Uh-huh. Free campground. Cruise spot. Of course. I imagine the word has already gotten out about the freaky car in town. I soak in a calm, back-flow of the otherwise strong current. The sun lingers on the horizon. After I get out and towel off, some local guy comes to chat with me, his son and daughter in tow. Seems they've driven some 60 miles of dirt road to visit the dentist here in town. The man carefully crafts his questions and speaks in a quiet, unhurried voice. Strangely the kids never open their mouths. A nightcrawler dangles strangely from his fishing line, bouncing wildly with his every movement to shoo away a mosquito. The teenage girl has picked a zit on her forehead and it bleeds down toward her eye. The conversation centers on where I am from, a topic for which there is no easy answer. Yet somehow the question is always there, the first meeting point of travelers, as though it even mattered anymore.

Back on the highway beneath the darkening cotton candy sky, I scream aloud to Aerosmith's "Dream on" at the top of my voice. There is nothing and no one but the highway, Duke and I. The traffic on the freeway has vanished, all the tourists cutting south at Billings toward Yellowstone. My notebook reads: "I'm on now and I'm gonna keep on because as the good doctor said, `It still hasn't gotten weird enough for me'." What did I mean by that? I haven't a clue.

Day Four

Rest stop just west of Glendive, MT, 7:45 a.m. Dallas Dahl and family from Elma, WA. I ask Dallas if he's any relation to Roald Dahl, the mildly-deranged author of "Charley and the Chocolate Factory." Nope. Bummer. We exchange greetings and I pose for a photo with Grandma. She's 97 years old, traveling somewhere for some damn reason. I ask her if she's ever seen anything like Duke in her long life. She replies: "I've got one just like it in my basement."

Up the road, a billboard advertises Beach, ND with a painting of a clipper ship and the phrase "Land Ho!" Duh?

I stop at exit 127 in New Salem, ND for a photo of Duke with the World's Largest Cow. I think of the Texas Cow Goddess busting out of her Holstein bikini in the rainy aftermath of the Houston parade in 97. Udderly incredible. She's supposed to be joining the caravan from Houston. She's gotta see this damn cow, this and the Holstein House in southern Oregon.

A note to myself from today tells me to buy a used alto sax. I started to learn once. Should have kept it up.

At day's end I reach Fargo. I've driven my 400 miles for the day and Duke is running hot when a voice on the radio calls out to me. It's the hot local FM rock station and they're doing a live remote, broadcasting from an Applebee's restaurant in town. It sounds like fun and a sure-fire good place to sell a few postcards. I walk into the restaurant and straight up to the group of DJ-looking people at the first table. I show them an 8 x 10 of Duke and say, "This car is out front," adding that I've just driven 1500 miles and heard them on the radio while passing by on the freeway. At first, the guy says yeh great, whatever and brushes me off. I stick the glossy in his face again and repeat the tale.

When the station people finally get it, they go nuts. The bar area empties out into the parking lot to see Duke. The restaurant manager calls "the best local TV station" the Fargo NBC affiliate and sure enough, they show up. The radio station hangs their banner on Duke, I do an interview, and dinner and drinks are on the house.

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Last update April 1, 2004