I was about halfway through a bacon cheeseburger with onion rings at a place called The Diner in Dalhart, Texas, when I noticed that the building was shaking from the wind. Outside, a U.S. flag was flying forcibly due southwest. The dark clouds I'd been skirting all day (with only occasional showers) were moving in. I was getting near the home stretch of the drive home from my meandering week in the Midwest. And it looked like the weather was going to get worse before it got better.

I got a refill on my Dr. Pepper (my third dose of caffeine in the day, which started around 7:45 in the morning and was now a bit past six in the evening) and headed out into the strong wind. In my car, the last CD was ending, so I switched gears from punk to Outkast ("Don't everybody like the smell of gasoline!") and drove straight into the weather hell.

About two minutes later it began to rain.

This first bout was strong enough to force many cars to the side of the road (with emergency blinkers blinking), and I followed a white van going about 45 until the worst was over, and I passed my blocker. Many semis and other vehicles did the same thing. I was leading the lambs into the slaughter. The reprieve would prove false, but spirits were still high.

It continued to rain as the sun went down (represented by a faint glow in the western sky), but sprinkles, easy to push through at maximum velocity.

Just as the sun dipped below the clouds on its downward spiral, me and my line of followers were about twenty minutes outside of Tucumcari, New Mexico -- only about three hours from home.

Suddenly, everything turned golden as the sun hit what filmmakers like to call the "magic hour," which really only lasts about 20 minutes. I came up over a hill and saw that the road I was on was separating into a divided highway, but since it was raining and the road was covered with water, there were no discernible markings. The golden glow of the sun changed everything to a shining, impenetrable sheen.

Where were the road markings? Which side of the road was I supposed to be on? Where was the road?

Slowing down, I was able to find the divider in the road and glided into the right lane and my followers did the same. This moment, I thought at the time, was the most confusing--and most beautiful--of the afternoon. Almost mesmerized by the glow, but able to move through my amazement impairment to continue my trip unscathed.

I stopped at a Tucumcari truck stop to relieve myself and put the Beatles' Abbey Road in the CD player. The worst was over. The rain was done, the night was developing well. It was cool, no longer hot and humid (a nasty little bit of Midwest climate I had to deal with during my week-long odyssey) and I was in the true homestretch. On a road I'd traveled hundreds of times.

After a final gas up in Santa Rosa, I was cruising. I was going to get home a bit after 10 p.m., and my twelve-plus hour trip was nearing its end.

I'd just taken a picture of the stream of headlights flowing toward me on the other side of the highway when I noticed the flashing lights and flares. I rolled down my window and slowed down as our entire highway of cars was getting pushed off the road to an off-ramp. I could hear the crackle of the flares as I slowed and joined the line up.

"They don't have D.W.I. checks on I-40, do they?" I was thinking and then saw that there was a line of cars trying to get going the opposite way (back to Santa Rosa), while a longer line was streaming to the north. A policeman was shining a flashlight at drivers and telling them to drive north to I-25 and take it south to Albuquerque (or wherever it was we were headed).

Thus began the most frustrating part of my journey. I had been less than two hours from home, and now at least another hour was being added. I put the Talking Heads first album in the CD player, began to talk to myself and, alternately, yelled at the drivers who were in the same situation I was. It was tired, bitter, paranoid, jittery road rage. And mostly I was just mad that I wasn't home.

It's hard to describe the feelings of being so close to the prize, knowing that it will be claimed soon--but not as soon as earlier expected. And since the quest for the prize started a good half day earlier in Lawrence, Kansas, being denied the speediest and easiest path was very off-putting, to say the least.

It was nearly midnight when I pulled up at home. Sometimes it is true that the journey is the most important part of the trip, but walking into the friendly confines of my house Saturday night was the best feeling I'd had in a long time.

Let me back into my self-decorated womb, and I will curl up until the okay signal has been rung.

Matt Worley is an excellent driver.