of thought accompanied me for most of those four-hundred miles.

Rural became urban and surprisingly suddenly, I was in Evanston, home of Northwestern University campus.