raitchison
Well-known member
Crap I have to fly to Sunnyvale on Tuesday so I won't be able to make it. Have a great ride!
Seattle to SCal and back
- Thread starter Hudson
- Start date
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Hudson
Well-known member
Awesome detour, thanks.
Hudson
Well-known member
Tuesday of next week.What is the date of your day two ride? That is one of my favorite loops around here and if possible I may try to join you. I have a few sick days I need to burn anyway
Hudson
Well-known member
I love road trips.
Nearly every major road trip I’ve taken was spurred by some significant life event. Moving for school. A new job. A death in the family. My first son’s birth. Family reunions.
Road trips are not to me the same as bike trips. My bike trips are taken with buds. Road trips are taken with family, or less typically these days, solo. The best ones have a loose arrival deadline, giving you the freedom to choose whether to make time and distance, or enjoy the scenery and stops, and rethink everything important in your life.
I’ve done both dashes and journeys. Orange County to Seattle in 22 hours straight, driving a new Jeep Wrangler with my dog as my only companion. 3600 miles from Salt Lake to California to Seattle, in 2 weeks, stopping to see Bryce, the Grand Canyon, and Route 66.
This trip is a bit different. No significant life event. Well, maybe so. Maybe my reason for the trip is really to confront the fact that my boys, my two sweet awesome boys, are growing up way too damn fast. I’ll blink, and then they’ll be teens, too interested in friends and sports and girls and fun, but not so interested in hangin’ with dad.
So Ccarpe diem, sieze the day, take control. Push myself to get my boys out on the weekends, riding dirt bikes with Dad, visiting new places, telling stories over a campfire. Not wasting a moment of this special time in our lives. That’s why I’m driving 1300 miles south now.
Or I told myself when a few months back I traded my super fun BMW sports car in for this bread box. A toaster on wheels. One that I am now spending a slightly silly amount to convert, or as my wife said, spending several thousand dollars for a tent. I could keep the tent I already have and make a nice contribution on another bike.
She has a point. She rolled her eyes a bit when I explain the idea at first. I suspect she thinks I’m a bit nuts, especially after I sold my sports car (one I waited so long to get), and showed up one night with this brick. It’s not about the car, though, and this she knows when I wake her up in the morning very early to head out.
You sure you want to do this?, she mumbles groggily. Yes, I am sure. Drive safely, weather guy says it’s supposed to storm all day. Call me when you get on the road.
I look out the window, expecting rain clouds. I see only heaven.
The bike is loaded and ready for the weather. AuburnFJR donated his full size cover for the trip, and I cinch the bike and the cover down and give the trailer one last eyeball.
Heading over to 5bucks (as EscapeArtists calls it), I order my usual. No…strike that. Make it a triple. I have a long trip ahead. I punch the coordinates for today’s trip, and head out.
11 miles later, I look back.
Something's amiss. I can see the FJR looking back at me. I pull over on the side of the road, and run up the highway to retrieve a blanket. The wind is blowing pretty hard and Auburn's bike cover doesn’t want to stay put.
Thereafter, it’s a trouble free three hour travel to Portland. Veterans Day means no traffic. Pulling into the Rose City three hours later, I think briefly about heading into the city to sample some its famed food truck cuisine, but figure the lack of traffic means the food trucks have stayed home too.
The GPS suddenly warns me of a very long traffic delay. A few miles later, I see the reason.
Seems two RV’s, both towing boats, decided to swashbuckle. The traffic is backed up, I kid you not, for 10 miles. But in the other direction, thankfully.
Nice to see I am not the only one towing a bike.
I have no idea what this is. Looks like a latex whale. It smells. I speed up.
Nearly every major road trip I’ve taken was spurred by some significant life event. Moving for school. A new job. A death in the family. My first son’s birth. Family reunions.
Road trips are not to me the same as bike trips. My bike trips are taken with buds. Road trips are taken with family, or less typically these days, solo. The best ones have a loose arrival deadline, giving you the freedom to choose whether to make time and distance, or enjoy the scenery and stops, and rethink everything important in your life.
I’ve done both dashes and journeys. Orange County to Seattle in 22 hours straight, driving a new Jeep Wrangler with my dog as my only companion. 3600 miles from Salt Lake to California to Seattle, in 2 weeks, stopping to see Bryce, the Grand Canyon, and Route 66.
