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It is a short chapter in A.L. Westgard’s Tales of a Pathfinder, and it doesn’t appear until page 83. But it’s an important one. It clearly seeks to establish his claim as the most-traveled pathfinder of his day.

The chapter is curiously titled “Deadly Figures.” Westgard begins by listing the top two questions he gets: What kinds of tires do you use, and how far have you driven? His answer to the second?

My answer is invariably that I do not know, though I have most likely traveled more different (note the different) miles on rubber tires than any man in the world. This I believe to be true.

In the old days, drivers had to affix their own odometers to the dash. While inconvenient, it was much easier to roll back--or forward, depending on whom you were trying to impress.

But to establish the truth, Westgard needs more than  belief. So he  proceeds to deconstruct the assertion of some “relatively” young man who told reporters he  had traveled 800,000 miles in 15 years. A little math from Westgard reveals that the man would have had to travel 141 miles a day,  every day. It’s possible, Westgard writes. But given the condition of roads in those days, it is “hardly within the range of probability.”

Let the record show that Westgard was not one to make idle boasts, nor one to tolerate them either. After demolishing the young man’s claim, Westgard reassures the reader that he limits himself to a simple proclamation, that he has made “more trips across the United States, East and West, North and South, than any other man, and that those trips were mostly over different routes.”

I’m still wondering what was so deadly about those figures. I’m also wondering about his tires. Surely he could have earned a little extra cash for in-book product placement.


My goal is to headline all posts with song titles from the Grateful Dead. Mission accomplished so far.

Yesterday I achieved a giant technological breakthrough: I read a downloaded PDF file on my Kindle. Yes, not much of a reveal, I know. But here’s the kicker.

It was a book by the guy to the right. His name is A.L. Westgard and he, like our buddy William Warwick, spent the early part of the 20th century criss-crossing the United States in an effort to find and map the best routes for future highways. He’s obviously progressive because, as Roland Barthes once noted, progressive thinkers look into the distance when photographed. He appears also to be looking into the sun.

Westgard’s book, Tales of a Pathfinder, published in 1920, is essentially a collection of anecdotes from his cross-country trips. The first anecdote involves his coming across a man nearly dying of hunger and thirst in the desert near Yuma. It’s a gripping start, and a fine way for Westgard to earn the reader’s respect as a good man and kind. But can he keep it for the next 240 pages? Stay tuned.

So here is what I learned yesterday about William Warwick, the man who drove with his wife across country in 1916 in a GMC truck: It was not his first trip. According to a 1915 article in the Aberdeen Daily-American (of South Dakota), he also drove across country in one of these, a Metz:

"Just for two" is legally binding advice from the manufacturer, as evidenced by the double quotation marks.

Perhaps Warwick was some kind of hired gun who drove across country testing the viability of various wheeled machines. If he did, it was in the service of some sinister organization called the “good roads movement.”

Maybe you think it was bankrolled by the cynical group “people who hate trains.” But think again. Support came from the fans of all things bicycle.

Obviously, we did get better roads somewhere along the line-except in Pennsylvania. But we didn’t get as many bikes as, I’m sure, the manufacturers hoped. Yet another victory for the unintended consequence.

I’m just going to start typing this year and see what happens. It’s the least I can do. A wise writer told me on New Year’s Eve that I shouldn’t wait for the right time, and I’ll add that I shouldn’t wait either for lightning flashes of inspiration.

Inspiration is a momentary shaft of light shining through some tiny crack in the walls we all erect around our true selves. The light is useful for the illumination it provides. But it doesn’t, in the end, tear down that wall. And that is the end goal, n’est-ce pas? That takes something more substantial, something more like work.

So here is what I want to work on this year: a story about a couple that drove across country in a GMC truck in 1916. It took them more than a year to get from Seattle to NYC and back again.I believe they kept a diary and that the diary is somewhere in Seattle. So, one of my first calls of 2011 will be to hunt that sucker down.

The writing teacher in me wanted to write “hunt down that sucker,” since you shouldn’t separate verb phrases. But what the heck. It’s a new year.