The first bicycle: ~1819 Anon: "A curious two-wheeled vehicle [ ... ] propelled by jackasses instead of horses."

Week 1: Ocean Beach CA to Tucson AZ. 468 Miles. 15,500ft elevation 468 Total Miles

After an uneventful flight on Friday night, Dennis was there to transfer me to the hotel. What a welcome sight. Thankfully for him, it was his last trip of the day. Crash.

This is the only week that starts and ends with a rest day, thanks to (most of us, it turned out) flying on the Friday night for safety.

Saturday 4 March San Diego Ocean Beach

Day Off

I returned to the hotel with my coffee and bagel, by which time Dennis had pinged that the crew was at the truck so I went down to be reunited with my bike, and to meet the too-keen players who had volunteered for a morning spin. Madness. One of them even talked about the "importance of riding at least a few miles on our rest days". Complete madness.

At 10a Andrew Komaromi my old colleague and buddy stopped by to take me out for a lovely brunch and then we drove me out to Cabrillo National Monument where I was able to get my National Park book stamped, and we had spent a couple of hours catching up, enjoying the spectacular views of the city, and wandered down a well-worn path to the water. The only wildlife we saw was a lone seal patrolling slowly through the kelp.

Then it was time for the pre-flight briefing, to be followed hot on its heels by the pre-flight party. Dennis: "This is not my first rodeo, so I KNOW no one here is Type A. You are mostly AAs, and probably at least one AAA" He did a great job of putting everyone at ease, and making it transparently clear that everything was, and would remain, firmly under control. He warned us about the dangers of EFI (Every F🤬ing Inch). He addressed the rules of engagement for dining: anything and everything on the menu was fair game: if you come away hungry it's your own (darn) fault. He talked a lot about supporting each other and road discipline, but I figured this was probably more dependent on the personalities of the riders than about his control. I was right about that, but it was fascinating to see that all coalesce as the days rolled by.

The pre-flight celebratory dinner/party was across town at Tom Ham's Lighthouse "the finest seafood in San Diego". What a start. One menu item was "Whole Fish", which turned out to be Yellow-spotted Bass. Obviously that's for me, no point in looking further down the menu. I also had the smoked mussel starter and CitraSmella Hazy IPA by Burgeon Brewing Company. All outstanding. I was waaay too concerned about the Day 1 ride to risk any more beer, and I was waaay too stuffed for dessert.

Sunday 5 March Ocean Beach CA to Pine Valley CA Elevation: 3737ft

Temp: 51f - 41f Ascent: 5815ft Distance 53 Miles

Breakfast was another great meal, this time at Breakfast Republic "A Clucking Good Breakfast". They did not have V8 or tomato juice, but they could make me a Virgin Mary if that works? Err, yes! Thank you! I only had the yoghurt concoction (with granola, bruléed banana, berries, chia seeds and coconut flakes) because I was worried about being too full to ride. It was good, but the mocktail was best of show. Others had traditional breakfast fare of pancakes, omlettes, eggs over easy. I ducked into "my" coffee shop on the way back to the motel to say goodbye and then sent Cpt America back there because he was looking for coffee. That night he raved about it. Loved the people, best coffee he'd had since arriving in California, and Robert was ex-military and had spent 8 years at Fort Bragg where he had also put in a lot of time.

Mission Trails State Park.

Finally we were ready to hit the beach, reverse into the surf, get a group picture and after more than a year of dreaming, training, and panicking, the rubber finally hit the road. The first twenty miles were easy-peasy, especially back on the road bike, complete with its new carbon fibre rims, so it felt effortless. There was a lovely few miles through Mission Trails Regional Park which was teeming with visitors, and I made a mental note to spend more time here if I ever returned.

