I just took a ride in the back of the Sheriff's car to a motel in Nowheresville, Idaho.
Hundreds of miles from home, and civilization.
I thought he was being a gentleman when he opened the door to let me out, until I realized there was no handle for me to let myself out.
He apologized for the lack of legroom back there in the prisoner's quarters. There was actually more room there than in the backseat on my car.
"You can eat at the Greasy Diner. Not much else to do in these parts. Good luck, ma'am."
After adding almost 5,000 miles in a few days, my car is somewhere between kaput and dead.
But I don't think I've ever had more fun in my life.