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When I woke up, most of the trucks were gone, so it was time to see if the road was open again. I-80 was open, but not pretty. Snow, ice and salt were everywhere, and what traffic there was moved along at 35 - 40 mph, slipping often. Visibility wasn't good, as a strong wind from the north was blowing snow across the highway and creating whiteouts. I hoped it would end soon, but it didn't seem to be getting much better. I couldn't even pull over because there was too much snow and slush on the shoulder.

I-80 finally opens in Wyoming. Top speed 40 mph.

Without much choice, I continued on, slipping and sliding while freezing because of the wind blowing through the car. Late at night, as I came closer to Laramie where the high mountains are, I found a truck stop with a restaurant that was open. I stopped and took a few pictures of the very nice white 2002 tii now encrusted with snow and ice as I gassed it up. Truckers asked why I was taking pictures of the car. I told them it was a rust-free California car, never seen snow or salt. They all laughed loudly at the contrast. I secretly wondered when they had last seen a car like a 2002, if at all.

It was time to fill up myself. The greasy hamburger and french fries delivered by a matronly waitress tasted awfully good. Leaving the truck stop, I shivered and watched as one semi pulled another from a snowbank.

Delicate ice creatures grew on the wheels from spinning and sliding in the snow.

Patience, I thought, as I decided to navigate the highest parts of the Wyoming Rockies at night with snow blowing all over. Just go slow and take it easy, I reminded myself. Take it easy I did, rarely going over 25 mph this time. I could see that I was up high, as I was now looking across the white, snow-capped 11,000 foot high mountains rather that looking up at them.

Occasionally, a truck would roar by, getting much better traction than I could even dream of, and it was time to head towards the shoulder, give them plenty of room, and figure out where I was because after they passed, I would be blind for a few very long seconds in a huge cloud of swirling snow. The high roads only lasted a few hours. Finally heading downhill, I found myself having to be extra careful because the ice on the road made it hard to use the engine compression or brakes to control my speed. Either way, I ended up slewing sideways.

Once down from the high areas, the wind died down, leaving me with an empty highway. Problem was, it was snowing heavily by then with soft, white snow, falling straight down. The highway was nice and smooth, but quickly becoming completely covered in fresh snow. No sign of any road salt or other vehicles. After a few miles, I wasn't able to see the road surface at all, and had to navigate by the reflective sidemarkers that stood at the side of the shoulders. This made for a rather nerve-wracking drive, to say the least, but I finally found myself crossing into Nebraska. When I saw a rest area sign, I decided to turn in and catch a few hours of sleep. A glance at my watch told me it was almost 3am.

A few hours later, I woke up to different conditions and a stiff neck. Sleeping in an old car seat is not the best for comfort. But to my surprise, it was warmer out and the snow, which was still coming down, wasn't covering the roadway. There was still snow on the sides of the roadway, yes, but the roads were black and wet.

A rare stretch of clear pavement where the salt trucks and snow plows were able to do their jobs.

I was off in a flash, anxious to regain lost time and cruising at 75-80 miles per hour. Within miles, the snow had turned to rain, and was washing the car of all the sand and salt it had accumulated the previous day. I hoped the rain would continue, because it was a lot faster than driving in snow and ice.

Pulling off I-80 in North Platte, Nebraska, I heard a loud howling noise as I approached the gas station. At first I looked around, looking for something nearby that was making the noise, then I realized it might be the car. Driving around the gas pumps confirmed that it wasn't a local air raid siren. I tried to think over what might be causing all the noise. So far the clutch throwout bearing had been okay, thought it was clearly worsening too. I had a good idea the noise might be the center bearing on the driveshaft, as it started howling as soon as the car moved and didn't vary on turns. Back on the highway, the noise quieted down and stayed quiet as long as the speedometer stayed between 40 and 70 miles per hour.

Somewhere West of Laramie, a California car that has never seen snow or salt stops for gas at night.

As the miles rolled on through the long, flat state of Nebraska, the weather got nicer and nicer. The rain stopped, the clouds broke, and in Lincoln I finally saw some sunshine. By then I was rolling through some beautiful farmland, with wonderful old Victorian farmhouses and spacious old barns, all well maintained. Between Lincoln and Omaha, I think I spent more time looking sideways than straight ahead, and I enjoyed it immensely.

By now, the driveshaft center bearing had become quiet again, but the clutch throwout bearing was getting worse and the car didn't shift smoothly from a stop. Once rolling, I shifted without the clutch, matching revs and shifting gently.

I figured that since I had stopped for gas only twice in Nebraska, I would only need to stop once in Iowa and one time in Illinois. With the end of the trip in almost in sight, I pressed on. I was tired but my spirits were buoyed by the prospect of a warm bed to sleep in. Iowa went by fast, and I was surprised at how crowded Iowa was compared to Nevada. Years ago I had considered Iowa to be a state full of open fields, but now, after driving through Nevada I know differently.

Vince and the white tii in Naperville, Illinois.

Before long I had crossed the Missouri River and was back in my home state of Illinois. There, the miles raced by even faster, as it seemed that with all the time I had spent on the road, familiar territory in Illinois went past like a video in fast forward.

It was uncharacteristically foggy out, like San Francisco is famous for. I thought I knew where I was going, but times had changed and farmland had been bought and built upon. It seemed like there were subdivisions and office parks fighting for control on every corner.

Confused and somewhat disoriented, I kept on, not recognizing the streets I was passing because they weren't familiar. Through the fog, on my left, I saw a bumpy, two lane road and headed towards it. I continued on through the fog, and sure enough, it was the right road. I couldn't believe it hadn't been widened and built upon like all the other local roads.

The prodigal son returns home.

A few more turns and bumps and I was almost to my parents' house. I rolled quietly through the familiar and but foggy subdivision, until I came to their driveway at almost one in the morning. I sat in the car for a moment, reflecting. What a trip, I thought.

This was the second trip to the midwest from the west coast for me. I can honestly say that 2002s are terrific cars for driving cross-country. Who needs power windows, air conditioning, fifth gear, and cruise control? Not me.

Vince Strazzabosco is a regular contributor to Bay Area 02 and can be reached at: vstrazzabosco@yahoo.com