By contrast the second half of the ride was a solid uphill grind through an endless and characterless parade of houses, shops, horse farms. Not well-manicured, not well-organized, not well-architected just mile after mile of random sizes and styles. I stopped at a lookout labeled Alpine View. I was somewhat puzzled because there were no mountains, and no Swiss chalets. It was only a little later when I came to a junction and a road sign pointing back to Alpine that I solved the puzzle. The decidely humdrum view was of the decidely humdrum town of Alpine. The temperature slowly dropped as we climbed until with wind chill it was mid-30's at the top. Occasional spots were lovely, but the last 20 miles had no redeeming features. Towards the end there was just the service road and its highway threading their way through the hills and then finally for about four miles there was only highway. Riding a bike on the highway was a first for most of us. Exhilarating is a good word. Seven or eight miles from home we peeled off the highway again, back to a steeper five mile climb through the same meh landscape / neighborhoods as before. I was grateful for the work at that point because the temperature was continuing to drop and now was only around 40F. Remnants of snow bordered the road, so discovering that the last two and a half miles into Pine Valley and the motel dropped 300ft from the 4035ft peak for the day to the motel was a mixed blessing. Lovely to coast home, but bone-chilling in the clothes most of us had stripped down to in the early warmth. 5815ft of climbing. I vowed to be dressed more warmly in the morning no matter what. The motel was a most welcome sight, but a rustic one. It still had smoking rooms: we know because Betsy was obliged to take one. But a long hot shower has seldom felt sooo good.

The "Alpine View" lookout.

Dinner was across the street at The Valley House Resort, the only restaurant in town. The menu was restricted to the "Snow Day Menu" even though it had been nearly a week since the storm ("worst snow in 20 years" apparently). Dennis apologized for the lack of choice but no one was complaining. Staples like mac and cheese, burgers, and spaghetti were all on offer and home-made by the "award-winning chef" who was also the waitress. But as she'd promised they were all excellent, as was the highly recommended strawbery and blueberry cobbler stewing in its brandy and sugar juice. A la mode of course. Most people couldn't last that long and gradually the table emptied as folks ran out of gas. I nursed a pint of a non-descript IPA but at least it was only from Arizona, the two local brews having run out on Saturday night, along with the rest of the menu choices.

My computers were a pain in the ass today, but hopefully this is now resolved. Rolling off the beach, my regular old bike computer was not registering (now there's poor prep) and the price to pay was that we were around 14 miles in before Cpt America could fix it. Then incredibly, the big Garmin which normally can go for days, ran out of gas and died at the lunch stop. Now I had no navigation. But I had brought along my new little Garmin from my gravel bike because I loved it so much in the few weeks I'd had it and because I discovered it had a second mounting kit. I managed to get the mount attached to the bike's fat handle bars and the little guy picked up the hunt like a champ. First it displays in the direction I'm travelling instead of north always being at the top, and second it talks to me: beeping when I'm coming up to a turn, naming next-up decision points, and even, I discovered, informing me that "This is the fourth of five hills, 2.76 miles 550 ft gain" and then "Climb complete!". I've decided to use this from now on, with the big guy as the backup.

Loony #1 Bill is clearly going to be a problem for me. The sort of totally confident, out of step, in his own world character who leaves no redeeming features. By the first stop he is a serious 10 minutes behind and we are on the flat still. As we finally start to saddle up after our first (way too long) rest stop he asks "is there a bathroom here?" I lost it. Fortunately everyone else rolled away with me. By lunch time the hills had started and Bill was probably 20 minutes behind, with our fearless leader guiding him home. No apologies or remorse. Nader. I was getting too cold waiting around and asked if I could get going. Approved, but my two slow buddies had just made their sandwiches so I toddled off alone. Fast forward to supper where Bill concedes he'd ridden the sag wagon home for the last 10 - 15 miles "to make sure I was home for supper". He ordered two main courses and hardly touched the one I could see, and then the piece de resistance, he was one of only four people who ordered dessert, then set off back to his room before it was served. It is disrespectful enough to the restaurant, the planet and the starving millions if we had our own tabs, but we do not, so most especially it was disrespectful to Dennis who paid for everything.

Monday 6 March Pine Valley CA to El Centro CA Elevation: 39ft

Temp: 34f - 72f Ascent: 2923ft Distance 81 Miles

Departure was delayed to let the temperature rise a little, but presumably this was a one-off I was thinking. Hahaha! Little did I know. At least this time we could put on all the cold weather gear. It's a crazy day today. Another 2900ft of climbing, then 6700ft of descent. Massachusetts at the top: 34f; hills; snow. Southern California at the bottom: 71f; pancake; desert. The route travels through the Yuha Desert and the below-sea-level, irrigated Imperial Valley. Bill gained a point back by setting off 30 minutes before the rest of the party but we'd still caught up with him at the first rest stop. He goes like the clappers down hill—he must have been doing an easy 45 miles per hour when he shot past us—but uphill, of which there were three or four in the first part of the ride, he is barely moving. We rolled though what felt like a border patrol check point, but all the way up here? The uniforms were stopping all the cars coming the other way but paid no attention to us. We were soon to discover how close we were to the border, so yes! Border Patrol!

