Overplanning for an adventure

Let me be perfectly honest with you ...

(which implies that sometimes I'm not, which would be true, but not today)

... I honestly am starting to get butterflies about going on this grand adventure across America. And I'm not talking about those little-bitty cute butterflies that flitter hither and yon looking little-bitty and cute. I'm talking pterodactyl-sized butterflies that rip out your guts and feed them to their baby pterodactyl-sized butterflies as a healthy snack, cuz you know those mammas only want the best for their little ones.

I think they're attacking my innards because I'm trying to plan too much, trying to schedule my time wisely so I don't waste time, trying to calculate just how much fuel I'll need so I don't run out in the middle of the Extraterrestrial Highway and be stuck in the middle of the desert fighting off a gang of  ET's trying to take me home.

I keep trying to make plans and the plans don't want to be made.

The plans just sit back with their shades on, puffing on a bit of Willy's Weed, saying, "Listen, man. Just go with the flow. Sleep where you stop. Eat when you're hungry. Poop in the woods. Sit on your bike and  play ukulele when you're out of gas. Somebody's SURE to stop and help. Just be cool, man. Real cool."

But I want to be in Michigan at a certain time on a certain day. I want to take only five days to ride the Lincoln Highway. I've got to be eating lobster in Maine, bear steak in Montana, marlin in Florida, and pizza on Time's Square before August 10, and if I don't make these...

"Be cool, man. Just enjoy the ride."

But.

"Cool."

Cool.

Real Cool?

"Damn straight."