Happy Birthday to Me. I just spent six hours or so of my life on the stretch of highway known as Interstate-5, which traverses about a thousand miles, from the Canadian to the Mexican borders. It's probably the most vital artery on the West Coast, connecting the cities of Seattle, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, and San Diego without a significant curve or detour along the stretch. Of interest to me and other Californians is the fact that the I-5 is the fastest way to drive between the Valley and the Bay Area.

The big joke, of course, is that here, in the most populous state in the Union, there is almost nothing on the I-5 from LA to San Francisco. No cities of any significant population; a couple small towns that you barely notice; lots of off-ramps that seem to have no other point but to connect drivers to fast-food restaurants and truck stops. Until you reach the Grapevine (shorthand for the 70 mile path the I-5 takes through the mountains in north LA County), it's all flat, arid and dull. Unlike the five hour drive to Vegas, which passes through a couple moderate-sized towns and a desert that can be breathtaking at times, the LA to Frisco trip pretty much forces you to have driving companions and/or a multiple-CD player to break the monotony.

At least until you get to the Harris Ranch. Better yet, try passing through the Harris Ranch after reading the muckraking classic, Fast Food Nation, by Eric Schlosser. The Ranch is about halfway to your destination, and it's easily the most interesting thing you sense during the drive. Just east of the highway, you suddenly encounter a vista consisting of hundreds of thousands of cattle in a relatively small area, and almost no grass or vegetation to speak of. The aroma of cow waste permeates the highway for about a mile before it becomes safe to open up the air conditioning vents in your car. It is an ungodly advertisement for a vegetarian diet, particularly after you realize that much of what you smell is going to wind up in your Whopper.

But there is almost no traffic to speak of, or at least, no congestion; this weekend, there were trucks everywhere, mainly because of the dockworkers' lockout. Truckdrivers tend to treat the I-5 as their own private autobahn, and other drivers follow suit. My mother drove the whole way, and she usually hates driving on the freeway, but she had no problem averaging 75 mph for the trip.

But I suppose I shouldn't complain, because I survived; one more day closer to the big 4-Oh.