Leaving Pine Valley

Once again the hills were no real problem for me, and better still each mile or so of ascent was followed by five or six of descent. The 13 mile final descent was very tough and this is where the trouble started. Back on the Interstate, the wicked crosswinds threatened to deck us any second and the 18-wheelers barreled past at 80mph. Every half mile or so large, black, rough spots marked the site of a car fire. Even on the Interstate it was steep enough to require almost continuous braking. With that and the wind gusts it was a full-time job trying to stay upright. Tim, a big dog but on an eBike, went down. Mercifully he didn't go under an 18-wheeler, and he didn't take anyone else down with him. He and his bike soldiered on to the next rest stop but then he was done. A trip to ER determined that he had a broken bone in his shoulder so he was done done. Irony of ironies, like a race horse that having lost its jockey gallops on to cross the finish line with all its buddies, Tim's bike was strapped on to the roof of the trailer and rode all the way to St Augustine without anyone in the saddle.

The support van passing on the last stretch of uphill before the 15 mile big descent.

These two pictures were taken at exactly the same spot: one looking one way ...

... the other a slight turn to the right.

While Tim nursed his shoulder in the van, the rest of us bashed on for the second half of the ride, across the Yuha desert. Totally fabulous. We came within a few hundred yards of the Border Wall I thought we didn't build, and would see for days on and off. We crossed the Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail, (a 1,200-mile trail "connecting history, culture, and outdoor recreation from Nogales, Arizona, to the San Francisco Bay Area") but there was nowhere to grab a stamp for my book, even if I'd had it. The last 10 miles home were brain-addlingly rough, and everyone had had enough by the time we finally pulled in. It put my Garmin into a coma, and several folks had apps that thought they'd been in a bad enough fall that it triggered a call to their emergency contacts.

First Border Wall sighting. Quite a shock.

And then suddenly it was flat. And warm.

Warm And flat. Sand Verbana I can't figure out the name of the restaurant we ate in that night, but what it lacked in its cookie-cutter Mexican cantina decor it totally made up for in the quality of the real Mexican food. One of my chums asked if there was a mild salsa for the chips. "This IS the mild one sir". I had Nopales Salad (cactus tossed with tomato, onion, and cilantro, which other than the okra- or nattō-like stickiness of the cactus was surprisingly bland but still interesting. On the other hand, Ramiro's Costillitas pork ribs cooked in a dark (very) spicy tomatillo sauce, with rice and beans of course, was outstanding. I'm proud to say the waiter warned me about how hot it was, and I ate the whole thing. In the first week, this was the meal highlight. Excellent.

Tuesday 7 March El Centro CA to Wellton AZ Elevation: 246ft

Temp: 57f - 75f Ascent: 1808ft Distance 97 Miles

Just the length of Day 3 after the first two days was a concern. But though my wrists, shoulders, neck and ass were whining like babies, my legs were champs, and I came in with, or close behind the slow pack every day. (Fast pack, slow pack, loony-on-recumbent are currently the three groups.)

Big day today, crossing into Arizona gaining an hour back as we crossed the border. But best of all, the most wonderful news greeted me when I woke up: our granddaughter was safely sucking oxygen at last, and my daughter Rachel and she were both in good health. Woo hoo! She doesn't have a name yet, so the crew named her Scout, after the trip mascot. Scout Finch is a pretty good role model, so I'm good with that. 

The slow group kept up with the big dogs all morning. It was such good and easy going on the flat, and with whatever wind there was on our tails. Since Bill set off 30 minutes before the rest, we all pulled in to the first water stop pretty much together. A trifecta for Dennis who loves us to stick together as much as possible. There was 40 miles of smoooth road before hitting the highway once more. A "Drifting Sand" road sign explained a gang digging out a culvert running beside the road. Two miles from Yuma we picked up the wall again. A Border Patrol chopper cruised slowly along it at about 50ft. Their trucks were parked up along the road and a little distance into the desert at a very regular cadence.

It was around here that Betsy set a record that would not be broken: two flats in five hundred yards

As we reached the eastern edge of the Yuha desert, green fields started to appear. A tractor pulled a 6-person-wide bench. Walking backwards in front of every station a worker cut off a cauliflower head and handed it up to his/her partner who finished trimming it and placed the finished product in a box. At the end of the row a trailer waited, stacked high with the filled boxes ready to be shipped.