This trip is a bit different. No significant life event. Well, maybe so. Maybe my reason for the trip is really to confront the fact that my boys, my two sweet awesome boys, are growing up way too damn fast. I’ll blink, and then they’ll be teens, too interested in friends and sports and girls and fun, but not so interested in hangin’ with dad.
So Ccarpe diem, sieze the day, take control. Push myself to get my boys out on the weekends, riding dirt bikes with Dad, visiting new places, telling stories over a campfire. Not wasting a moment of this special time in our lives. That’s why I’m driving 1300 miles south now.
Or I told myself when a few months back I traded my super fun BMW sports car in for this bread box. A toaster on wheels. One that I am now spending a slightly silly amount to convert, or as my wife said, spending several thousand dollars for a tent. I could keep the tent I already have and make a nice contribution on another bike.
She has a point. She rolled her eyes a bit when I explain the idea at first. I suspect she thinks I’m a bit nuts, especially after I sold my sports car (one I waited so long to get), and showed up one night with this brick. It’s not about the car, though, and this she knows when I wake her up in the morning very early to head out.
You sure you want to do this?, she mumbles groggily. Yes, I am sure. Drive safely, weather guy says it’s supposed to storm all day. Call me when you get on the road.
I look out the window, expecting rain clouds. I see only heaven.
The bike is loaded and ready for the weather. AuburnFJR donated his full size cover for the trip, and I cinch the bike and the cover down and give the trailer one last eyeball.
Heading over to 5bucks (as EscapeArtists calls it), I order my usual. No…strike that. Make it a triple. I have a long trip ahead. I punch the coordinates for today’s trip, and head out.
11 miles later, I look back.
Something's amiss. I can see the FJR looking back at me. I pull over on the side of the road, and run up the highway to retrieve a blanket. The wind is blowing pretty hard and Auburn's bike cover doesn’t want to stay put.
Thereafter, it’s a trouble free three hour travel to Portland. Veterans Day means no traffic. Pulling into the Rose City three hours later, I think briefly about heading into the city to sample some its famed food truck cuisine, but figure the lack of traffic means the food trucks have stayed home too.
The GPS suddenly warns me of a very long traffic delay. A few miles later, I see the reason.
Seems two RV’s, both towing boats, decided to swashbuckle. The traffic is backed up, I kid you not, for 10 miles. But in the other direction, thankfully.
Nice to see I am not the only one towing a bike.
I have no idea what this is. Looks like a latex whale. It smells. I speed up.
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Hudson
Well-known member
Passing Eugene, I begin to feel the day catching up and suppress a yawn. Then another. The next one escapes. I fumble in the console, recalling the Zip fix energy powder I packed for such a moment as this. I mix it with water and wait. And wait. A quick scan of the label shows it takes a while to kick in.
Crap, I’m still tired.
Suddenly, inexplicably, I think of Barabus. Well, rather, I think of Barabus’ funk obession. Yes, our own Barry loves early 70’s funk: the wider the lapel and pant cuff, the longer the heel of the zip up half boots, the happier Barry gets. We once traded 24 instant messages one night of nothing but links to funk tunes, and I was handily out-funked by Barabus’s encyclopedic funk recall. But Barabus’ loopy love of funk is now inspiring me.
Funk music is just what I need now to keep me awake.
Scanning the IPOD, I curse. Damn 90’s era rock. Where are you, KC & the Sunshine Band, when I need you? My quest ends quickly in the “C” section of Ipod’s artists. Yep, Commodores, with their super-fly morsel of sass, Brick House. I blast that baby and sing along, feeling the fatigue lessening. It’s working! I hurry to cue of Parliament’s “We Want the Funk.”
“GONNA BURN THAT MUH-THA DOWN!!!”
Full funk mode, I am, eyes squinting as I tap out Bootsie Collins’ bass line with the soles of my feet, and then purse my lips to mimic George Clinton’s wah wah pedal. My sleepiness is dispatched.
A few miles later, I am suddenly aware of being watched. An older lady, likely retired, is eyeing me, her hand on her husband’s arm as he slides up alongside in his Mercury-whatever-old-retirees-drive car. She smiles. I slink in my seat.
BUSTED.
A site rare to behold: being passed by a Harley doing well over the speed limit.
Rolling closer to Grants Pass, the sky is suddenly alive with color.
