One summer day in 1987, I drove from Calgary, Alberta, to Utah County in one day. My wife stayed with her family in Canada and would fly home later. For 900 miles, it was just me, Pink Floyd and a station wagon filled with furniture my mother-in-law wanted gone.
On this trip, there were only two mishaps worth mentioning. The first was when I plowed into the median south of Dillon, Mont., while trying to eat a hamburger at 65 mph.
The next happened near Tremonton. I was grubby, road weary, and — most importantly — in no mood.