So it is me again, am I on a ripping or what, this is the second entry I have done in the space of two months!!!

Saturday starts as it fully intends to go on, with a lot of walking. Out at 9am (our hostel must be very, very boring to get us up by that time) we wander the short distance to the nearest station on the Red line before catching the “El” to downtown. First stop on the tourist trail is, once again, Navy Pier (De-ja-vu anybody?). This time we venture further than the McDonalds in the entrance and head right down to the end of the half-mile structure that prods its way out into Lake Michigan. From there it is on to the Sears tower, the worlds second tallest building (we think?). Bloody big as it is, it suffers in comparison to the Petronas Towers by the fact that it is very difficult to find a good viewing spot in the middle of a very crowded CBD.

Wandering back down the road from the end of “The Untouchables” - you have gotta love that! - we decide that our feet are thoroughly knackered and it is only lunchtime. Therefore alternative plans to walking are made for the afternoon. Having decided on a flick we find the walking is not quite over yet as the cinema is a trek away and the film is on a few minutes.

After a run and a bit of rescuing Metro action we sit through two hours of Heath Ledger fannying around in “Four Feathers” before deciding to head out of the Windy City in the early evening. Operation: Toll road avoidance is a complete success (even if we do have to drive through every shady part of town and ghetto on the way!) and we cross over another couple of state borders before crashing in the town of Bridgeman, Michigan.

Last night’s drive has not left us with to far to go this morning and so we allow ourselves a leisurely start time of late morning before heading through “American Pie” Country to Detroit. Here we decide that it would be a good idea to leave our car in America’s car theft market and catch a bus through the tunnel to the town of Windsor on the other side of the water (don’t panic, we have theft insurance remember!!!). Oh, one other thing about Windsor that I probably should have mentioned is that it is actually in a different country! Canada is our tenth nation of the trip so far and probably the one we explored the least with only a couple of ventures into the southern tip of Ontario. The reason for this expedition (apart from another stamp in the passport) is to see another member of family Chops. We meet up with Alan in an Irish Bar called “Ryan’s” and this superb gaff provides us with our first taste of Stella Artois and Guiness in many, many days. We hang out with Uncle Al Chops and his buddy Scotty (‘too hotty’) hearing all about their boat racing on the Great Lakes which sounds wicked. A few beers later and we are trusted to Alan to know the way home. Simple you may think but take into account that (A) He has just been telling us how we are further south here than in most of California (hmmmm, dubious) and (B) he is related to Chops (is there anyone who couldn’t see that one coming!!!!).

The next morning, after some superb hospitality we are setting off back to America again. Unfortunately we are in a hurry to get to New York now as the Goatman has a flight to catch, otherwise Alan and Scotty had offered to take us out on their boats which would have been wicked. Once past the “cheerful” Immigration folk and back in the good ol’ U. S. of A., we find ourselves in luck as nobody has bothered to pinch our Daewoo!!!

Today’s destination is only the other side of Lake Erie, shouldn’t take us too long, should it? It turns out that they are called Great Lakes for a reason and it takes us all day to drive around this one. Many hours later and with the states of Ohio and Pennsylvania passed through we end up in New York State. Eventually we get to the town of Niagara Falls (ever heard of it?).

Here we book into the local HI hostel, which is not only in a completely dodgy part of town, but is also more like a convent with loads of rules including a curfew. How old are we?

Apparently, as the name of the town probably suggests to most people, there are some falls lurking around here somewhere…and I thought that rumbling sound was just long-running gang warfare outside our hostel! As we are on the American side we will firstly come to the American falls (and to think, I only got a 3rd!). It is simply spectacular as the water plummets over the edge into the darkness and the lights from the other side of the river light up the scene in purples, blues and pinks.

The next day it is time for our second trip over into Canada, this time we head over on foot across the bridge to the Canadian town called….can you guess? No? Ok I’ll put you out of your misery….Niagara Falls! Amazingly, the Canadian side is even tackier than its American counterparts as the geography of the river provides far better views from that side.

It is only now that we get the full view of the Canadian Falls and they do not disappoint. The American version seen last night, now pales into comparison to this huge horseshoe shaped monster. Carnage! The sheer noise and spray are just incredible.

All this spectacular scenery, which I am not even close to doing justice, makes the story I am about to tell even more ridiculous. It all began back in Bombay many months ago when we decided to stop for a MacDonalds at one of only three such establishments in the country. This incident, and the resulting bet that followed, mean that we have to stop for a Maccy D’s (or Mickey D’s as they would call them back across the bridge - BARN!) in every single country we visit. As we are only in Canada for the day we had better get eating. In a tourist town such as this, surely there can be little doubt that Ronald will have got his finger in the pie somewhere.

Now one of the many troubles with us is the absolute inability to give up on a cause once it has begun, therefore, over two miles deep into Canada (still with no Golden Arches in sight) we are still trudging onwards. The only thing keeping us going is the memory of our director of Anti-Capitalism being forced to walk into a shop and ask the way to the nearest MacDonalds, ooh the shame Chops!!!. Eventually, as we reach the interstate (the bloody interstate!), there it is, lurking in the back of a Wal-Mart and we are able to take some much-deserved sustenance.

Luckily there is a bus back to town and so we are soon heading back over into America and getting on our way. It is already late afternoon and so we only make it as far as Syracuse, New York where we find the cheapest Motel yet, result.

Wednesday is just one of those days that just goes tits-up. The plan was to get as far as Boston tonight but that is not looking likely as by lunchtime we are only just pulling into Massachusetts. Having stopped for a bit of food and posting, we grab a look at the FBI wanted posters - it seems unlikely that a Lebanese man wanted for International Terrorism and who’s last known whereabouts was Beirut would be likely to turn up in Western New England, but you never know!

In the end we make it as far as the town of Worcester and decide to stop there for the night. What a wonderful idea that was. The hotels in this town seem to be completely out of proportion to the rest of the country and we are offered several ridiculously expensive quotes before eventually getting bent over for a stay at the shabbiest place in town. All the driving around looking for accommodation means that the time is now 10:05pm. All the food places in this town shut at 10pm. B-A-R-N! That is, apart from one, our new bet of no more MacDonalds until we get home is now broken in just over twenty-four hours, bloody marvellous! At least tomorrow will be a better day, right?