All at once, I want to take back every snarky comment I’ve made about people who burn their trash, polluting the air with smoke and smell. That smoke is now working to paint a gorgeous skyline with a soft haze. Pulling into a turn out for the photo op, I grab a few shots. So peaceful, the palettes. So amazing.
Next to me sits a Harley sportster, a thin black model with a chrome sissy bar propping up a bedroll, and a duffle bag carefully bungied on. A black tool bag hangs off the front handlebars. The rider stands in front, wearing dark jeans, work boots, a wool flannel shirt, and faded brown leather, probably suede, with dingy fringed edges.
He’s sporting a beanie, and his helmet, a half face, dangles precariously from the handlebars. He’s just finished rolling a cigarette, and now stands gazing at the view, a thin puff of smoke hanging just over his head. It’s like a scene out of “Then Came Bronson.”
He looks back at me, and catches sight of the FJR in the trailer. “Sport touring bike, huh?” I nod, feeling that sense of brotherhood between riders. He shatters it quickly with his reply. “Usually guys ride those instead of trailering them.”
I could’ve explained to Bronson that I am on a mission to slow time down with my boys, but it’s getting late and I don’t need his **** or his brotherhood. “Later” I manage, climbing back in the car, and heading to my first destination, Valley of the Rogues, where I bed down for the night in my E.
All snug inside, I take a swig of my beer and bring out my fresh copy of Motorcyclists for some late night reading. In my haste last night, I grabbed a stereo magazine instead. Oh well.
A few pages later, and I am asleep.
Crap, I’m still tired.
Suddenly, inexplicably, I think of Barabus. Well, rather, I think of Barabus’ funk obession. Yes, our own Barry loves early 70’s funk: the wider the lapel and pant cuff, the longer the heel of the zip up half boots, the happier Barry gets. We once traded 24 instant messages one night of nothing but links to funk tunes, and I was handily out-funked by Barabus’s encyclopedic funk recall. But Barabus’ loopy love of funk is now inspiring me.
Funk music is just what I need now to keep me awake.
Scanning the IPOD, I curse. Damn 90’s era rock. Where are you, KC & the Sunshine Band, when I need you? My quest ends quickly in the “C” section of Ipod’s artists. Yep, Commodores, with their super-fly morsel of sass, Brick House. I blast that baby and sing along, feeling the fatigue lessening. It’s working! I hurry to cue of Parliament’s “We Want the Funk.”
“GONNA BURN THAT MUH-THA DOWN!!!”
Full funk mode, I am, eyes squinting as I tap out Bootsie Collins’ bass line with the soles of my feet, and then purse my lips to mimic George Clinton’s wah wah pedal. My sleepiness is dispatched.
A few miles later, I am suddenly aware of being watched. An older lady, likely retired, is eyeing me, her hand on her husband’s arm as he slides up alongside in his Mercury-whatever-old-retirees-drive car. She smiles. I slink in my seat.
BUSTED.
A site rare to behold: being passed by a Harley doing well over the speed limit.
Rolling closer to Grants Pass, the sky is suddenly alive with color.
All at once, I want to take back every snarky comment I’ve made about people who burn their trash, polluting the air with smoke and smell. That smoke is now working to paint a gorgeous skyline with a soft haze. Pulling into a turn out for the photo op, I grab a few shots. So peaceful, the palettes. So amazing.
Next to me sits a Harley sportster, a thin black model with a chrome sissy bar propping up a bedroll, and a duffle bag carefully bungied on. A black tool bag hangs off the front handlebars. The rider stands in front, wearing dark jeans, work boots, a wool flannel shirt, and faded brown leather, probably suede, with dingy fringed edges.
He’s sporting a beanie, and his helmet, a half face, dangles precariously from the handlebars. He’s just finished rolling a cigarette, and now stands gazing at the view, a thin puff of smoke hanging just over his head. It’s like a scene out of “Then Came Bronson.”
He looks back at me, and catches sight of the FJR in the trailer. “Sport touring bike, huh?” I nod, feeling that sense of brotherhood between riders. He shatters it quickly with his reply. “Usually guys ride those instead of trailering them.”
I could’ve explained to Bronson that I am on a mission to slow time down with my boys, but it’s getting late and I don’t need his **** or his brotherhood. “Later” I manage, climbing back in the car, and heading to my first destination, Valley of the Rogues, where I bed down for the night in my E.
