I want to be a filmmaker. That should distinguish me from the millions of dull, unmotivated people you run into who have no intention of ever being rich and famous.

It should also help associate me with the millions so pathetic and naive to think they are that one-tenth of one percent that will make it in Hollywood.

Absolutely convinced of such a destiny, I tracked down an exceptional summer internship in Los Angeles and began planning three months around it.

The first step was getting there. In the movies, the lengthiest journey is expressed in a two-second snippet of a jumbo jet landing at a major airport.

I learned a very important truth while making my own trip from Ames to L.A.: Whoever said, “Half the fun’s in getting there,” needs to be boiled in Crisco.

Because the internship is unpaid, I decided to be as economical as possible. I took stock of everything I would need and decided if flying was going to be possible.

I knew I’d need clothes, books and food. I’d use pencils and pens, maybe a calculator and some running shoes. I’d want to bring my computer and desk. And my truck. Oh, and my wife.

Flying was out of the question. A Chevy S-10 violates the luggage requirements of most major airlines, and I’ll be damned if Tracy was going to fit in any overhead compartment. Besides, screw the Wright brothers. Roadtripping’s fun, am I right?

No, I’m not. Roadtripping’s fun to Cedar Rapids, or Lincoln, or maybe even Kansas City. Roadtripping 40 hours is not cool and never, ever try to tell me it is.

Because we’d both be searching for jobs, we decided to bring two vehicles, and we took off one cool morning in early May.

Everything was going great for closing in on half an hour. It was near Ankeny that we experienced our first prophetic sign of trouble.

The truck’s engine was heating up, and we pulled over to make sure everything was okay. Convinced that it was, we spent the rest of the day (about 12 hours) driving through beautiful Iowa and Nebraska.

As my editor is fond of telling me, there’s something to be said for seeing five states while standing in one place. The last thing you need while driving in Nebraska is to have Kansas creep up on you from behind. That being true, if I never set foot in the Cornhusker State again, I will die a very happy man.

As Day 1 came to a close in central Colorado, the Rocky Mountains loomed large. We were excited for Day 2 and, well, geography. I’d felt the bumps on my globe back in second grade, and I was ready to experience them, first-hand.

We were a little frightened, driving through the mountains. Our second vehicle is a 30-pound Subaru Justy with a history of exhaust, engine, tire and personality problems. We failed to realize was that the Justy would be our saving grace, and the mountains were not nearly as threatening as Utah’s deserts.

One-hundred miles into the Karl Malone/Mormon State, the truck over-heated again, this time without warning. In a matter of seconds, the temperature gauge spiked and the coolant boiled over.

When we were finally able to tow it to the small town of Green River two hours later, the mechanic told us the engine was blown. He could call around and get an estimate for us in two days.

Those two days turned into a week, and the price tag for a new engine was a shade under two grand. So much for economical.

Despite a week’s delay and a bill we could scarcely afford, our seven days in tiny, secluded Green River, Utah were ultimately the highlight of our journey.

Within hours, we were greeted by the locals. We spent two days in motels before being moved to an empty home owned by a local church for the remainder of our stay. We only fed ourselves twice during the week, as everyone invited us to visit and eat with their families.

Several locals also recommended other mechanics and drove us over 100 miles to the nearest neighboring town to look for engines.

I’ll always swear that the kindest, friendliest people in the world live in the Midwest, but a handful of them managed to find their way out to Green River. I’ll never be glad we lost our engine halfway to California, but the trip could have been a lot worse than it was.

After Utah, we had only to battle con-men in Nevada and balding tires in the Mojave Desert before we finally arrived in sunny Southern California.

So now I’m ready to find my fortune. At least until August, when the journey starts all over again.

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Ron DeMarse is a senior in leisure studies from Muscatine.