FOR SOME REASON, when I think of the trip, what I remember most is the smoke—first from the tailpipe of the lime-green Ford Pinto that belched a black cloud at every ignition and kept coughing until the speedometer hit 30.
On top of the Pinto was a 17-foot Grumman canoe, and inside the Pinto were me, my best friend Tim, a disassembled bike, and enough camping gear to last a week. When we rumbled out of my folks’ driveway, my dad turned to my mom and said, “They’ll make 100 miles if they’re