All snug inside, I take a swig of my beer and bring out my fresh copy of Motorcyclists for some late night reading. In my haste last night, I grabbed a stereo magazine instead. Oh well.
A few pages later, and I am asleep.
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Cool stuff Dave.
If you're doing the Pink's ride, I'll catch up with you there.
If you're doing the Pink's ride, I'll catch up with you there.
dcarver
Well-known member
Nice, well written.
Anyone can take pix.
Few can paint, vividly, with words.
Hudson
Well-known member
Oh Carver, you're making me blush. I keep a copy of your post, the one about the vist to the old folks home, in my email folders, when I want to remember how to write well.
Day 2
Last night was fitful. The E was comfy enough, and the REI Agnes was just as warm and snug as MCN said it would be.
First nights on the road are always hard to relax. You’ve left most of the stress behind at the end of the day, but you’re not in true road trip mode yet, not at least until your body has fully adapted itself.
The FJR, on the other hand, had a nice cozy nights rest, all snug under its half cover and not even a hint of morning dew.
I glanced around the camp site. What an interesting mix of campers. You had your full time RV’rs, with their cars neatly in tow, on one end of the spectrum. On the other hand was the couple next to me, bedded down in the back of their Suburu.
I watched them for a while as I tidied up the E, and got the sense that their stay over wasn’t an attempt to get back to nature, but possibly the least expensive alternative they could find.
Traveling through Oregon, I understood the economy had hit harder here than in Washington. Little clues, mostly, like the lady in front of me at the Fred Meyers, who asked the clerk to check again on the price of the item that was scanned. It took a few moments, and whereas I might have previously gotten annoyed at this delay, I took this moment to study her closely. The price check revealed what the lady noticed, the item was cheaper by a dollar, and something told me this dollar meant much more than simply wanting not to be overcharged.
Or the guy who pumped my gas in Oregon, and looked at the FJR with a wistful gaze as the pump ticked through the gallons. He started talking about his last few bikes, an R1, and FZ, and Harley. “What are you riding now?” I ask.
He pauses. “I’m between bikes now.”
A premonition, perhaps, that he was forced to sell due to a more pressing need.
Traveling south of Medford, I once again pass up a chance to see some real talent.
It was getting colder, and soon, snow was seen caking the ground.
I wonder if my trip back will be impacted by colder, snowier weather, but it’s not a thought I dwell on long because the return trip is two weeks away, much too distant to begin thinking about when I’m just settling into day two.
Day 2
Last night was fitful. The E was comfy enough, and the REI Agnes was just as warm and snug as MCN said it would be.
First nights on the road are always hard to relax. You’ve left most of the stress behind at the end of the day, but you’re not in true road trip mode yet, not at least until your body has fully adapted itself.
The FJR, on the other hand, had a nice cozy nights rest, all snug under its half cover and not even a hint of morning dew.
I glanced around the camp site. What an interesting mix of campers. You had your full time RV’rs, with their cars neatly in tow, on one end of the spectrum. On the other hand was the couple next to me, bedded down in the back of their Suburu.
I watched them for a while as I tidied up the E, and got the sense that their stay over wasn’t an attempt to get back to nature, but possibly the least expensive alternative they could find.
Traveling through Oregon, I understood the economy had hit harder here than in Washington. Little clues, mostly, like the lady in front of me at the Fred Meyers, who asked the clerk to check again on the price of the item that was scanned. It took a few moments, and whereas I might have previously gotten annoyed at this delay, I took this moment to study her closely. The price check revealed what the lady noticed, the item was cheaper by a dollar, and something told me this dollar meant much more than simply wanting not to be overcharged.
Or the guy who pumped my gas in Oregon, and looked at the FJR with a wistful gaze as the pump ticked through the gallons. He started talking about his last few bikes, an R1, and FZ, and Harley. “What are you riding now?” I ask.
He pauses. “I’m between bikes now.”
A premonition, perhaps, that he was forced to sell due to a more pressing need.
Traveling south of Medford, I once again pass up a chance to see some real talent.
It was getting colder, and soon, snow was seen caking the ground.
I wonder if my trip back will be impacted by colder, snowier weather, but it’s not a thought I dwell on long because the return trip is two weeks away, much too distant to begin thinking about when I’m just settling into day two.
