Just Words, Cross Country Edition: Prologue

'Round midnight on July fourth, Brock Lesnar hears music. It's the ringing between his ears as Shane Carwin beats him nearly senseless in the first round. No, wait. It's the tune of success as he submits Carwin in the second round. Final round of television for a while. Fine by me. And by Mike and Brian and Shane, who takes the wheel first because he says he feels good. Barely an hour on interstate 76 W, we find he's a liar. After the first night, Mike and I drive by night—Shane and Brian by day.


Around 7:30, I pull over to the side of the road on interstate 80 W in Ohio. My slowly coherent comrades stir, thinking I've had enough. It's the cop who knocks on the window who's had enough. He slaps me with a ticket the width of a 1-lb chargrilled burger, despite it being my first offense and despite the fact that I'm driving in a foreign environment on a holiday. Independence Day, my ass. In spite, my white smile overpowers my raging red face and my bemused blue disposition. The cop asks why I'm in a rush, to which I respond that I have no reason.


I'm a liar. I'm on the windy fast track to skyscrapers and pizza and fireworks: Chicago.