Wrong! Thursday begins with us making good time to Boston and then gets steadily worse. First stop on the hostel hunt is obviously the cheapest ones, these turn out to be both full. No worries, we have a long list, next up is the Back-of-the-bay-hostel which turns out to be shut (as stated in the Lonely Planet but ignored by our navigationally challenged navigator, no names mentioned!). Fourth time lucky we find room at the HI hostel and despite the $29 a night fee, make a split decision to dump the bags and Goatman at the front door before bombing off for parking. This doesn’t prove too much of a problem and we are soon back in the HI reception which is in utter chaos. Finally, after about forty-five minutes we get checked in and find that there are only beds available tonight but not tomorrow. With our hand forced the rest of the afternoon is spent sorting out digs for Friday night….or at least trying to. Calls are made to Farrington Inn - Full, Strath Hostel - Full and Garden Hall - Full. Ok, so we aren’t staying in Boston, no problems, lets just drive to Cape Cod a day early tomorrow night and have an extra day there. They have four hostels on the Cape and so we get back on the phones, full, full, full, vacancies……but $130 a night, doh! Oh sod it, lets sort it out tomorrow!

There is only one way to end a day like this, beer, and so that’s exactly what we do heading for Bar Numero Uno and nailing a few pints of Sam Adams.

Friday, time to tour Boston, and we only have about day to do it in as we need to be moving on around nightfall. First thing of the day is first though, Chops has realised that he has yet again lost another towel. (are we in double figures yet?). Once out of the hostel we wander down Newbury Street into town past the very cool (and highly expensive) shops. The Goatman promptly abandons his breadline status and sets his sight on some slick new trainers! In town we stop in Barnes & Noble where through some freak pattern of avoidance I mange to lose both my travelling companions - some good work you might say! I am therefore resigned to spending the rest of day alone.

A quick stop at an internet café to say I will meet them tonight back at the hostel is in order before wandering all over downtown Boston. I check out all the local sights and take a wander around the Wharfs on the Atlantic Ocean (our fourth of the trip - and yes the Southern Ocean does exist for any Montana residents who may have stated otherwise!!!) also stopping to watch some Little League baseball - still boring whatever the age!

On the way back to the hostel the main stop off is the “Cheers” bar and so I decide to stop for a drink in some familiar surroundings. Amazingly, everybody there does know my name (or at least two of them anyway - can you hear the creaking of the crowbars!!!). Of all the bars in all the world they had to walk into mine! What are the chances?

All reunited we head back to the hostel, get out bags, walk to the car and then head south on the road out of Boston. Tonight’s stop is Foxboro (within spitting distance of the New England Patriots stadium) where we crash for the night. There is just time before kipping to get utterly stitched by the local garage for a £10 phone-card which states “you have 187 minutes remaining” but actually means “This card will cut you off in five minutes, please bend over now!”

Ok, Chops, your turn. New York, New York and the departure of the Goatman awaits….

Welcome ladies and gentlemen to week 3 of Daewoo airlines flight MAF14, please make yourselves comfortable (Goatman), enjoy your complimentary biscuits (mmm...) and mums and dads keep your daughters away from Little Dave...

We start Saturday in Nicol's mum's house, centre of attention for everyone from the dog to the kids to the next door neighbours (who seem to have come over especially just to hear us 'talk english' - altogether now "herbs!", "aluminium!", "tomato!", "barn!"). A quick breakfast is all we have time for as we have to be in West Jelleystone this afternoon to run away from Ranger Smith and steal pic-a-nic hampers. Somehow cramming four of us in the car we head out of the leafy suburbia of Missoula and into the countryside of the American northwest.

The scenery around us for the next four hours is outstanding. One particular lookout as we cross the crest of a range is world-class: a sharp drop down to the plains, miles of spirit-level flat land and then a hike up thousands of feet in the middle distance, all repeated to our right almost as far as the eye can see.

Eventually we roll into West Jellystone, a small town on the edge of the Park whose primary, secondary and tertiary industries are tourism, tourism and tourism, respectively. Nicol's dad is a brewer and is already in Jellystone as part of a beer festival (aha, I smell cut-price alcohol heading our way), so he's booked the four of us into a hotel room for tonight. Dumping the bags we head into the National Park in Nicol's dad's truck. Unlike Sarah's it's not a tank, oh no. It's a tank transporter with room for modest recreational facilities.

Jellystone Park is probably America's second most famous National Park behind the Grand Canyon. Admittedly it lacks the jaw-dropping spectacle of the Canyon or Yosemite, but it has two trump cards: a huge diversity of visible wildlife (including the last reserves of plains buffalo) and the friskiest geothermal activity outside of Rotorua or Reykjavik. Plus with the Continental Divide cutting straight through the middle, it's hiiiillier than the aver-age park! We catch the mighty Old Faithful geyser going off, but it seems to have the geothermal equivalent of a cold today (the water table is low apparently) however on the way back we see elk and buffalo grazing as the sun sets behind them, ace.

Back in town we meet up with Nicol's dad Tim who invites us back to the brewer's meal with free beer and pizza. Yes, I know, it's traveller's Utopia isn't it? Which makes our decision to leave long before the beer or pizza run out quite inexplicable. Prime culprits are Booboo and Nicol, looking to get some, ahh, quality time together. Leaving myself and Francis Joffers to watch TV, they sneak off to the swimming pool. Next thing myself and his goatship know, it's an hour later and they burst back into the room, shame faced with Dave moaning about wanting to curl up and die. It seems that the swimming pool was busy so they tried Plan B, her dad's room, thinking "come on, what are the chances that he'll come back from the bar early, eh?"…..a mars bar to whoever can guess what happened next.... Floating this situation up to the realms of comedy genius though was her pa, after catching said couple in embarrassingly sordid position, responding by strolling across the room to show them his new alarm clock! Laugh? We nearly ran out to shake his hand!