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Hudson
Well-known member
Just before Yreka, I see a turn-off to Klamath Falls Hwy. I’ve ridden past this exit probably five times in the past ten years, and every time I see glimpses of the road below, a nice two lane winding slowly by the river, I always wonder where it leads. Lots of roads like this along I5, and the last trip the PNW crew made to Alice’s, we found all sorts of gems just by following our hunches.
It’s just me this time, and it’s time finally to quench my curiosity. A nice reward awaits. Turns out this little stretch is a great road, with vistas, sweepers, and a hair pin, then the road dumps you into Yreka.
I am tempted to bow out of I5 at Yreka, remembering that awesome road around Trinity Lake into Weaverville, then glorious Hwy 3 where Carver last led the PNW crew on a rip snorting run to Fortuna, but I am towing the FJR, not riding it, and thus forced to gawk at cows until I hit Shasta.
Lil’ Shasta looms ahead.
Fall is pretty much over, but the colors stubbornly remain.
Since I didn’t pull over for talent, I sure as hell ain’t gonna pull over for weed.
Lil Shasta suddenly looks foreboding, almost sinister, like Devil’s Mountain in Close Encounters.
Not three miles later, the evil clouds dissipate, revealing stunning vistas.
No words. Just a feeling of soaring, high above the mountains.
Coming into Shasta, I am surprised to see the water level so low for this time of year.
Oh look. Again I am not the only one towing his bike, Bronson. ******.
It’s only 10:30 when I roll past Redding, much too early to detour the mile up Hwy 44 where God hisself lunches. Yes I am talking about In&Out Burger. We don’t have these in the PNW, and Redding is the closest one to Seattle. I rarely miss the opportunity to partake, but even I can admit that a burger at 10:30 is just piggish, so reluctantly I keep the E pointed south, where I know hours of boredom await.
Trees. Fields. Trees. Fields.
Redding to Sacramento is like California’s own little midwest, with nothing really interesting to see, unless you relish little towns devoted to suckering tourists into believing they are the world's capitol of olives, nuts, or garlic.
I head into Roseville, down Riego road, now nearing tonight’s destination: my in laws. Just before I arrive, I pass this oddity at the corner of a rural intersection.
What a curious decorative touch, I think, before it suddenly occurs to me what’s going on. I bet more than a few cars, manned by hee-haw drivers who probably just left the local honk & holler 10 miles back, only to plow into this guy’s living room one too many times. I wonder if the natural road blocks work better with the reflective paint.
It’s just me this time, and it’s time finally to quench my curiosity. A nice reward awaits. Turns out this little stretch is a great road, with vistas, sweepers, and a hair pin, then the road dumps you into Yreka.
I am tempted to bow out of I5 at Yreka, remembering that awesome road around Trinity Lake into Weaverville, then glorious Hwy 3 where Carver last led the PNW crew on a rip snorting run to Fortuna, but I am towing the FJR, not riding it, and thus forced to gawk at cows until I hit Shasta.
Lil’ Shasta looms ahead.
Fall is pretty much over, but the colors stubbornly remain.
Since I didn’t pull over for talent, I sure as hell ain’t gonna pull over for weed.
Lil Shasta suddenly looks foreboding, almost sinister, like Devil’s Mountain in Close Encounters.
Not three miles later, the evil clouds dissipate, revealing stunning vistas.
No words. Just a feeling of soaring, high above the mountains.
Coming into Shasta, I am surprised to see the water level so low for this time of year.
Oh look. Again I am not the only one towing his bike, Bronson. ******.
It’s only 10:30 when I roll past Redding, much too early to detour the mile up Hwy 44 where God hisself lunches. Yes I am talking about In&Out Burger. We don’t have these in the PNW, and Redding is the closest one to Seattle. I rarely miss the opportunity to partake, but even I can admit that a burger at 10:30 is just piggish, so reluctantly I keep the E pointed south, where I know hours of boredom await.
Trees. Fields. Trees. Fields.
Redding to Sacramento is like California’s own little midwest, with nothing really interesting to see, unless you relish little towns devoted to suckering tourists into believing they are the world's capitol of olives, nuts, or garlic.
I head into Roseville, down Riego road, now nearing tonight’s destination: my in laws. Just before I arrive, I pass this oddity at the corner of a rural intersection.
What a curious decorative touch, I think, before it suddenly occurs to me what’s going on. I bet more than a few cars, manned by hee-haw drivers who probably just left the local honk & holler 10 miles back, only to plow into this guy’s living room one too many times. I wonder if the natural road blocks work better with the reflective paint.
