Across Continents

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Sticks and stones

"MC Hammer was a while ago" suggested old school friend Giles. Dry wit I’d always remembered. And a remark I’d chose to ignore. Rather fond of my comfortable, if loosely cut trousers. Baggy. True, I’d had them a while. Perhaps since the early nineties. Hard wearing. Besides, seemed a bit rich from someone who’d admitted to owning a cycling cape. Yellow one at that.

We’d met up at a large outdoor pursuits store in the centre of Seattle. A few purchases for our push south together towards the California border. I’d been a bit nervous, not least because I’d driven in. Rush hour. Dark and unfamiliar. First time driving in close on two years. In the family car. But at least it had a stick, which I much prefer to automatics. And all the time on the road, alone, unprotected, means spotting stupid isn’t exactly difficult.

A small bag would suffice for my riding companion. For he’d no aspirations to camp. Ever. Quite clear on this point, an honesty I admired. I’d stay with carrying all my own kit, if only because it’d be the easiest thing to do. Besides, I was used to it.

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