We spent that Saturday night at the Pilot Truck Stop. At first, Pony was concerned about running the generator through the night (concerned about the noise, as it were), but I pointed out that we were nestled in among a couple of dozen 18-wheelers, all running their motors as they stopped for the night. Indeed, the chorus of all that diesel humming made me think of the song of band of several hundred, heavy-metal frogs.
The truck stop had a Cinnabon shop. And even though the gal running it was getting ready to knock off for the night, she took a little extra time to make a fresh bun with pecans, because I had convinced her how much my wife was craving just such a thing.
The next morning, I found that the truck stop dispensed a variety of coffees. Now, I confess that I have never been a coffee drinker myself, but it looked like there was a decent variety there. I got Pony a tall serving of “Columbian Bold”, and picked up a handful of French vanilla creamers and a couple of espresso shots that were packaged in a manner similar to the creamers. This proved to be a fine start to the day, and Pony has decided that we must stop at Pilot truck stops all the way home, in search of more of these little espresso shots.
One positive outcome from our wandering the previous day was that we had travelled far enough west to miss the major winter storm that subsequently hit the East Coast with a vengeance (my sister told us later that she and the girls ended up having two snow days off from school). Out next stop was just East of Indianapolis, in a somewhat non-descript RV park. The showers were nothing special. Actually, they were downright awful. One of them didn’t work at all, and the other two seemed to have only a choice of cold or colder water. I ducked my head in to wash it a bit; that was all I was up for. The thing I was trying to understand was the folks who apparently had settled in at that RV park for the winter; weatherizing their rigs, putting insulating tapes on the pipes and such. It’s not that I couldn’t imagine spending winter in an RV somewhere. I just wondered: why here? Why ten miles east of Indianapolis?
The next day was decent driving, and we stopped just outside of Peoria at a “Jellystone RV Park” (images of Yogi Bear and his friends in prominent display everywhere). We got there before 4pm, well before sundown, which allowed for a comfortable, unrushed set up and settling in for the night. This was Monday, and we would have an easy drive into Burlington, Iowa, the next day, with plenty of time to get settled in for the handful of gigs I had lined up for the rest of the week. What’s more, my brother’s buddy, Brett, thought he had found a suitable new tow car for us. Things were looking a bit better.