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I’ve seen much of this country. Having walked nearly 1,300 miles at this writing, I feel like that’s a fairly safe statement to make. And in that nearly 1,300 miles, I’ve set eyes on a great many beautiful things. But nothing, dear reader, is as beautiful as the sight of the map above. 27.6 miles to go. While there have been occasions in the past when I’ve covered such a distance in only one day, I think my legs would give out on me if I were to try such a thing again. So, tempting as it is to consider soldiering my way home as quickly as possible, I’d better commit in writing to two more walking days. Two more walking days it is, then, reader.

I departed from a dumpy hotel in Florida City, FL on April 14th, 2010, and here I am on July 13th of the same year, typing this out from another dumpy hotel room in Belle Vernon, PA. That’s 91 days, reader, and only two remain. Only two remain! When I think about that, a strange little giggle erupts from somewhere deep inside me. I have to cover my mouth with my hand, pinch myself to ensure I’m not dreaming. I’m officially done sleeping in tents. Only one more night will I have to conduct this telephone-based relationship with the woman I love. Only two more nights will I have to sleep in a strange bed. Only two more mornings will I have to choke down three-day-old muffins from the latest hotel lobby’s continental breakfast. Only 27.6 miles to go. Over a two-day period, that’s a damned walk in the park.

An update on my global position: I’m close enough to home now that I’ve begun to recognize locations, things I’ve seen before. I’m close enough to share weather patterns with my home city (and it’s been crappy these past twenty-four hours, I’m sorry to say). I’m close enough that people who know me have passed me in their cars, snapping pictures that make me look blurry and only half in frame, like the majestic, elusive Bigfoot. I’m close enough that a higher percentage of the population has actually read about my exploits on this very blog (the percentage jumping from 0.000001% to 0.0000015%). I know this because a car full of strangers pulled over today to introduce themselves to “that guy who’s walking from Florida.” One young man even got out of the truck to have his picture taken with me. I know, reader. I’m as surprised about it as you. I’m close enough that, after sunset, I could actually see the lights of Pittsburgh on the horizon.

Feels good, reader.

An update on my physical condition: My legs are like tempered steel. And when I say that, I mean it in the sense of both toughness and stiffness. I’ve never in my life had such muscle mass in my lower body, but I’m also so taut and sore that I’ve lately been walking a little like the tin man. I seem to have shed nearly all of my body fat. At the same time, whatever P90X had wrought is long, long gone. My back aches. My feet are so fractured that they sometimes feel like bags of shattered glass. I get this stabbing pain in my shoulder whenever I wear my backpack for more than five miles between breaks. My hair is a full two inches longer than it was before I left. Once again, I have the makings of a beard.

You know, while I’m on the subject, I should mention something I remembered while walking the other day. Back in college, Phish-heads used to tell me that I bore a strong resemblance to their hero, Trey Anastasio, only without the hair and beard. Now that I have the hair and beard, I think it’s safe to say that the resemblance is uncanny…

I know. Eerie, isn’t it?

Oh. Hold up. One more quick anecdote about my closeness to Pittsburgh before I pack up for the night. In Uniontown, I stayed in a much nicer hotel than the ones I’ve been used to: The Fairfield Inn. I totally scored on this one in the sense that it had a hot tub – and one that didn’t look like a bucket of other people’s slough, at that. Naturally, achy as I am, I took straight to the old swimming trunks just as soon as I’d unpacked.

In the pool area (this was an indoor affair), I was disappointed to find that I wouldn’t be alone, disappointed further when I realized that my company had forgone regulation swimwear in favor of t-shirts and cutoff shorts. My company would be a young couple, the boy wearing his hair like a caveman might and the girl wearing hers in rodent fashion, complete with two-inch thick bald swaths shaved into each side of her head, just above the ears. Ah, rednecks. I’m told that this is why many in the know refer to Fayette County (the county that blankets Uniontown) as “Fayettenam.”

Said rednecks happened to be toweling off when I entered the pool area, so at least I had going for me the possibility of their swift departure. I nodded to acknowledge their existence, then headed straight for the hot tub, where I did what any hot-tubber would do: fiddled with the dial that controls the bubbles.

“That don’t work,” Caveman said. “We tried it.”

Rodent-Head offered no insight.

Given that I tend to distrust people who fail to command the language in any proper sense, I went ahead and examined the dial, anyway. Yep. Caveman was right. The plastic of the dial spun, but too quickly to suggest that it was attached to the actual metal cog beneath. I felt certain that it was Caveman and wife who had broken it, but I wasn’t about to go pointing fingers. Disappointed, I resigned to sitting in the tub without bubbles.

I settled in.

The rednecks continued toweling, shooting me with sidelong glances. I did everything I possibly could to avoid eye contact, which meant examining with my eyes everything in the room but their lolling heads. Eventually, my gaze settled upon something I hadn’t noticed during my initial inspection of the bubbles-dial: a giant red emergency stop button (conveniently labeled “Emergency Stop Button”). All at once, I knew why the dial hadn’t worked.

I sloshed out of the water and popped out the emergency stop button. Presto. Bubbles.

Joyful as the gurgling sound from the hot tub made me, I experienced a sudden dread. I’d made a miscalculation. I’d failed to take into account the fact that Caveman and Rodent-Head had been spending more time in the act of toweling than two normal human beings ought. They hadn’t departed yet. And the moment they heard the bubbles, their simple eyes darted to me.

“Oh, you got it goin’,” Caveman said.

I nodded, sliding back into the tub.

“Mind if we join?”

My heart sank and my mind screamed in protest, but there’s just no way to refuse such a request. So I nodded and closed my eyes, doing my best to look as standoffish as a man can while soaking in churning hot water. I listened to their unquiet entry into my whirling little world of relaxation, then breathed through their strangely frantic whispering to one another. I waited for the inevitable.

It came thusly: “So,” Caveman said, “you from around here?”

“No,” I said.

Now let’s back up for a minute, reader. Forgive me. I know this is getting long. But my response to Caveman’s question warrants rumination. At that moment, I bathed in Uniontown. Pittsburgh lies 45 miles north of Uniontown. In every real sense, I was absolutely from “around here.” But I’ve been asked this question so many times over the past three months that my response has become reflexive. Only until recently, I was absolutely not from “around here.”

“Where you from?” Caveman asked.

“Pittsburgh,” I said.

“Um… isn’t that, like, twenty miles from here?”

I smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. I’ve just been away for so long.”

Whatever little this statement revealed about me seemed plenty to satisfy Caveman, and to my delight, he appeared to run out of brain-steam. He soothed back down into the water, talking once more in hushed tones with his rodent-haired woman.

Anyway, that was one sorry attempt at narrative. And it’s getting too late to go back through and edit/improve. The good news is that only one more time will I have to conduct this blog from a hotel bed, my back propped up by lumpy, well-worn pillows. Starting on Friday, I can get back to boring you from the comfort of my own apartment.