shared no such literary aspirations and a lot less Benzedrine.

Indeed, it probably had more in common with National Lampoon's Vacation: haphazard, aimless but ultimately a lot of fun.

For our preparation was Chevy Chase all over, even if the decision to go didn't exactly come from a long-held desire to visit Wally World. With all of us either 23 or 24 and under-travelled since leaving college, that mid-20s wanderlust hit . . . particularly with so many people we knew doing the Celtic-Cub rite of passage and heading off to Australia and southeast Asia for a year.

However, we wanted something different and, in that, we turned to that which was most familiar. After all, the American landscape is probably the most televised in the world but, other than the major east and west-coast cities, how many Irish people have actually crossed it? Few we knew anyway so, with that settled, we booked our flight to Boston.

That, however, was about it as far as any planning went. We knew how long we were going for . . . two months, in order to avoid any work and maximise our budget . . . and had a rough idea of where we were going . . . thanks, mostly, to a number of famous film scenes we simply had to recreate. But everything else we decided to wing. And, echoing National Lampoon'sClark Griswold in as comical a manner possible, our naive ignorance soon saw a host of problems unravel. First, we found our hotel . . . booked only 36 hours before, of course . . . was actually 45 minutes outside Boston, forcing us to book into the immeasurably more expensive Colonnade in the centre.

Then came the car. Our plan had been to get over there, walk into a Hertz and walk out with a contract that allowed us to drive one of their vehicles to San Francisco for two months.

Of course it wasn't going to be that easy. Only the named driver . . . which was either going to be Ciaran or Karl since they were the two with full licences . . . could book the car, and neither could cover the full price on their credit cards. Despite the fact we collectively had $6,000 hard cash in our hands, we soon learned that, in the States, the card is king. We walked miserable into the rain, resigned to the fact we would be getting up early for the Greyhound to New York.

However, just like Griswold's, our incompetence saw us stumble on to an undeserved answer. A room in the Colonnade came with the services of their concierge and, thanks to his contacts, a convoluted contract with Hertz was finally finagled. We would now be driving to New York . . . and everywhere after that . . . at a reasonable enough price of $780 each.

It was from that point on we could say our roadtrip had begun. The only issues left to be settled were the politics of the car. Despite dreams of driving up the Californian coast in an open-top Cadillac, practicality took preference and we settled on a Mercury Mountaineer . . . we needed a lot of space in the back since it would be the same three always there. As only two of the group could actually perform the legwork of driving, one of their conditions was that they had exclusive rights to shotgun. Fair enough, but they soon had someone else up there with them. In order to minimise the rows that would inevitably come from being cooped up in the same space for nine weeks, we decided to forego the hassle of maps and splash out on a GPS. 'Kate', as the personality we picked on was called, proved a godsend and effectively the sixth member of the trip . . . not to mention the most sober.

The weather restricted our sightseeing in Boston to bustours and a drink in the original Cheers (where, despite the song, nobody knew our names and we were subjected to an IDrequest for the first time), but Kate soon guided us to sunnier areas. This luxury allowed us a detour through the beach-towns of Cape Cod and Rhode Island. From there, it was onto Kerouac's own starting point . . . New York.

So much has been written about the magic of the city, to add any more would merely extend the list of cliches. But, despite the fact it was the one place we'd all been to before, it still proved the highlight of the entire journey. Much of the thrill came from simply walking around its vibrant streets. As the stop we devoted the most time to . . . a full week . . . it allowed us to get off the tourist trails. After hearing a mother's sexual preferences discussed in front of her teenage children in the comedy club where Jerry Seinfeld made his name, we spent the Saturday night in the city's most raucous and unpretentious nightclub . . . Red Rock in the meatpacking district. It being the week the penultimate episode of The Sopranoswas being aired, we also made sure to tour one of the show's shooting locations in nextdoor New Jersey, from Satriale's to the real-life Bada Bing.

The problem was, by the time we left New York it almost felt as if the trip had peaked . . . just two weeks in. That was compounded when we reached Atlantic City. Las Vegas without the glamour but with all the gaudiness, that three of us won all of minus $200 at Blackjack in our one night there augmented the misery. From there it was on to where America's schizophrenic idea of democracy was developed . . . Philadelphia and Washington. We made sure to check the list for all the major historic sites, from the Liberty Bell to the White House, but took far more childish joy from running up the steps of Philadelphia's Museum of Modern Art and emulating Rocky.

The big east coast cities done, from then on our itinerary was decided whenever we got back to the jeep and opened the Lonely Planet, keying potential destinations into Kate to check drivetime. For us, such freedom was the true beauty of the trip.

Chicago was one of the longest, involving a ludicrously inefficient detour, but we caved, accepting it was a must-see. A fortunate decision thanks to its distinct personality, another unforeseen benefit was it allowed a stop-off in Cleveland. A city we knew virtually nothing about . . . once again illustrating preparation that would make Roy Keane look back fondly on Saipan . . . a one-night stop turned into two as we discovered a laid-back and good-humoured town that came with the unlikely but welcome attraction of the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame.

That was the perfect lead-in to our next two destinations after Chicago, both in Tennessee. Nashville, despite our distaste for country and western, proved one of the unexpected highlights of the tour with its easygoing nightlife. For all that, it still didn't escape parody. Every second bar provides karaoke while every single patron lists their profession as singer/songwriter.

It's a wonder David Brent didn't come here.

He wouldn't have made it in Memphis which, though only a two-hour drive away, is a world away in terms of substance.

Despite evident poverty and a tragic history, its rawness is what provides its soul and gave us the second most cherished stop of the trip. There was the solemnity of the Civil Rights Museum at the site of Martin Luther King's death . . . the Lorraine Motel . . . followed by the sounds of defiance from the birthplace of rock'n'roll at Sun Studios. The location where Howling Wolf and co took the Blues mainstream still houses all its original instruments, including the mic Johnny Cash used to record 'Walk The Line'. And all that musical history is still crashing together in the wonderfully boisterous Beale Street.

Indeed, it was everything we had expected from New Orleans, which . . . the fact it has recently been through a catastrophic natural disaster notwithstanding . . . proved a huge disappointment. A seedier version of Memphis, it did redeem itself with one of the best excursions of the trip . . . a swamp tour which brought us a little too close to 15-foot 'gators all too willing to jump out of the water and snap at our guide's marshmallows.

Our next stop was to a rifle range outside Houston. A little disconcerted by the fact that a 16-year-old gave us the weapons and ammunition without asking for any ID, our chuckles were soon stifled when he, also acting as our instructor, shot away eight clay pigeons from the hip. The right to bear arms indeed.

After the disappointingly commercial Dallas, we set on the arduous, 19-hour drive to the Grand Canyon. The sight of it immediately absolves you of any exhaustion. No matter how big you think it's going to be, it will be bigger. Though its scale can be explained in figures . . . 277 miles long and between four and 18 miles wide . . . it can't be grasped until you're actually there.

From America's most impressive expression of its natural wealth then, to its most artificial expression of commercial wealth . . . Las Vegas. We spent a hugely enjoyable four nights there but were thankful to be leaving as we had no better luck than in Atlantic City.

We had just enough left in the budget for the last leg of the trip, a two-week sprint through California. Taking in the J1filled beaches of San Diego, the movie history of LA and more of America's natural giants in the Sequoia National Forest, we finished with the relaxed splendour of San Francisco. Any designs we had on claiming some of Kerouac's beatnik kudos for finishing at his last destination were soon swept away though. On one of our last nights, there on the television before we headed out was Clark Griswold's sequel, European Vacation. A fitting send-off for our trip back.