This weekend I will make the long journey down the cursed corridor of I-80 into the eighth circle of hell, otherwise known as Laramie, Wyoming.
It is the second time I will make the trip, the first coming in 2007. You might say I was so impressed by the cowboy charm of Wyoming that I just had to go back.
Or, you might say I'm just an idiot.
Laramie is a hole. There's no nicer way to put it. In that regard, Laramie is very much an accurate representation of the state in which it resides: brown, dead, lifeless, dead, miserable and cold. And dead.
And like my pioneer ancestors, who crossed the barren wastelands of Wyoming in the mid-1800s, I fully expect at least one member of my party to die somewhere along the journey. Of dysentery. Or maybe wounds sustained during heavy shotgun fire.
It will not be pleasant, this trip.
I may be hit by urine bombs.
I may have the image of the middle finger tatooed on my brain for weeks.
I may have to endure a night of restless sleep at the Laramie Motel 8.
I may even have to skip breaky.
But I will be in the high plains on Saturday cheering on my Cougars as they do battle with the Cowboys of Wyoming. I accept the challenge.