I emerge from my Wigwam with the sunrise and hit the road, passing up the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest of eastern AZ in search of things slightly more modern. I am on my way to Oklahoma. This will be the longest day's drive of the trip, but I am unprepared for the reminder that greets me amid the rock formations of New Mexico's western edge: The sign simply says "Mountain Time," but with it comes the realization that I will be losing two hours to clock adjustment during today's 750-mile marathon.

By 8:00 am, I decide it's time to forage for food, which I find in the well-preserved Ranch Kitchen in Gallup, NM. The friendly cartoon-cowboy mascot of its signage (see above) beckons me in... and, after a satisfying road-food meal of superb corned beef hash, eggs and jalapeno-corn muffins, he bids me a chop-lickin' farewell. Taking the time to enjoy Main Street instead of I-40 for a while, I am treated to a motherlode of 1950s motor lodges, including the remains of one with a log cabin theme, down to the neon sign over the office.

Beyond the Continental Divide, marked only by a neglected gift shop, lies Albuquerque. Here I find New Mexico's tribute to LA's city-swallowing freeways. Newly constructed overpasses, painted in Miami Vice pink and blue, span acres of the otherwise all-beige city. Already tired of my CDs, I stop at a Best Buy and stock up on some road music. The only purchases I'll admit to publicly are a few of the late Nick Drake's 1960s masterpieces.

Back on the road, I-40 becomes punctuated at every mile by a billboard for Clines Corners, a town comprised solely of an enormous gift shop. For each of the next 34 miles, its arrival will be counted down in billboards announcing $5.99 fudge and $1.49 earrings. (You know the fudge must be good if it costs more than the jewelry.)

Between the towns there is only open land, dotted by desert scrub and the occasional mobile homestead with its requisite decomposing car collection in the nearby field. And like their cars, the locals seem to simply upgrade to a newer trailer every 15 years by placing it next to the older one... sometimes showing three generations of movable house in one setting. And when one of them finally builds a permanent house, it bears the familiar proportions of the trailer.

Roughly 1,000 miles from LA, Tucumcari, NM, holds another treasure trove of motor inns, including the famed Blue Swallow, where $29.95 gets you a garage and a queen bed, presumably under separate roofs. It's also home to the recently closed Westerner Drive Inn, whose efforts to appeal to today's consumer by letting you order cappuccino from your pickup truck were not enough to keep its speakerphone menus alive. I pause to let a parade of high-schoolers in purple and gold football uniforms pass by on flatbed trucks emblazoned "Beat the Dons." As I wait, the local NPR station plays Beautiful Music, at the moment a piano rendition of "Who's Sorry Now."

The Texas border looks just like eastern New Mexico (which was punctuated only by a lonesome abandoned motel with an enormous sign), but it brings to me today's third time zone and a reduced speed limit of 70 mph, which feels like crawling across the wide-open land.

In addition to the curious Cadillac Ranch (see next chapter), Amarillo holds a few bits of enjoyable modern architecture to seek out as afternoon fades, including a once-elegant Greyhound bus station. But it is hunger that ropes me in for a spell. The Big Texan Steak Ranch (as if they grow them as living cuts of meat, not whole cows) is the legendary home of the "if you can finish it, it's free" 72-oz steak. Frighteningly, nearly 5,000 people have succeeded since the challenge began in 1959. I opt instead to buy my own filet, a "Ladies' Cut" that's a mere ninth of the artery-buster and still more than I can finish. My waiter, named Kidd, tells me that not a single person has attempted the six-pounder since September 11th. He then gives a prolonged handshake, wishes me a safe travel, and says "God bless you" as I depart.

With more than three hours of driving to complete and the sun under the horizon, I make no further stops until I'm almost at my night's destination. A quick detour to see Shamrock, TX's U-Drop Inn (a zigzag wonder of Art Deco design) is my only diversion before reaching Weatherford, OK, sometime past 10 pm. A large portion of Oklahoma's moth population has found its way into my Jeep's grille. I seem to have survived the day's drive looking a little better.