Photograph your obsessions, and I like images of competition. I spent a quirky year and a half on the American High Plains photographing every high school football field, 72 in total, found on US Highway 83, stretching through North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. Along the way I drank a lot of free beer. 

US 83 is a mostly two-lane road passing through a series of small rural burgs, all resembling the last one; a clutter of shops and markets that have somehow found a 21st century Walmart proof niche of survival. The pace is slowed by a diabolical stop-light system that funnels traffic in intermittent jerks, but a blessing when seeking a local watering hole, the best always found on the town square. My barroom conversations became a major source of the only book I ever published that a respectful number of literates actually bought. 

Driving Highway 83 from the Canadian border to the Mexican border is as unvaried as a drive across Kansas – only north and south and four times as long. Like my love of faded old polaroids, if I try to rationalize it, the magic disappears. So, I do not - I just accept that is how I am. I made sure Shawna knew of my Highway 83 problem before she agreed to marry me.