Cometh the hour, cometh the man they say. At the hour of breakfast Nicol's dad cometh, Little Dave and Nicol cometh and embarrassment cometh with comedy not far behind! Also cometh is a middle-aged Texan fella who spots our English accents and gives Dave's diplomacy skills a workout by asking his opinions on good ol Dubyah. "Well, he's probably a very good president for Americans, I'm just not convinced on his foreign ^{(*coughwarmongerercough*)} policy..."

We set out to see as much of the park as possible in the four hours before Nicol's got to meet her dad for a lift home - more specifically to see the Little Big Canyon and the Mamouth Springs, two of the major highlights. Unfortunately these are on opposite sides of the 1000 sq mile park and roadworks put in an appearance too so most of this time is spent in the car. Because we're not going to see enough of it over the next month and a half, are we?

The canyon is huge and makes you realise just how big the Grand Canyon is going to be, then it's off to Mammouth Springs. This is where geothermically heated water has spilled over the surface rocks and stained them a kaleidoscope of colours, from blazing white to deep orange. Very, very cool.

Unfortunately though we've got to get Nicol back to her Dad for a lift home or she's hitch hiking to Montana. There's just time for tomfoolery around the Wyoming state sign (and for some tailgating tart to almost run into the back of us when we feather the brakes) then it's farewell for now to Bozik sister #2. The rest of the day is dedicated to Binnus' legacy with a lot of fannying. Oh, and a bit of tweaking from the Goat but you don't really still need to be told that, do you?

Monday morning and it's time to eat some miles. We have to cross most of Wyoming today and to do that we have to drive back through the park, with all its 40 mph speed limits and roadwork finery. Therefore by the time we get out onto normal roads we're running a bit behind schedule (yeah right, like that word was ever uttered as much as once in 9 months!) and me and Dave are gunning it a bit on the empty roads of Wyoming. Out of all 50 states in the U.S., and remember this includes Rhode Island which makes Vatican City look extensive, Wyoming rates 50th in population size.

I find it a cruel irony then that as I come screeching around one of the few corners doing 85 mph in a 55 mph zone the good old 5-0's are coming in the opposite direction, aviator shades and radar tracker all present and correct! As things turn out he only clocked me doing 65 so at least we know the brakes work! I get a $60 fine and no points on my licence, Dave and the Goat decide that offering the humourless cop a doughnut from their stash isn't necessarily a great idea and we all breath a sigh of relief that the fine was on the spot and not next week in the courtroom of Pigshit, Wyoming.

After that little bit of excitement the rest of the day's stunning scenery seems a bit, well, ordinary frankly. It shouldn't be: we're currently dropping out of the huge mountainous plateau of the mid-west towards the agricultural plains that dominate the rest of central America. It's freaky driving across flat grassland only to reach the horizon and find a drop of 1500 feet in front of you, not to mention painful - I've developed a headcold so I can't equalise, despite all my high quality Danish SCUBA training!!

The end of the day finds us in Morecroft just off the interstate near the South Dakota border, and if this town's population goes into even triple figures then the Goat is allergic to nipples and Little Dave's a mute. We eat in the local diner, where the phrase that immediately leaps to mind regarding the locals is "Ruun, Fowrest, ruun!", then we bottle out of having a drink at the local bar before bed - I blame watching Deliverance too many times!

Tuesday and we're on a mission to see all that the eastern edge of the Rockies can offer. First up is Devil's Tower, a lava plug towering above the local woodland, left behind as the volcano was eroded away around it and last seen being sculpted from mashed potato by Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Cool. Just after we pass the South Dakota state sign Dave and I see something quite staggering (the goat was in the back doing what he does second best). On a deserted stretch of road, a Porsche shoots past in the opposite direction doing well over a ton. Following him is a Ferrari. A Lamborghini chases both. And not far behind him are at least a dozen more of the same, millions of pounds worth of speeding supercar shooting past us in what must have been either an unofficial GT race or the making of Cannonball Run 3!! Still passing the stragglers we head on to Crazy Horse Monument.

The response of the Sioux Indians to the Americana of nearby Mt Rushmore and also a memorial to their eradicated culture, Crazy Horse Monument will depict the chief that never compromised, on horseback, pointing to the horizon and quoting "My lands are where my dead lay buried". It's been slowly carved out of the mountainside for almost fifty years now, and despite the workers going from one artist with a hammer to a huge crew with bulldozers, only the face has been completed. Which should give you an idea of the magnitude of this enterprise really - you can fit the whole of the Mt Rushmore monument into the width of Crazy Horse's face! It's a staggering undertaking and my only regret about coming here is that I won't live to see it finished.

With something so grandiose only minutes behind you, I wouldn't have thought that Mt Rushmore could still be impressive. Odd then that we spend an equal amount of time staring at messrs Washington, Jefferson, Adams and Roosevelt (not F.D. though - Teddy, famous for, hmm, being the president that gave this piece of presidential flattery a budget perhaps?). Maybe it's because it's completed. Maybe because it's famous and you've seen it on TV so much. Or maybe because it's cheesier than Bob Monkhouse opening an edam factory in Cheddar. Whatever, it's cool.

So it's back on the interstate heading east out of the Black Hills. We come off at the small town of Wall, mainly to figure out which road to take through the nearby Badlands National Park (no.3 and counting) but also to have a look at the 'legendary' Wall Store. Genius levels of trash! Cheesy nik-naks compete with the inspired lunacy of the sideshows. My particular favourite was the Jurassic Park homage - complete with T-Rex head breathing smoke! Roll on Vegas for more of the same!

Daylight is fading. Considering we felt cheated in Jellystone and Yosemite by leaving only a couple of days for them, we've done ourselves proud by leaving an hour and a half to charge through Badlands, doh! We get to see the impressive sections however, landscapes like a carpet-bombed lunar desert. It's all fantastically unearthly and makes you realise why films such as Starship Troopers and Star Trek have been shot here. Great faces, great places? Hell yes!! We end up in another cheap motel at the eastern exit of the park where American coverage of The Ryder Cup claims that The Belfry is in Sutton Colefield not Tamworth. What?! Look at a map you tools!

