This morning I woke from another of the really weird but incredibly vivid dreams I've been having of late. The sound of an old car horn honking in the middle distance eventually reached the conscious part of my brain and dragged me from my slumber – it was 6.15am and time to get up. Dizzy from leaping out of bed too quickly I stumbled blindly into the shower and let the warm water bring me round. Today was Day-Zero. The start of another adventure.

Breakfast was a muted affair, as Tracy paced around massaging her aching neck, the pain of last week's operation at least distracting her a little from my imminent departure. But there was steel in her eyes when I once again said that perhaps I should have cancelled my trip. Some wives support their husbands, Tracy goes one step further and positively re-enforces my ambitions. It certainly makes leaving her easier, though I wouldn't go so far as to say it was easy...

The drive to the airport was uneventful, even the ridiculous 40mph speed limit imposed on the M60 due to roadworks (why 40, why not 50 like all other roadworks? What's so bad about these?) didn't delay the moment of our separation. I hate saying goodbye, so I put on my best manly face and gave her a quick kiss, and then waddled across the road carrying my bags whilst she got in the drivers seat, all the time hiding her face from my view. A final wave and a churn of my stomach as I instantly regretted not grabbing the chance for one last big hug.

Check in provided the first moment of minor panic, when the machine refused to read my passport. I'd tried online check-in several times yesterday to no avail, and the self-service check-in had also failed to work, so when the security reader failed to read my passport all sorts of thoughts started bouncing round my head. Had my passport been cloned while I was in Columbia? (though why I thought of Columbia when I'd ridden through Ecuador, Peru, Chile and Argentina since then I don't know!). When had I last used it? The guy called over the supervisor who tried and failed. Was I going to fail before I'd even got my boarding card? Then she swiped it backwards and it worked. Big sigh of relief...

Then I discovered the flight was delayed by nearly 2 hours. But all that meant was less time hanging around Chicago airport (and more time hanging around Manchester).

I then discovered why the American Airlines flight had been so much cheaper than the others. It was crap. The in-flight entertainment, in the form of the films “Rio” and “Star Trek” (hardly the latest box-office hits) were shown on tiny screens hanging down the centre of the fuselage, looking more like one of those weird mirror tricks you get at fairgrounds. But not being able to see the screens was only half the problem, as to listen to the audio you needed headphones which you had to purchase. From the stewardesses who were too busy serving up luke warm coffee. Still, at least I had my Kindle and a good book to read. I'd just started reading “An Idiot Abroad, the Diary” by Karl Pilkington. This is his diary from the hilarious Sky 1 series and it had me laughing out loud, which caused the American couple sat next to me to try and shrink into the outer wall of the plane away from me. Still, more room to stretch my shoulders...

I finished the book before we landed in Chicago, as sleeping was impossible due to the crying baby sat 2 rows in front. Luckily I'd downloaded a couple of other books so had something else to start reading, this time “Riding Man” written by a Canadian motorcycle racer's experience of riding the Isle of Man TT. It's good so far.

On arriving in Chicago I suddenly realised I was enjoying myself. I think it happened when I stepped off the plane into the non-air conditioned walkway and the heat struck me. I nearly fainted. But then I caught myself smiling. That doesn't happen too often, and I probably looked like a loony, but I was struck by the fact that I was off on another adventure, in a far away land, where it was hot and sunny and I'd be riding my bike. I was once again back to being my alter-ego. Strutting through a foreign airport carrying a motorcycle helmet and a BMW bike jacket, proclaiming to my fellow passengers that I was somehow different. I wasn't on a business trip, or on holiday. I was on an adventure. Even the process of clearing immigration was different for me. With my US visa (which I had to get for the Trans-AM as we didn't leave the US by air) I only had to have one hand scanned, not both, and was engaged in conversation that didn't start and end with a discussion about sightseeing. My customs guy asked why I had a visa, then asked about what I was doing “this time”, and then asked whether I'd be riding “one of those noisy Harleys”. To which I naturally replied “of course not, I'm riding something European!”. His guess at a Moto Guzzi was somewhat wide of the mark, though...

The flight to Knoxville was thankfully on time, the aircraft a very small Embraer like the ones I used to catch up to Edinburgh when I worked for the Halifax and we merged with the Bank of Scotland. It was nice to be sat on one with the sun shining outside for a change. It was only a short flight, thankfully, and soon I was reunited with my luggage and outside looking for the shuttle bus to my motel up the road. Rather than wait, I splashed out $10 on a cab which turned out to be a very good idea as the driver told me that the motel I was staying in was where the local crackheads hang out. She made sure I got a room on the side near the front, as those round the back are a bit scary, she said. Welcome to America...

After a quick shower I wandered across the main road to the “Waffle House” where my friendly taxi driver had told me I could get something to eat, and not just waffles. She was right, I could get a burger with hash browns, and a Sprite to drink as they don't server beer. My English accent created a great deal of interest, the younger of the two waitresses even stopped mopping the floor to recount how her uncle goes to England quite often, to train the Queen's horses. Small world, eh?

When I was asked how I wanted my burger I naturally replied “on the rare side of medium rare” which was fine. Only due to a local law in Tennessee, I had to sign the waitress' order ticket to show that I was aware of the health risks... Welcome to America...

Then my Kindle caused something of a stir. The waitress asked what it was. “It's a book”, I told her, showing her the page I was reading. She told me she couldn't read it as the text was too small, so I showed her how to enlarge it. And then how to turn pages. When I explained that I could carry hundreds of books around on it, she marvelled at the technology and proclaimed “Wow, it must be a British thing”. She seemed almost disappointed when I told her it was from Amazon. And American.

With all that excitement, and with the hunger now satiated I paid my bill and went back to the motel, before it got dark and all the crackheads appeared...