Heading west on I-80, a flank of orange cones transforms into mesmerizing concrete barriers as the four-lane highway reduces down to just two. I stare at the rectangular back of an 18-wheeler looming over me as I repeat my mountain-bike mantra, Look where you want to go.

It’s just my Cairn terrier Riley and me. The two of us have been on the road for about two days of a four-day journey back to Park City from upstate New York.

My usual road trip euphoria has long since faded into anxiety and boredom. The former, thanks to two mysterious bug bites on my left arm and some weird eye floaters that dance across my vision like blurry spiders. The latter is thanks to an early overdose of podcasts, audiobooks and Spotify playlists. I think about phoning a friend, but I’m in that unsettling limbo where I’m not sure what state or time zone I’m in. I decide to stay focused on the road. Ten and two.

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The bug bites, which started out a week earlier as two tiny bumps have since morphed into puffy red mounds that seemed to expand every time I glance down at my arm. I keep thinking I should pull over and grab some Benadryl out of my suitcase or at least find a long-sleeved shirt to obscure the view. As a woman on a long, solo road trip, given the option of stopping at sketchy truck stops or even-sketchier motels, a body in motion is almost always better than a body at rest. Just keep moving, I think. Look where you want to go.

And then there’s an explosion. It sounds like someone’s just launched a rocket inside my car. In the nanosecond that follows, pieces of rubber shrapnel bounce off my windshield and a huge section of tire flies out from under the semi I’ve been following. In the next nanosecond, with nowhere to go, I hear another mountain-bike cue in my head: Just roll right over it. Hope for the best. The semi plows ahead, oblivious to the destruction left in its wake. My car is still plowing ahead, too, despite my hands shakily death-gripping the steering wheel.

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Desperate for a witness, I summon Siri to dictate a text to one of my friends. Holy shit, a Mack truck tire just blew up in front of me,” I cry, knowing full well Siri will have no way of conveying the white-knuckled panic in my tone.

I glance down at the bug bites, which seemed to have grown bigger still. Just then, I see a truck swerve into the left lane. I swerve too, and narrowly avoid hitting a large, aluminum ladder that’s fallen into the right lane of the highway. I’m going to need a Dramamine for all of the drama on this road trip.

And that’s when I see the familiar red-and-white logo beaming like a smile from a long-lost friend. There’s a Kum & Go convenience store just ahead. I exhale a sigh of relief as I pull off the Interstate.

I pump some gas and take Riley out for a quick pee before I go inside. A large, older woman with curly grey hair is ringing up a couple of dudes in fluorescent vests and cut-off flannel buying beer and cigarettes. I swear I feel her glaring at me as I pass by the American flags and camouflage and dried-out roller dogs that form an impossible chasm between her world and mine. I pull down the brim of my Park City hat and cross my arms over my bougie Hollywood T-shirt. Just tryna blend in.

Scanning the refrigerated case full of Mountain Dew, Gatorade and Bud Light, I pull out a litre of something called LIFE WTR. I walk back to the cash register and smugly pass over the Peanut M&Ms and Doritos for a “3 egg whites, 6 almonds, 2 dates and no B.S.” Rx Protein Bar.

I set the water and protein bar on the counter, praying the checkout lady doesn’t notice the pretentious copy on the LIFE WTR bottle that says: “It isn’t just about a 9-to-5 existence. To live a meaningful life requires more.” I imagine I’ve never come off as a more annoying snowflake.

Glancing at me over the top of her clear, plastic reading glasses, the lady asks, “Is that it?”

 “Actually, do you have any ice packs? I’ve got this bug bite …” I mutter, pathetically nodding toward my arm.

“Nope,” she replies in a way that immediately feels more like “Suck it up, buttercup.”

I pick up my water and protein bar and turn to leave.

“Hang on a sec, sweetie” she calls after me. “I can give you a little baggie,” she offers, holding one up. “For your arm,” she says gesturing with her own arm. “You can fill it up with some ice over there,” she says pointing toward the Coke machine.

And in that tiniest of moments, I’m more blown away than that freaking Mack truck tire. It’s just a small gesture, a plastic Kum & Go baggie filled with ice. But after miles of broken white lines, random ladders, tire shrapnel, bug bites, floaters and the utter boredom and alienation of the road; the unexpected kindness of this complete stranger envelops me like a hug.

And I realize that her world and mine aren’t as strange and separate as I think. They are, in fact, the same.