Do you remember the old television story line where a driver gets lost and finds himself at the end of a lonely country road where he encounters aliens, and I mean those from another planet? Then the rest of the series is devoted to the guy trying to convince others what he's seen by driving around and looking for the exact lonely spot?

I have been doing that for years, but not to find a mysterious spaceship. I have been searching for a lost diner.

I found it one freezing early morning while piloting my Chevy from Troy, N.Y., to Kent, Ohio, to see my girlfriend. It was one of those trips that should not have been taken. The temperature was 10 below. I had worked my eight hours, finishing in the darkroom at 11 p.m., then slipped behind the wheel. About 4 in the morning I was moving past Buffalo with the window open to stay awake. Just before Erie I knew the jig was up. I needed coffee desperately. I swung the wheel to the right, exited the highway and found myself rolling down a small road toward a cone of light.

The building was green and there were trucks in the lot. I pulled open the diner door, fell onto a stool at the counter and the angel of coffee appeared in front of me holding a large mug and a pot of the dark brown medicine. "Fresh doughnut?" she asked. Looking around for the pastry case, I saw none. "Whaddya mean fresh?" I said. Out of the fryer, the waitress said, dropping a plate of brown rings next to me.

I thought I could handle two, ordered three, and after two sips and two bites was being shaken awake as the sun came up. The doughnuts, pillow-like, had literally become my pillow. But they were good, oh so good, and for years I kept searching for that exit. Thirty-four years later, the truckstop is still lost to me. But I haven't given up the quest.

Just call me Diner Quixote.

Why not? I've been eating at diners for years and often try to retrace my steps. No notes, no names, just a need to find something other than quickie burgers.

Like the time I drove my hungry and whimpering children up and down the main drag in Lancaster, looking for a wood-sided family restaurant serving farm-style food without the crowds, seeking seven sweets and seven sours. I knew it was there but just couldn't find it among all the shopping centers and gas stations. Bowing to the pressure of an angry family, I pulled into the parking lot of a brick restaurant. Three steps inside and our laughter was hysterical. This was the restaurant. The owner had slapped a prefab brick front on the place to look "modern." The restaurant is no longer there, but that day, the chicken and dumplings took me back 10 years.

Now the children are just about gone. Sherri and I stop when we want. We mostly choose diners because the majority are owned and operated by people who like to cook. If it is 4:30 in the morning and you need cheesecake in New Jersey, it's time for a diner. Want a hamburger and a martini at 10 p.m.? In New Jersey it's diner time. And if you are in the center of Pennsylvania, and dad wants chicken-fried steak, mom wants eggplant parmesan and the last child living at home wants shrimp, where else can you go?

True: Not all diners offer gourmet fare. Or even palatable fare. Some establishments still drop pre-breaded patties into hot fat as the foundation for their "veal parmesan." But more and more diner owners are taking the time to mash fresh potatoes, pound a good round steak for country-fried and rounding out the meal with a 1,000-calorie hunk of fresh-baked pie.

One of these appeared on a recent drive back from hauling furniture and housewares to my son in New York. Not 500 miles away. Not 300 miles away. Not even 100 miles away. The hunger hit us as we neared Somerset, home of the Summit Diner. Years ago it had been a breakfast stop for me as I ran between Washington, D.C., and Columbus. Nothing special back then, it seemed, but now its menu spoke of a "Big Top," the place's own double burger: half beef, half sausage, served with pickle relish and a thick slice of onion.

"Best top it with mustard," the waitress said. She was right, and so we also took her suggestion to order a strawberry rhubarb pie and a piece of gob cake. The pie, baked by the waitress herself, was tart and sweet and had a thin crust that shattered at the touch of a fork. The gob cake was an unbelievably large rectangle of two hunks of chocolate cake separated by a handful of whipped cream filling. It was destined to be sampled and then eaten over three sessions by our daughter.

So, what can I say? I like to eat. Am I "Dine" Quixote or "Diner" Quixote? And how many Sancho Panzas have gained how many pounds while on the road with me? Today, I can boast that no matter how many times we tuck into a good meal, my wife, a k a Sherri Panza, is always looking for that wonderful dish of fresh vegetables or garden salad. She leaves the grease to me.