Road trip. The words practically cry out for a high degree of caffeination, so I fire up Mom's Krupp and set about pulling a double cappuccino. I put too much water in the machine and four shots worth of espresso dribble out. That's a bit much, so I split the diff and treat myself to a triple.

The resulting caffeine buzz matches that of the Jeep's tires on the tarmac as we leave the Microsoft Greater Co-Prosperity Sphere, the Crate and Barrel condos of Seattle giving way to homes decorated with the more modest comforts of Wal-Mart.

We cruise the star-spangled stretch of highway past Fort Lewis, the place-names ranging from the comfortingly hobbit-esque Mossyrock to the obviously ominous Vader.

I pass a Ferrari Enzo. Yes, I pass it, a cheap chunk of Detroit iron blowing by $400,000 of Italian carbon fiber.

The only other thing of note is a disturbing sign for a Cummins diesel shop. Below the Cummins name is a single, inexplicable word: "Onan".

We reach Eugene, Oregon. Back when I warmed Little League benches, one of the coaches was named Eugene. He was the first and last man I ever met named Eugene. He was a big, buff black dude. My friend's mom said he "pumped iron." For years, I pictured him working a gigantic pump from which flowed molten iron.

Day two

I started off with a basic double cap. But the day called for something more memorable. We were meeting up with a friend whom we hadn't seen in 10 years. Henry teaches at an Oregon college, and a book of his poetry won the state's "book of the year" award a couple years back. I need something suitably bohemian to mark the occasion.

"What's a borgia?" I ask the waitress.

"It's a mocha with orange zest," she replies. Sounds good.

"I'll have one of those, with an extra shot," I say.

"You want whipped cream?"

Hell, yes. It's the least I could do for my long-lost friend.

Later, on the road, I have four shots of espresso, a massive bowl of granola and an hour and a half of stimulating conversation working their way through my system. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Day three

We hit a Starbucks first thing in the morning. There are a few people waiting for drinks but I'm the only one at the register.

I order my usual double short cappuccino and a selection of fine pastries. I head to the waiting area.

And wait.

And wait.

It turns out that I am the seventh person waiting for a coffee-based beverage. The first person has purchased seven beverages: four grandes and three talls. The name on the cups is "Jim". I want to have a word with Jim, but I can't help but notice that Jim is more strapped than a Tokyo-based canned coffee reviewer.

I prudently bite back my comments.

Next up is two drinks for a man wearing business casual, with a bright red tie and ridiculous red sneakers. He has a Hitler mustache. The name on the cups is "Fester". Fester wordlessly collects his drinks and heads out, the morning sun turning his shoes the shade of freshly spilled blood. I give Fester a wide berth.

After 20 minutes, I get my coffee.

Despite the delay, we make excellent time, hitting San Francisco shortly after noon. I know we're getting close when I notice everyone tailgating and cutting each other off. Honestly, it's worse than LA.

Still, everything is cool until I realize that the exit the Internet map site directed us to is closed for construction. We end up spat out into some nameless stretch of south San Francisco. What is it about the southern sections of big cities? Seattle's SoDo district, LA's South Central, Beijing's South District — none of them are areas you want to get lost in.

But we're here. Nine shots of espresso and nine-hundred miles later, we've arrived.

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