Wednesday and it's more driving. No busts this time (well, if you ignore Little Dave's that is), just miles and miles of interstate, increasingly surrounded by flat wheat fields. We're in farmin' laand and Dave suddenly looks very much at home! We detour from the interstate at the Iowean (is that even a word?) border and do our business with the sign. Ploughing into the backcountry a little further brings us to the must-see town of....Hull, Iowa! Our arrival probably doubles the population and the most eye-catching landmark is a water tower but, hey, when you don't have to worry about your car windows being bricked then who cares? While getting petrol, the headline of the Weekly World News (a publication that a reader of the Daily Sport would astride as an intellectual colossus) catches my eye - AL QUEDA TRAINING KILLER MOSQUITOES!!. Inside though is an even more troubling and dangerous story - anthrax-bearing goats are also being prepared to attack freedom and democracy!! Never, never, never, NEVER! Nightfall finds us at another motel just off the interstate in the catchy-titled town of Independence, Iowa.

As we cross the border on Thursday into Illinois we pass the mighty Mississippi which even 1300 miles from its source is still bloody massive - and next time we see it we should be somewhere near Memphis on the way back west, get in. The great orienteering challenge now commences - how to get through Chicago's extensive outskirts to the centre without paying the excessive $5 charge on the freeway? We manage it, but get stuck in road works - as all-American as Momma's apple pie - and so probably use up $10 worth of extra petrol. Smooth!

No thanks to Chicago International Hostel's directions (making yours truly look gifted with a map!) we pull into their car park after only going past it three times, not bad. After a lot of thought, the word that I would have to use to describe the area is…..ghetto! I mentioned that we've got comprehensive insurance didn't I? I park up (popping the eye from a dead bird, cool, uh-huhuhuh) and moan again about how we're going to break our 6000 mile limit easily. Thus from Dave and Goatus the fines committee is raised from the ashes after 6 months! Any mention of mileage will be met with a fine of 50c to be put towards the excess charge back in LA. Damn did I get stung over the next month!

A wee bit of internetting is in order on Friday morning, not least because the Goat has to book himself a plane ticket from New York to Phoenix, where he will leave our tender care (and our tender nips!) after 8 months in order to spend the last bit of his trip with Sarah. Unfortunately the web-site has other ideas. Thus a volley of abuse flies at the computer screen in a Goatus wig-out of epic proportions, funny!

Second task of today is to phone Binnus seeing as it's now been almost two months since he left, which we do outside a Dunkin' Donuts because every other phone had been vandalised by dope-dealing junkies high on their own supply. Not that I like to stereotype of course! Once we've dealt him some serious abuse we finally make it into Chicago itself.

"Chicago! Chicago! Chicago! Chicago!" (c)Frank Sinatra.

A city that proudly wears its history of both high class glamour and dirty underworlds on it's sleeve, Chicago is a must for lovers of Al Capone, Rhythm n' Blues and 'The Untouchables'. Actually, that could just be Little Dave. We head towards the Sears Tower with the Little Man searching for an absent Abercrombie and Fitch shop and digging the weird bull sculptures that infest the place. Note to Chicago City Council: Michael Jordan was a long time ago now, ok?

After lunch below the world's 3rd tallest building, Skint Goat suddenly turns into Flush Goat and decides that he's going to shop for belts and jeans in the afternoon. Fair do's. Meanwhile His Shortness and I take a look around Navy Pier, a weird shopping-mall come carnival perched on a jutting promenade. And boy is the wind off Lake Michigan strong, they don't call this the windy city for nowt mate. Meeting back up with the Goat we check out the dead famous frontage of the Chicago Stock Exchange then catch the El back to the hostel. Cooking, phoning my uncle for a free night in Canada and getting shouted at by the owner for flooding his washroom with a plastic bag in our load finishes off week 3 with a true lack of style.

Watch this space for Little Dave's week 4......or week 2......or week 3 of New Zealand come to mention it!!

Ok, so with arm-twisted and boot up arse, here comes week two of the US odyssey 2002.

Saturday kicked off in San Francisco with wallets on life support after the extortionate amount stung from us by the Pacific Tradewinds hostel in which we stayed the previous night and which Mr Chops has complained about already….moving on…which is exactly what we decided to do, in favour of a new gaff. When we arrived in the bay area on Thursday night our first choice for hostel options proved no good due to there being no parking within a five thousand-mile radius, but with this issue sorted we check in to the imaginatively titled “Hostel”. We are quickly down and waiting at the tram stop but there looks like being a slight delay before our ride comes along. A seemingly endless march of people are parading down Market Street in protest about some little war that their government are planning to wage in the middle east…don’t know if it ever made the news back home???

When the tram does arrive we are on our way to Union Square where, despite the fact that we are all thoroughly skint, we have decided to go shopping!!! Good idea methinks. The financial management and fashion departments of Chops’ brain deliberate the pros and cons of a pair of Levi’s before we move on to Chinatown. Now I expected it to be quite busy on San Francisco’s narrow streets but this is ridiculous. It turns out to be the 53rd anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China and we are in the middle of it. Trudging on we come via Telegraph Hill to Pier 39 and the Alcatraz tours. Booking ourselves on one for tomorrow night, and with very sore feet from walking a fair trek, it is time to catch a cable-car-hill-tram-effort back to Market Street. The queue for a ride is massive but well worth the wait as you get to hang on to the side of the tram as it rips up and down over the city’s unique geography, easily rivalling anything in Alton Towers and with spectacular views to boot.

Plans for the evening are not really anything to speak of - it’s just the usual highlife this time in the form of Carbonara a la Chops….need I say more?

