Planning a five-day drive from Saranac Lake to Logan, Utah was a daunting task, especially because before I could leave, I had to tie off a few very large loose ends. As a reporter for the Adirondack Daily Enterprise, I didn't have a lot of time to look after my personal obligations, so when I left work on July 2 for the last time, I had a lot left to accomplish.

Don't get me wrong: I wasn't planning to have surgery to attend a funeral. But there was the minor question of how I was going to deal with an 18-foot sailboat that was being stored not too far from my apartment. The plan as of the morning of July 2 was to bring the boat to Ithaca, where my father dwells.

The course was set: Saranac Lake to Ithaca, Ithaca to Albany, Albany to Washington, D.C., Washington back to Albany, Albany to just outside New York City, New York to Peterborough, N.H., Peterborough to Rutland, Vt. and Rutland to Saranac Lake.

Each destination had a purpose. You'll find that when you decide to move across the country, there are a lot of people you should probably visit before you leave. That was the impetus for my plan. But before any of that could take place, I would have to take care of the boat.

Boat owners all have the same stories. When you get the boat everyone you know is excited.

"Wow, you got a boat?" they cull. "That will be so cool. I'll be out there with you all the time. Just say when."

Then it comes time to bail six inches of week-old mildewy water out of the bilge, and suddenly everyone has an appointment somewhere else. Meanwhile, Monsieur Owner is left with a floating bag of obligations.

For those people who enjoy sailing, (or drinking beer while floating on a lake) a boat is a good idea. But it's a lot of work, which is something no one seems to understand before buying one.

Though it doesn't sound like much of a challenge, towing a sailboat the size of a dump truck with a truck the size of my left foot is actually difficult. When I hitched it on at about 5 p.m. that Friday, just about everything connected to my body was shaking.

When I got in the truck, just about everything connected to the vehicle was shaking too. Questionably in need of new shocks and brakes, I set forth.

The first part of the trip, for those of you who don't know, is one of the most excruciating roads in the universe: state Route 3 from Saranac Lake to Watertown.

When I set out and started to feel the breeze against my face, things didn't seem so bad. That lasted about 30 seconds. Soon I came upon a car accident, where the driver had somehow gone through the woods and was teetering on a small cliff near the road. I was grateful for the chance to test my brakes but slightly nervous about navigating the boat through a one-lane roadway.

If it were up to me, road trips would not be measured in terms of mileage or driving time, but rather, by the number of catastrophes that a driver passes or participates in before reaching his destination. If that system were to be enacted, I could have told my sister, upon arriving in Ithaca, exactly how the trip went without much effort at all.

"How was the drive? Did you make good time?"

"Not bad. My place is only two car accidents, one three-mile stretch of one-lane gravel and 18 road kill specimens from your place."

After Ithaca, came Albany, where I met my girlfriend Sara. We took a five-minute break upon my arrival, then hopped into her Dad's Buick and wheeled fast to Washington. We were there for the July 4 Independence Day extravaganza, which was stellar. After two short nights, we tooled back to Albany.

What was the point of my trip?

That question is not rhetorical. If anyone knows, please e-mail me.

The guise of our trip was that my girlfriend was moving to Washington. But she came back to Albany with me and a week later, she drove to Washington once again with her parents. The round trip was only about 1,400 miles, which isn't so bad. But when I try to rationalize the experience, I wind up passing out on my floor and waking up with a nosebleed.

Most of the trip is now a blur. Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and finally Saranac Lake are all a gelatinous mass quivering softly under the sunset of my feeble brain. I picked up a truck cap and a pair of cross-country skis in my travels. The cap I bought on E-Bay for $25, and the skis were sitting in a dumpster outside my Aunt Lisa and Uncle Marty's house.

The best part of the trip wasn't getting free stuff - and that's a bold statement. Instead, it was the five-day hiatus I took in Albany at Sara's parents' house. We went to the movies, out to dinner and even spent a day in lake George, taking in the summer. And every morning, Sara would wake up to go running ... while I slept.

Sara and I parted ways just outside New York City. She went back Washington and I headed for Rye, home of my friend Tim's city by the sea.

All totaled, I traveled more than 2,500 miles in 12 days. Though I'd basically gone in a giant circle, one detail of the trip stuck in my mind. I'd traveled more miles in that two-week period then I would between Saranac Lake and Logan, Utah, which is a drive consisting of most of the width of the nation. It was exhausting, but it gave me the calming sensation that the hardest parts of my travels were behind me.

If I ever got a job as Nostradamus, I'd have a pink slip in my mailbox by the end of the first day.