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Auburn
Well-known member
Sorry Dave, I forgot to mention that you need to strap the cover down to the bike or it wind will blow it off. Guess you figured that out the hard way. Looks likke you are having a great trip.
Hudson
Well-known member
Had it bungied nice and tight, but the winds were blowing something fierce when I left. [That didn't come out like I intended....]
dcarver
Well-known member
Ride, write, and rawk on H!
ahchiu
FJR Commander
Nice RR, look forward to more this week.
Fairlaner
The Bartender Whisperer
Call me tomorrow Dave......
R
R
Hudson
Well-known member
I'm feeling melancholoy today. I detoured off I5, hoping to take a break from the repetition of Taco Hells, Mickey Ds, and cookie cutter rest stops. Instead, I see the debris left behind by the economic storms.
Town after town...the central valley of CA has been hit especially hard. This are not the views I had in mind.
My melancholy is broken by the unmistakable stacatto of a Ducati ahead. A shiny new red one. The rider looks to be a young punk, probably headed back to Santa Monica. Wearing jeans, a trendy half face helmet with full visor. He's playing tag with his buddy on a Suzuki, passing the slower locals, and conspicuously disdaining any ATGATT.
As I pass them, I see they are not young punks, but in fact are likely pushing well into their 70's. Its a nice Sunday, and while their neighbors are probably watching the Golf channel or a football game, these Turks are enjoying every mile of Highway 99, oblivious to the acres of "For Lease" signs.
I watch these two guys enjoying every minute of their retirements, and suddenly I am awash with happiness.
Town after town...the central valley of CA has been hit especially hard. This are not the views I had in mind.
My melancholy is broken by the unmistakable stacatto of a Ducati ahead. A shiny new red one. The rider looks to be a young punk, probably headed back to Santa Monica. Wearing jeans, a trendy half face helmet with full visor. He's playing tag with his buddy on a Suzuki, passing the slower locals, and conspicuously disdaining any ATGATT.
As I pass them, I see they are not young punks, but in fact are likely pushing well into their 70's. Its a nice Sunday, and while their neighbors are probably watching the Golf channel or a football game, these Turks are enjoying every mile of Highway 99, oblivious to the acres of "For Lease" signs.
I watch these two guys enjoying every minute of their retirements, and suddenly I am awash with happiness.
Tom Edison
Let It Ride
Nice writtin', looking forward to the riden'.
Rainy and windy here
enjoy the sun and a beer.
Rainy and windy here
enjoy the sun and a beer.
escapefjrtist
Searching for Dry Roads
Nice Hudson, enjoy the warm weather down south...
--G
--G
Hudson
Well-known member
Epic day today. Rise N Shine was 5:30 so I could get out early and make Chula Vista before the traffic set in. I made good time, enough to enjoy the coastline. San Onofre to Del Mar is some of the last unspoiled coastline in Southern Cal.
I arrived at Ursa Minor and quickly unloaded the FJR, then took a look around to see what the E was in for.
First they cut a hole in the rear of the E and install a Honda sunroof, minus the glass. Next they bolt on a carbon fiber platform which forms the bed of the camper; and later, they install the cap and the tent fabric.
They got started quickly on the E.
At 9, Fairlaner rolls in, right on time. Brits are punctional like that.
He looks around, with a bemused smile. He's a bit perplexed why a grown man would want to sleep in his car. That's why God made hotels, he's probably thinking to himself. But even Richard gets interested in the prototype pop-top for the Rubicon out front. Cool stuff.
If I had known about this option, I might have reconsidered my vehicle choice. But I quickly turn my attention to the day ahead.
I arrived at Ursa Minor and quickly unloaded the FJR, then took a look around to see what the E was in for.
First they cut a hole in the rear of the E and install a Honda sunroof, minus the glass. Next they bolt on a carbon fiber platform which forms the bed of the camper; and later, they install the cap and the tent fabric.
They got started quickly on the E.
At 9, Fairlaner rolls in, right on time. Brits are punctional like that.
He looks around, with a bemused smile. He's a bit perplexed why a grown man would want to sleep in his car. That's why God made hotels, he's probably thinking to himself. But even Richard gets interested in the prototype pop-top for the Rubicon out front. Cool stuff.
If I had known about this option, I might have reconsidered my vehicle choice. But I quickly turn my attention to the day ahead.
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