Sunday starts long before we are up. Thousands of miles away in a hive of filth and degradation known to the local brain dead inhabitants as Portman Road, a major sporting contest is underway. The East Anglian Derby is being contested for the first time in over 2 years and the scummiest of scummers, one Mr A. Marshall, is haplessly dropping a football at the feet of Norwich City’s biggest and most Scottish of centre backs. There is no need to go into the spawny events that followed with dodgy penalties and an eventual sharing of the spoils. Scum! Scum! Scum! Oh yeah, and back to San Fran….

By lunchtime we are over in the Haight & Ashbury district of town, perusing the funky shops…odd, I am sure we don’t have any more money than we did yesterday!!! Also we head down to the Golden Gate Park for a chill out with the frisbee and rugby ball (the untimely demise of The Boomerang is already well documented!). Here we are surprised to see that the game of choice amongst the locals is in fact football. Several games are taking place including one brilliant example of “competitive Dad syndrome” where the older generation are building up an unassailable lead over their five-year-old offspring!

The City of San Francisco is well known for the vast amounts of fog that regularly descend over the bay area shrouding the Golden Gate Bridge. However, today the city is in bright sunshine…..well that is all except one spot in the centre of the bay. Our destination for the evening, the island of Alacatraz, somehow still seems to look dark and ominous. The tour of the world’s most famous prison is really interesting as we are shown the former residences of such charming folk as Mr Al Capone, the Birdman of Alcatraz Robert Stroud and Machine Gun Kelly (well, if you call you name your son “Machine Gun” how the hell do you expect him to turn out????). Against our better judgement, the Goatman of Reading is allowed to escape, despite being charged with serial nipple tweaking!

“Dude, where’s my car?” Luckily it is still over on Euclid street where we left it and we are able to get away from San Francisco at a respectable time and head over into Oakland via the massive Bay Bridge. The second leg of the driving expedition is relatively uneventful as we head inland towards Yosemite National Park arriving at the Bug Hostel, thirty miles short of the park, by early afternoon. Dumping our stuff, and making note of the ‘beer for $1.50’ offer at the hostel bar - yes, the hostel has a bar - we set off into Yosemite (Not pronounced Yosemite at all but more like Ya-sem-it-tea) National Park. The nearer we get to the park the more spectacular the scenery gets. Huge boulders line the roads and the mountains grow and grow around us until we are driving up through a spectacular wooded valley with massive, towering rock faces on either side.

As the day is drawing well into the middle of afternoon, we decide on a small walk for the rest of the day before tackling something bigger tomorrow. Therefore, we head up to the mirror lakes to check out some spectacular reflections (at this point I feel it is only fair to point out that this was the Goatman’s idea, credit where credit’s due- at least it would be if there was any!!!). The problem with these Mirror Lakes at this time of year is that the main part of their reflective properties is caused by the water…kind of a given for a lake you would think, right? Sand, as it turns out, does not reflect anything at all!!! There is just time on the way back to the car for Chops to demonstrate his England slip fielder-esq catching ability when a flying water bottle flies his way. Throw in a load of rocks and one small gap for the aforementioned bottle to irretrievably fall down, and we can accuse his Commandantness of littering a national park, criminal!!! Back in the hostel we are at a loss for what to do for the evening….hang on a minute, there’s a bar in our hostel!!!!

Tuesday, lets kill ourselves. Ingredients required: take one big mountain with a very steep climb, degenerate physical fitness and finally an attempt to climb aforementioned mountain and back down again in one day. Even better, there is a road that can be driven up to the same point, so are we sadists or what???? Nah, we just wouldn’t want to go over our miles limit on Tony’s Motor - a lot, lot more to follow on this subject I am sure!!!

We conquer the 4.8-mile track and 3,200 foot climb to reach the spectacular Glacier Point (which is actually at around 7,200 feet above sea level). No words I say can possibly do this justice as we look down over Yosemite Valley. Simply one of the best sights I have seen since leaving home. Hopefully Chops will stick a link to a photo right about [here]. Knackered, we sit around at the top taking in the beauty (it is definitely better when you have climbed up yourself) before asking some guy to take a photo for us. Of all the tourists up here, we skip every sane one around and pick the nutter. For reasons known only to himself, he proceeds to take nine photos of us with three cameras. Cheers then mate, I think that will do. He then disappears off to find some unsuspecting Nikon carrier.

The way down, as discovered by a Mr Isaac Newton, is decidedly easier than going up and, after almost another five miles of trekking we get back to our lovely car without further drama. Drama around here is most likely to come in the form of the locals who are about as friendly as their counterparts from the east riding of Yorkshire. Rattle Snakes, Bears and Cougars all inhabit these lovely slopes and if you meet one the park rangers give this advice: intimidate them, make yourself big and even throw stones at them. If all this fails, send the sacrificial goat in for a sneaky tweak and leg it in the opposite direction!!! Evening. Hostel. Beer. Nuff said.

Wednesday begins with the decision about which direction to head. Having met up with one half of the Bozik sisters in LA, we are now off to meet Nicol up in Hamilton, Montana. To put this simply, it’s bloody miles away. First thing is first, get out of the Park. Second things second, get out of the State. Finally it’s time to leave California behind….no, actually, second thing is third as Chops spots the small town of Bodie on the map. Ten miles of dirt track, which shake the exhaust pipe of the Daewoo loose later, we arrive in Bodie, the remnants of a small town from the California Gold rush era. Apparently 10,000 people used to live here, now no one does, what does that tell you?

As we pass into Nevada, an idea forms: why not get a photo of every state sign we cross? Little do we know what we are getting ourselves into. The theory goes that the map will have to be in each one featuring a different pose from me and Chops each time.

Onwards we travel, stopping quickly at Lake Tahoe, through Carson City and then west. We are moving in the right direction now. After a lot more miles and a long day we arrive in our fist taste of Nowheresville, USA…Winnemucca, Nevada. The place is so small that the local Burger-king has to double as Police Head Quarters, odd that.

