The worst trip

This was like no interstate highway Rock had ever seen. He was in transit from Little Rock to Los Angeles, and his itinerary required him to rent a car and drive between airports somewhere in the midwest. On his drive, the busy eight-lane thoroughfare suddenly narrowed to a single lane. It had no shoulders and was composed of a series of sharp, steeply-banked turns.
It seemed insane. The passage was entirely too narrow to support the kind of speed its turns required, so to compensate for his car's lack of centrifugal force, Rock reached out and pushed down on top of it. He was almost stunned to find that his effort worked.
After he reached the airport, Rock literally ran onto the plane he thought would take him to Los Angeles. Once aboard, his two carry-on bags tore apart from the weight of their contents, which spread in a jumble across the floor and his and an adjacent seat. As he began to pick up the dozens of things he'd packed, most of which looked completely unfamiliar, he heard a man's voice call his name.
Rock turned to see an old acquaintance named Dan, a former Hash House Harrier. It had been at least fifteen years since they last met, but they had always been on very pleasant terms. Rock was delighted to see him. "Dan, how are you, man?" he said as they shook hands.
"I'm doing great, Rock. It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too. So what's up? You going to LA on business?"
"LA? No, we're going home."
"Home? Don't you still live in North Little Rock?"
"I do. That's where we're going."
Rock didn't know what to think, but he suspected the worst. "Wait a minute, Dan," he said. "Isn't this flight going to Los Angeles?"
"No. It's going to Little Rock."