Wednesday, March 25, 1992...

Somehow, I woke up an hour earlier than planned today -- not that I particularly minded, though, since it got me on the road at 6:10 AM local time. I even treated myself to an actual sit-down breakfast, albeit at a McDonald's in Park City, Utah. Just across the Wyoming-Utah border, the topography changes; the road begins to descend through a series of picturesque canyons, lasting about 30 miles. I'd hoped to beat the rush hour traffic through Salt Lake City, but ran into quite a bit of congestion even at 7:30 AM. Damned industrious Mormons...

The folks in Utah know what's ahead of the driver: one sign read, "Salt Lake 33, San Francisco 791." Later signs were slightly more considerate of the places in between, settling for reminders that I was only 550 miles from Reno. US 40 eastbound splits off from I-80 at Mile 147 in Utah -- its last official marking, though remnants of the old road can be seen across much of Nevada and California. Once past Salt Lake City, the Interstate seemed almost irrelevant until I came within 30 miles of Reno; all the traffic on the road could easily have been contained on a two-lane highway with passing lanes. Between Delle, Utah and Wendover, on the Nevada border, I-80 ran for 66 miles without services -- though as with all Nevada border towns, Wendover was quick to fill the void with gambling.

At least one city in Nevada has a sense of humor about its isolation. Winnemucca has erected a series of humorous billboards: "5,112 miles to Tokyo." "No Sea Lions, No Caves, No Mystery Houses." "One Traffic Jam Every Decade." Between Elko and Battle Mountain, the course of western settlement became glaringly obvious. Furthest south came the four-lane divided Interstate, hogging an enormous right of way. Right next to us, old US 40 plodded along, its pavement cracking in spots and its shoulders overgrown with grass. Next came the rail line, and soon after that the Humboldt River. An abandoned Stuckey's marked Exit 149, while Exit 23 is labeled "Mustang," for the fabled whorehouse recently seized by the government for taxes.

I'd been worried about the weather over Donner Pass: fortunately, the road was open and clear. At Truckee I stopped for the mandatory California plant inspection, where we out-of-staters were asked to open our trunks for inspection. If I ever smuggle insect-infected fruits into California, I'll be sure to bring them in a suitcase. Just as I had hoped, the west side of the Sierras brought a lovely half-hour rainstorm, intense enough to clean three thousand miles worth of crud off the car. Thank God it wasn't snow, though...

I had made such good time that I reached the Bay Area just in time for the rush hour. I'd gone 804 miles in 12-1/2 hours when I hit the Bay Bridge traffic jam. Arrival in San Francisco: 5:58 PM local time, or 8:58 Eastern, for an elapsed time of 62 hours, 2 minutes -- three hours and 22 minutes ahead of the 1931 record. From my apartment to the San Francisco side of the Bay Bridge totalled 2,919 miles. Whew...