We kick off Thursday by putting Winnemucca behind us and moving on straight north, up out of Nevada, through a bit of Oregon and finally further north though a lot of Idaho. The state sign picture ideas are already starting to wear thin and that’s not a good sign (get it, sign???). The big drama today is the fact that after only a small portion of our road trip, the car seems to be falling apart. Something is clanging in the back left wheel arch and a mysterious engine-shaped yellow light has appeared on the dash. Oh good. The most amazing thing about today is the striking change of scenery from where we woke up to where we lay our heads at the end of the day. Long gone are the arid planes and hills of Nevada and we are now in beautiful thick wooded mountains. Tonight’s town of choice is Grangeville, Idaho, about three hours short of Nicol’s house. Pretty good going as we are planning on being there by lunchtime tomorrow.

Five months ago, we were accosted on a Thai boat by one Mr R. Boi of Chokkanna resort. A long story then led to me really looking forward to seeing this American girl from Montana again after such a long time. An event like this cannot possibly take place without the presence of Dr Sod. His first act has already taken place and so we are waiting around at Alpine Motors for Grangeville’s premier mechanic, Jeff Kutner to arrive at 10am. This legend of a man not only looks at the car and gives a verdict of “All clear, it’s just a shit car” but he does this without charging us!

Already late, we are made seriously later (about an hour in fact) by the presence of the time boundary between Pacific and Mountain time on the Idaho/Montana border. Doh. Throw in some roadworks, and the fact that we have to stop to buy a present (as it was Nicol’s birthday yesterday), all means that we are way late. Luckily, the fact that she has provided us with truly shoddy directions to her University of Montana Dorm rooms means that we can just blame the lateness on her (not entirely sure she bought it though!!!).

It is really good to see her again and we grab a bit of food in a pizza gaff in down town Missoula before watching a film back at the dorm (the fact that it sucks is apparently my fault…and so it begins!). The night out is gonna involve someone driving as we have to get the 30 miles down to Hamilton for somewhere to stay tonight. Some dodgy coin flicking results in this being my honour as we hit the Missoula bar’s. Leaving there around 2am we make it back down to Hamilton to find that the unsociable hour has not stopped a full turn out of Nicol’s family to see our arrival, “the British are coming, the British are coming!!!”

Chops, over to you, oh bugger, you have already done it. That means I had better get writing again!!!!

Ah well, bye bye to the beaches and Fiji Bitter and hello to the longest flight of our trip - which we would have to do with the 'Divine Secrets Of The Ya Ya Big Fat Greek Wedding'-sponsored Air New Zealand wouldn't we? So, it's off to the land of liberty, guns, New York, the Grand Canyon, potential nookie for Dave and the Goat and, most importantly, Elvis!

Sometime during the twelve hour flight we crossed the dateline, Saturday 7th Mk1 finished and Saturday 7th Mk2 began. And if my logic skills can't figure that out then you've gotta feel for Dave! So, we land 8 hours before we left and meet Sarah (of Thailand fame) outside who subjects us to an immediate display of the fearsome Bozik memory by forgetting where she's parked. Much lugging of bags later we find her 'car' (or 'tank' for anyone outside of the U.S.) and cruise our way in the L.A. sunshine to her pad near Hollywood, lording it as we pass Santa Monica, Sunset Boulevard and Beverley Hills. Sarah's flat is in a nice area about ten minutes walk from Hollywood and looks pretty cool with a bathroom window looking out over the Hollywood sign, rock n'roll! Sarah reckons it would be perfect if not for "the lesbians next door". And this is a downside?! A few introductions first. Sarah's flatmate says hello, the extravagantly mohicanned and possessor of glass ornaments Topher, then their kittens Sensai and Chanti maul a hand each before starting me out on a four day bout of sneezing. We wash off 1-day-twice's worth of grime and overload Sarah's washing machine with skanky pants then she takes us for a quick tour of the neighbourhood.

'Doing' LA is to all extents impossible. Most other cities no matter how big have a centralised area where all the famous bits are, but not this place. Hollywood is miles away from Venice Beach which is miles away from Huntington Beach which is miles away from Universal Studios which is miles away from the CBD - just one long urban sprawl with 1/3 of its land area made up of tarmac (sorry, "asphalt", barn!). Anyway, Mann's Chinese Theatre (location of every film premier known to man and then some) gets a gawp as does sunset strip and Pink's (famous hotdog stall par excellence), all with the Goatman in the front seat - for some unfathomable reason he seems to think that he has special priorities around here, give a goat an inch of trust and he'll take a mile! We do a bit of shopping in a very-Californian Organic Supermarket and go back to make chips n' dips at Sarah's. In a while her cousin Lorrie shows up to celebrate her 30th birthday and we start drinking while debating where to go. Predictably, by the time we agree it's too late and we're lashed so Joffrey (as the Goat is known around the Boziks) and Sarah sit on the boot (sorry, "trunk", extra barn!) and me and Dave squeeze - not easy - in the back leaving a completely shedded Lorrie to drive us to the offy (sorry, "liquor store", multi-barn!). On the way back we swing by Pink's and get introduced to the divine wonders of the double chilli cheese dog with bacon - kind of like the bacon double cheeseburger XL of the hot-dog world! Come the end of the night we all fail to convince Lorrie not to drive, despite her looking more likely to climb into a bin than her car, but she seems to get home safely. We collapse into a drunken slumber on Sarah's floor (well, me and the Little One do, never trust a Joffrey Sarah!), chuffed with everything about our first day in the states with only two small exceptions - get those bloody cats off my face!!

I'd like to say that we had a peaceful sleep through to midday to shake off the jetlag and booze. Unfortunately those two adorable little bundles of fluff saw anything that moved as fair game - this included toes, legs, hands and occasionally noses - so we were up at the dawn of the hunt. Main task for today is to get hold of a copy of the Lonely Planet USA so that we can see whether or not our dream of travelling by car is going to require robbing a cashpoint (sorry, 'ATM', prime barn!). Leaving Joffrey and Sarah passed out, Little and Large head off in search of a bookshop.

