You can drive on for miles without the sight of an exit on this interstate – indeed, the exits seemed to be numbered by milepost markers, rather than the order in which they appear on the highways. Only a few rock outcrops can be seen here and there as we went along, and those became fewer and further between, looking more like dirty lint poking out of the rich black soil.
Indianapolis arose unexpectedly, and rather than taking us around the city, the GPS took us through the heart of it, a daunting task given that the city, despite its love of cars, did not join the two sections of Route 70 and Route 74 properly, forcing us to drive an awkward roundabout route on roads best left to the locals – although the roads and streets were oddly vacant, as if everyone had left for holiday. Back home, even on a weekday, Lafayette Road is an impassable mess during the winter. Here – not so much.
We did get to see the outside of the Indianapolis Speedway before returning to the westward route; the massive steel grandstands hid the track behind grey girders where thousands of screaming fans swelter in the sun to watch men expertly drive cars at a breakneck speed in a circle.
We paused again in Crawfordville, Indiana for lunch, daring to visit a Crackerbarrel – it might be a fine place for a sit-down meal, but we have Trixie with us. Worse, the gift shop only had generic Americana, not regional souvenirs. A shame. Luckily, the old standby of McDonalds was there across the street.