We crossed into Arizona at Yuma, which also meant crossing the Colorado River. I was so stunned by the pathetic little stream it had become that I took it's photo in case it was the Colorado, but I did not think it really could be until we passed the Welcome to Arizona sign at the far side of the bridge removing any doubt.

Arizona immediately felt more affluent, better maintained. As if to make the point, a half dozen fighters roared overhead practicing the missing man formation, reminding us that the rest of the world still moves at more than 15 miles per hour.

Yuma. California done and dusted

Crossing the Colorado River. Sounds grand, could not be less so. I'm horrified to say this is all that is left of the mighty Colorado River to pass on to Mexico

Three or four folks could not help themselves, and added three miles to the day to log a full century. Normally that would have been right up my street, but today I felt no need. Perhaps because of the risk that something happened in those greedy extra miles? Or perhaps because this was not a Century ride, it was merely one segment in a 2800 mile ride?

The few other riders we meet are mostly also going cross-country. A solo contender we passed heading west was a conspicuously different bronze color. Another self-supported couple showed up in the hotel that night, and Dennis invited them to join us at our pizza and beer celebration of crossing into Arizona. We peppered them with questions. Bill (who else?) asked "What sort of rack do you have?" "Jeez, I don't even know your name yet" was her instant response, and it took a second for the crew to catch up but catch up they did. Raucous laughter all around.

Towards the end of the meal, Dave-the-Younger noticed someone's plate piled up with pizza crusts. DtY: "Don't you like the bones? Some folks say that's the best part!" Needless to say Dave was not talking about my plate. The bones are the best part, especially if washed down with a cheap red wine.

Wellton reminded me very much of the Australian outback: desert conditions, rough scrabble town, rusting trucks some of which looked close to 100 years old.

Wednesday 8 March Wellton AZ to Gila Bend AZ Elevation: 735ft

Temp: 53f - 75f Ascent: 1132ft Distance 88 Miles

The most wonderful news greeted me when I woke up: my one and only grand-daughter was sucking oxygen at last, and Rachel and she were both in good health. Woo hoo!

With the first three mettle-testing days done and dusted, if felt like now it was just a question of bashing out the miles. I found the green fields with palm trees for hedgrows incongruous, and a little disconcerting. The flagrant irrigation miss-match is getting more worrisome as the planet heats up. What I think must have been alfalfa (it was only three or four inches high), was being mown down and harvested for hay at about twenty miles an hour. Crazy. It's apparently a common crop here, and is more nutritious than regular hay: more protein, calcium and simple starches. It was also interesting to note that there appeared to be no seasons: crops were at every stage of development, from tilling to mowing.

We passed through several little one-horse towns, one of which sported a "Gentlemen's Club". It was in the middle of a tiny run-down strip mall, giving new meaning to the term. Meanwhile I was grappling with the idea that there might be anything resembling a gentleman in the vicinity.

Bobby caught up once again with the Southern Tier couple from last night, and they donated some delicious Mexican nut/bean snack with spicy sour mix that reminded me of tajin, a tangy seasoning I use at home, made of chili peppers, lime and sea salt.

A sign heading into Gila Bend announced the "Pipe Organ National Monument", so for a brief moment I dreamed of another stamp in my book. But the next sign in the center of town pointed left saying "Pipe Organ NM 75 miles". Oh well. Moments later we rolled into the Gila Bend Space Age Restaurant and Best Western Hotel and rolled back about 50 years. The space age theme ran through the hotel but it was really focused on the bar. What the term "space age" means seems to depend on the era you grew up in. To some of us it is American pride, Saturn V, Neil Armstrong, the moon. To others it is Star Trek and Star Wars and aliens. The Space Age bar was firmly in the latter camp complete with life-size alien for selfie ops (yes aliens turn out to be just the right size for selfies).

The Space Age Restaurant and Bar. Outside ...

... and inside

A bunch of people found the bar for a beer before dinner, so after my hot soak in the bath I went to join them hoping to buy them all a drink to celebrate the baby's safe arrival. They would have none of it. Two Modelo Negro's later we headed across the street to the Little Italy restaurant.

