On the second day, we ran into a man at a strip mall whose gut rolled over the top of his pants. We were buying candy bars and studying the AAA map. He was the first of the Blowhard-Fat-Men-In-Luxury-Cars who would size us up that summer.

“Where are you going?”

“Alaska.”

“How long have you been gone?”

“A day.”

“Right,” he said and laughed as he got back into his car. Pulling out of the parking lot, he swung by us again, powered down the window and mocked us with a high pitched, flip-toned “Good luck.”

But we crossed into Wisconsin, a small welcome sign announcing the border on a built-up four-lane, and finally, northwest of Beloit, the road shoulders narrowed and the grass grew high where the cows couldn’t reach it. I think it was here someone first waved.

Rural America loves to wave. Old couples sit close in well maintained 1970s pickups. They pass, rolling just under the speed limit, and the old man shows his palm (he’s missing half a finger) and nods his head a little. The wave says, “Howdy, I’m retired but I still feed the cows.”

A rancher in a cowboy hat will flick his fingers from the steering wheel at 70 mph. If he’s going slower or sees you sooner, he’ll nod and add a tight three-finger wave. On a rough road, he offers the rodeo wave: high right arm, hand steady, body absorbing the truck’s kicks and bucks. Cowboy-hat-wearing drivers have good form even on washboard dirt.

A farmer on a tractor could land a plane with his wave. Roping along in a John Deere with lots of implements scratching, turning and poking the earth under a blue sky, he sweeps the air with his whole arm. The wave comes from the shoulder, and a big smile spreads across a tan face. I haven’t seen anybody all morning, it says.