In my experience, there are only two ways to plan a road trip.
First, there's my father's method, which involves no planning whatsoever, like when he and I drove to Florida in the winter of 1996.
I woke up one Saturday morning shortly before Christmas and he was standing over my bed.
"Good morning, son," he said.
"Let's go to Florida.
" The Stuart Lavin plan has advantages and drawbacks.
We hopped in the car with nothing more than a few duffle bags and a road map and hit the highway with few if any expectations.
It was like a Sunday drive, except it would last about 30 hours.
There were no plans to stay in a hotel, and we were only going to stop for gas or if we were hungry.
That travel plan, however, has its disadvantages, too, like in 1996 when my father hit rush hour traffic in Washington, D.
C.
Since he had no expectations, he did what any sensible adult would have done.
He turned the car around, and we drove home.
It was hard explaining to my teachers why I'd gone to the trouble of getting a week's worth of assignments if I was simply planning to attend classes the Monday after New Year's Day.
As a result of my upbringing, it should surprise no one that the Matt Lavin travel philosophy is the exact reverse of the Daddy Dearest modus operandi.
The idea from my perspective is to plan every detail so precisely that even the number of times I stop to go to the bathroom has been established by a mathematical pattern.
Preferably fractals.
In April 2004, I began planning a drive from Saranac Lake to Logan, Utah, a distance of approximately 2,200 miles.
My expected departure date was late July.
It made sense to me to start planning three months ahead because I was in the process of picking up my whole life and relocating.
There was a lot to plan, including how I would get there, what I would bring and where I would live once I arrived.
For a trip of this magnitude, flying is of course out of the question.
Turning a four-day adventure into a lazy Sunday somehow strikes me as criminal.
Let's face it: suffering through four days of sweaty road travel without an air conditioner is less grueling than a four-hour flight.
Also, I had a good deal of luggage to bring with me, including a computer, a microwave, a stereo, bedding, clothing and a few choice mementos from my time in Saranac Lake.
Pricing a U-Haul at something astronomical, I almost immediate settled on taking my Chevy S10 pickup truck, which as pickups go is considered pretty small.
I started searching E-Bay for a truck cap and began shelling out the necessary bucks to bring the vehicle up to par.
For anyone who hasn't had the privilege of prepping a vehicle for a long drive, let me just say that it's a pleasure.
Think of the exact sum of money you can afford to toss in the trash and still afford to eat and double it.
That's how much your automotive repairs will almost certainly cost.
For me, it was a comfort knowing I could have had my wisdom teeth out for roughly the same price.
It's OK though, they don't hurt that much.
I brought my car to several local mechanics and had experiences with each one.
Pretty much every conversation I've ever had with a mechanic goes the same way.
"So, do you know what's wrong with my car?" "Well, you'd better sit down.
We have much to discuss.
Would you like a glass of water?" At this point, the mechanics usually pauses and let's out a large sigh.
"Well, we opened up your hood, and instead of a radiator, we basically found Jell-O pudding.
We tried to taste the pudding, which is when we realized you had an oil leak.
Your shocks are also blown, and your tires need to be replaced.
" Most mechanics, or at least the ones I run into at Jiffy Lube, tend to mention a few throwaways, those unnecessary items that no reasonable person buys.
Maybe they do it on the off chance they'll nab a sucker, but I'm betting they have another motive: so the consumer can feel like he's actually saying no to something.
"I'm afraid you're going to need a new seat cushion de-stabilizer.
This one's totally blown.
We're also going to need to spend some time realigning you're turn signal chassis and defibrillating your exhaust system.
" At this point the price tag starts giving me hives.
"Is there anything we can let slide?" "Well, sure, the defibrillating can wait, and so can the realignment, but it's a toss up on that de-stabilizer.
" Those of us with cars know there's an indescribable pressure to have some idea what we're talking about when we get to the mechanic.
My problem is that I don't know nearly as much as I should about cars.
I know more than some, like a friend of mine who reportedly filled his steering fluid container with brake fluid ...
twice.
But on the vast whole, I'm clueless.
But I have one skill that all mechanics seem to admire.
I know how to sign my name at the bottom of the check.
Planning a trip like mine can be fun, because it gives you the illusion of control.
When it comes time to embark, however, you might as well throw your plans in the trash compactor next to Jimmy Hoffa's body.
Control is a fleeting sensation.
With April coming to its end, I started making some serious decisions, plotting out where I would stay each night and how many hours per day I would try to be on the road.
I even subtracted for time zone changes and recorded the exact mileage between each.
I wrote down phone numbers of hotels and formed a master calendar of the entire trip.
I set my departure date for July 23, which would land me in Utah just three days before the first of the month, perfect timing to land an apartment once I was there.
I knew nothing would unfold as simply as I had planned, but the daily chore of planning gave me something to think about.
As for what surprised lay ahead, I would simply have to wait.