Remember me saying LA had no centre? This now becomes very annoying when you need a specific type of shop, you don't have a vehicle and 'mass transportation' means 'everyone owns a car'. We walk two blocks north to Hollywood: no book shop. Three blocks back south along LaBrea to Melrose: nothing. Three blocks across: nada. Get the picture? Finally in the deep deep south we come across STA travel and get all excited until it turns out that they're closed for the afternoon - where are we, Spain? Bearing in mind that each block is about 1/3 of a mile, by the time we stumble back to chez Sarah empty handed we have walked bloody miles in searing heart with jet-lag and hangovers - it's never easy with us is it? When we explain to Sarah she calls Barnes & Noble in the local mall, reserves a copy and drives us over to pick it up, all in the space of half an hour. And the inaugural Chump award goes to......

That night we go on a Bozik party search along the LA beachfront and dredge up horrible memories of Cockerney Steve way back in Goa as we find nothing apart from Santa Monica Pier fair - which is shutting down. Any hopes of a big night out smashed, we buy some beers (sorry Sarah, alcoholic beverages) and chill out watching The Usual Suspects, featuring such adapted lines as: "How do you shoot the Goat in the back?" and "you think he's on your side of the fence and then, just like that.....he's gone!". Come 2am while I'm on the phone to Lou, Dave decides that he's in desperate need of a Maccy's so goes for a 'walk-thru' - another record period of abstinence!

On Monday morning we figure that it's time to move before we outstay our welcome and/or we lose most of our limbs by virtue of Kitten Leprosy. Hollywood Hostel USA is the eventual choice after seeing the rats in the alternative but we do have to split up, with Joffers and I definitely coming off worse - the embarrassing English tools in our room demand to know why the world should "let Hussein and Yasser Arafat build up their weapons of mass destruction". Meanwhile Little Dave gets a Shaquille O'Neal lookalike with his own TV! Barn!

Back at the pad of Bozik we grab the phone and start a concerted effort to get a car. The initial prognosis is not good, nurse! The big national companies bend you over while the smaller ones won't touch us if we go any further than Vegas....which isn't a bad idea I'll grant you..... Meanwhile the spectre of two months travelling on Greyhound coaches with the serial killers and perverts is steadily creeping closer and closer, so in desperation we decide to check out one of the local joints, West Hollywood Affordables - nice name! Inside we're greeted by a gravelly-voiced fat man of Italian descent which (along with the horses' heads on the walls and various pictures of the Virgin Mary) leads us to believe that the man is actually Tony Soprano. "You wanna my car Vito, yes?" Anyway, Tony offers us the first reasonable deal we've heard: about $800 a month with full insurance (ha!) for a decent sized saloon and 6000 miles free, as long as we maka da sure that Bobby Carbone in New Yoik sleeps wid da fishes. Mulling this over and consulting the Lonely Planet map, we decide that coast to coast and back is only 5000 miles so we should cope with 6000 easily (double ha!) and the price is pretty good between 3 of us. We don't have the money on us today though ($1600 is going to sting) so we go for lunch at a 'turkish cafe' on LaBrea. Translation: kebab house - chilli sauce anyone?

In the afternoon we grab a matinee (ie cheap) showing of Goldmember at a swanky Hollywood multiplex, complete with gypo junior staff member giving a presentation before the film - presumably in case you've got lost and wondered into the wrong screening (this is the US remember). The Mike Myers comedy recipe: take four or five average ripe jokes, repetitively bludgeon audience for an hour, garnish with a midget being regularly beaten up and make side remarks about the Dutch. Genius! Only slightly less stupid is the evening's entertainment; beers and dial-out pizza accompany Heath Ledger's attempts to win the World Jousting Championships in 'A Knight's Tale'. Dave and I wander back to our hostel in the early hours, strangely minus one Goatman....odd that, must have stayed to look after the kittens....

The next morning, Mafia honcho or not, we're going to book that car. Meeting up with a knackered-looking Goatman outside the bank, I cash in all my remaining travellers cheques and pull out the maximum on my card. With the guys similarly wadded we make our way to Tony's headquarters at top speed (wouldn't it just be hilarious if we were mugged now, eh?), slap down the cash and reluctantly give him my credit card details as a bond. As I walk out I'm light of pocket but even lighter of heart as we're going to do something that I've thought about since we first started planning this whole shebang years ago: ROAD TRIP!!!

Back to reality though: for some reason I seem to have Sarah's car keys and she's parked in a restricted area so it's back to Orange Avenue. Seeing as the weather's pretty good a trip to the great outdoors seems to be in order so we pile in the truck and with balls, boomerangs and shite frisbees and head for Griffith Park to the north. This massive piece of recreational ground proves a bit tricky to get to and we spend ten minutes lost in the swanky Hollywood Hills before we bag ourselves a nice patch of greenery at the park. After we get bored of pissing around with the rugby ball, everyone else is sitting in the sun while I'm chucking my prized boomerang about. To be honest, the warning signs were there. Several times as it's arcing around it clips the edge of trees, but do I stop? Please! Eventually tragedy strikes and it lodges up a tree, turning the next hour and a half into a feast of human invention as balls, sticks and traffic cones are chucked into the offending branches to knock it down. Eventually we're forced to admit defeat, although with the pile of sticks that we've dislodged we could probably arm an aboriginal tribe (although, as any Aussie-experienced traveller knows, they never fought with returning boomerangs). So the slow but steady attrition of my keepsakes begins (tune in for next week's episode!) and some Bradley Junior gets an authentic Australian boomerang after L.A.'s next big storm, the snotty git.

The plan for tonight is to all go out together somewhere and get trollied but the Goat and Sarah decide that our services aren't needed for their little tete a tete. Fine! More films loom instead with Dave paying a visit to Mann's Chinese Theatre to watch 'Signs' in style and I grab the last chance to see the risible 'Star Wars Episode 2'. "I don't like sand, it's coarse and it gets everywhere!", yeah nice one Lucas. On the way back I notice one of the worst things about car-based LA society - even though it's only half past nine and I'm just off Hollywood Boulevard, no-one else is walking and I feel very vulnerable and unsafe on my own. If I was in trouble, would you stop? Don't answer that Goatman!

