Michigan roads are all bad, but some are worse than others.

About Port Huron is sand.  Out of the city there is a rough stone road made of coarse limestone; it did not lead in the direction we wished to go, but by taking it we were able to get away from the river and the lake and into a country somewhat less sandy.

Towards evening, while trying to follow the most direct road into Lapeer, and which an old lady said was good “excepting one hill, which isn’t very steep,” we came to a hill which was not steep, but sand, deep, bottomless, yellow sand.  Again and again the machine tried to scale that hill; it was impossible.  There was nothing to do but turn about and find a better road.  An old farmer, who had been leaning on the fence watching our efforts, sagely remarked: 

“I was afeard your nag would balk on that thar hill; it is little but the worst rise anywhere’s about here, and most of us know better’n to attempt it; but I guess you’re a stranger.”

We dined at Lapeer, and by dark made the run of eighteen miles into Flint, where we arrived at eight-thirty.  We had covered one hundred and forty miles in twelve hours, including all stops, delays, and difficulties.

It was the Old Sarnia Gravel which helped us on our journey that day.

At Flint another new chain was put on, and also a rear sprocket with new differential gears.  The old sprocket was badly worn and the teeth of the gears showed traces of hard usage.  A new spring was substituted for the broken, and the machine was ready for the last lap of the long run.

Leaving Flint on Friday morning, the 26th, a round-about run was made to Albion for the night.  The intention was to follow the line of the Grand Trunk through Lansing, Battle Creek, and Owosso, but, over-persuaded by some wiseacres, a turn was made to Jackson, striking there the old State road.

The roads through Lansing and Battle Creek can be no worse than the sandy and hilly turnpike.  Now and then a piece of gravel is found, but only for a short distance, ending usually in sand.

On Saturday the run was made from Albion to South Bend.  As far as Kalamazoo and for some distance beyond the roads were hilly and for the most part sandy,—­a disgrace to so rich and prosperous a State.

Through Paw Paw and Dowagiac some good stretches of gravel were found and good time was made.  It was dark when we reached the Oliver House in South Bend, a remarkably fine hotel for a place of the size.

The run into Chicago next day was marked by no incident worthy of note.  As already stated, the roads of Indiana are generally good, and fifteen miles an hour can be averaged with ease.

It was four o’clock, Sunday, September 28, when the machine pulled into the stable whence it departed nearly two months before.  The electricity was turned off, with a few expiring gasps the motor stopped.

Taking into consideration the portions of the route covered twice, the side trips, and making some allowance for lost roads, the distance covered was over twenty-six hundred miles; a journey, the hardships and annoyances of which were more, far more, than counterbalanced by the delights.