With Joffrey still playing away the next morning, we find a greasy looking cafe on Hollywood to have breakfast while we wait. Today also happens to be the 11th of September - you may remember a small item on the news a year ago - and the TV is chock full of monkeyboy Bush's remembrance service, candles on street corners (which we see a few of in LA too) and cars driving around with the stars and stripes hanging off their arials. For me it's all a bit similar to Diana's funeral - worthy of your respect but dragged out for faaarr tooo looong. Apparently, airline companies are operating some domestic routes for free today to boost trade - quick trip to New York anyone?

Interneting and pissing about is the general order of the day until night falls, then for the first time (and on our last night in LA) we actually go out for a beer! We choose Red Rock Bar on the Sunset Strip (the huge wodge of bars and restaurants on Sunset Boulevard), sit on the veranda, drink and get entertained by the local beggars' hard sell technique. We finish off with a trip to Pinks and a very uncomfortable stagger back to the hostel for me, trying not to technicolour yawn due to one double chilli cheese dog (with bacon!) too many. Meanwhile, the Goatman completes his remarkable stint of non attendance in a pre-paid bed - 0 nights out of 3. That's some good work!

ROAD TRIP, ROAD TRIP, ROAD TRIP!!! LA's been fun, but we'll be back in two months. We pick up the car, a very un-mafioso Daewoo Lapanze, say goodbye to Sarah and give the kittens one last death stare. When we booked the car it was too expensive to put three drivers on the insurance. Seeing as he's leaving us in New York the Goatman therefore gets to duck out of any driving, make the back seat all his own - eww! - and spend the hours however he chooses. Which is to say sleeping. Therefore Dave and I draw straws for the first session which leaves Dave bricking it behind the wheel. Now if you've been to LA you'll know that it's not the easiest place to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road - akin to being thrown in at the deep end of the Marinas Trench with weights on your feet. Which is ironic considering who we hired this car from! Anyway, we make Interstate 5 no worries and head in the direction of 'Frisco with tunes on the stereo and amazing desert mountains sliding past - it's incredible just how arid it gets only a few miles out of the urban areas.

Let me just make sure you understand the terminology here. Interstate=Motorway. And a motorway tends to be one long road with slip exits and large signs. So could somebody please explain to me just how Little Dave manages to end up 50 miles east of Interstate 5 on a single lane track going through amusingly-named hicksville towns like 'Watsonville' (which apparently has an international medical centre for shin-bone fractures) and 'Shafter'? Baffling. It's also tempting to stop and ask somebody "excuse me, do you know the way to San Jose?" (which is not far off) but we collectively bottle it. Cowards!

As we're pulling into the outskirts of San Fran after a 6 hour drive two odd things happen. Firstly we are treated to a stunning display of the 'Frisco Fog, hanging over the city and making it look unearthly. Secondly we pick up the cricket news on BBC World Service, for some reason broadcasting on FM. It's heartening to know that a small section of Interstate 5 is dedicated to the test batting averages of Michael Vaughn!

And now for our interpretation of The Nativity: a liberal, gay pride, foggy Bethlehem, a mafia-sponsored Korean donkey and three very very unwise men following a shining lonely planet. Who would have thought it, despite us being seasoned travellers we still turn up last minute expecting the finest beds in town at competitive prices, oh dear. Just as we're being turned away from the last hostel in the Planet and considering the prospect of a night in the car, we spot a sign for a hostel in the national parkland across the Golden Gate Bridge who turn out to have rooms available - well, it beats a stable doesn't it? Finding it proves to be a bit trickier though with pea-souper fog and empty country lanes muscling in on the act, but with the assistance of a bored traffic cop we nail it towards the hostel at top speed. Just as we think we're going to make it before they shut however, we drive straight past and end up in the middle of a Girl's Retreat - an accident, honest! Kiddie-fiddler Dave runs in to the girl's retreat to get directions and they point us in the direction of three buildings with no markings. Which one?! Dave and Goatus run off to search, but in the chaos I run over the Goatman's foot - another one of those pesky accidents, honest! Anyway, we get a room and before bed I manage to knacker my second souvenir by dropping butter down my Fiji Bitter T-shirt. Nice one.

It's not quite the introduction to Frisco that we expected, but waking up in coastal parkland is, in Goatspeak, pretty qual. Because it's still a bit foggy and we can't get a good view of the Golden Gate Bridge we decide to head north past Sausalito to Muir Woods, home of Giant Redwoods (the tallest trees in the world) and site of the ratification of the U.N. by world leaders in 1945. Wicked! The trees are awesome; humbling you with their overwhelming scale, radiating a tangible sense of tranquillity and immutability and yet also providing some classy opportunities for comedy photos. Good choice Mr Roosevelt!

Heading back towards the Bay, the fog decides to lift for just long enough to get a decent picture of the Golden Gate Bridge then we're heading for hippy hedonism as we drive across and into the hills. Ah yes, the hills. The simple explanation for San Francisco's constantly high youth population: with every bugger over 40 their heart packs in when trying to climb a 40% incline!! Despite it being designed more for the flat plains of Seoul and, errr, Pyongyang our Daewoo struggles on admirably and brings us to the Pacific Tradewinds Hostel, for which we've paid a scandelous $28 per night just to be in the City. What a shit tip! The tiny cramped dorms have partitions, not walls, the beds are crap and the communal room tiny. And let's not even get started on the fact that it's on the sixth floor and there's no lift! Actually that could just be part of the Anti-Geriatric Campaign, thinking about it.

Unwilling to pay the $5 per hour parking charge for the next two days, the staff direct us to a 'safe' street towards the outskirts to leave it on. Thank god we're fully ensured eh? We work our way back to Trade Winds via generally cool, hilly San Franciscan streets and past the hotel that Sean Connery threw someone off in 'The Rock'. Culture! The majority of that evening is spent chatting to various people in the kitchen - in particular one guy who shameless fabricates his mileage from Milwaukee to S.F. "5000 miles one way, come off it mate! Worried, us? Nah, pony! 6000 miles return easy...erm, pass the map please..."