They were very proud of the fact that Prince Harry "and about 30 of his friends" had dined there while he was on detachment with the military somewhere near by. I had Spaghetti Carrettiera—garlic, parsley, crushed hot peppers and olive oil which was excellent as were the jalepeno poppers starter. After dinner, Dennis introduced Scout the team mascot. He gets passed around and whoever has him makes the rules. S/He woulda shoulda gone to the self-appointed leader of the pack Leo, but because my as-yet-unnamed granddaughter was born today, the honor went to me. As he was leaving the restaurant another patron stopped at the table to say "when you guys all got served your food, the restaurant went quiet." I guess we were having a good time—and then we were hungry.

The hotel backed right onto the rail road tracks, but because there were no crossings nearby, the trains rumbled by all night without blowing whistles to bounce one out of bed. So I left my ear plugs out so I could hear them rolling by.

Tomorrow Scout and I will do an honorary half mile at the head of the peloton, and the I will hand him off to Leo for the last day before he leaves us in Tucson.

Thursday 9 March Gila Bend AZ to Casa Grande AZ Elevation: 1381ft Temp: 50f - 73f Ascent: 1365ft Distance 75 Miles It was not as hot as it might have been thanks to high cloud cover pretty much all day. My wrists, shoulders, neck and ass are whiny babies, but my legs seem to be just as enthusiastic at the end of the day as they were at the start, so I already have the confidence that today will not represent a problem power-wise. Saddle sores are still a serious danger however. And they are serious—one person had to quit last year when he couldn't get them under control. He even tried to rejoin and only lasted three days before he quit again. The problem is that you not only have to recover, you have to rebuild the "leather" all of which takes waaay too long. That said, today's number one challenge is at the front, not the back: sun burn. Despite three days of wearing the white-wash Claudia sent with me, I have several sore spots including a rather fetching pair of skunk strips over my head from the sun shining through my helmet. Now I understand why the big dogs wear those little beanie caps. I gotta see if I can snag me one of those in Tucson. For now I folded up my bandana and stuffed it into the helmet, and I wore my long-sleeved Great Britain Olympic jersey which I'm finally slim enough to squeeze into.

From front to back: Scout ready for his first ride; RT ready for his first ride in his 2012 Olympic Great Britain Cycling outfit; Leo-the-photo-bomber ready for everything, as always.

We continued to roll east following the highway and the rail road, and for the first time, sequoias. Mile-long trains pass at a regular interval. They typically have three locomotives at the front, and one had two more in the middle. I'm told that the number of locomotives and the length of the train is all calculated by the weight. So empty trains are longer than full ones. Generally they comprise an endless variety of wagons, but one was only military vehicles. It was stopped, and the reason was plain to see. The back half had broken free of the front half, and sat a forlorn-looking 20 feet behind. I hope that was not an endictment of the military—"they couldn't create a train from a bunch of wagons and a locomotive".

There was a very tough stretch today: slight incline, headwind, no shoulder, bonkers two-way traffic, including oncoming overtakers three feet away and a closing speed of 80 miles an hour. It was only 10 miles, but zero fun for every inch. Dennis estimated it to be the most dangerous stretch on the whole route. Immediately we turned out of harm's way there was a pit stop so we could lick our wounds, gird our loins and generally swear off cycling as a good time sport. Everyone, but especially Dennis, was visibly glad to be done. I'd been left so far behind by the pack that after the break I got permission to set off in front of them. So I did. Life was completely transformed. Good roads (for the most part) beautiful desert scenery until it gradually made room once again for more agricultural land, and then finally into the immaculately well-manicured town of Maricopa.

Geolocation reports this spot as on the way into Maracopa

As we entered town, a road runner did its thing (both for me and then later for the rest of the team!) but both times he was on the other side of the road and disappearing into the bushes before anyone could grab his portrait. Cross walks, covered bus shelters, no trash, no homes resembling junk yards, it all added up to a much more affluent town than we were used to. Maricopa is home to Harrah's Ak-Chin Casino which had a full parking lot, which might explain everything else. The whole area seemed less cash-strapped. Airfields advertizing glider trips and parachute jumping, a couple of ladies on horse back, better quality cars.

The problem was that we were supposed to stop for lunch at the casino, and I forgot that, plus the sag wagon had not yet overtaken me, and nor had anyone else. So I kept going. Another long straight road, and ten miles later I made the left turn at the 54 mile mark where I thought lunch was supposed to be, and sure enough there was a perfect place to pull in. So I stopped and waited. After about 10 or 15 minutes Dave-the-Younger showed up. He'd done the same thing as me, except instead of wondering which of my devices kept pinging, and why, he'd actually answered his phone. We squared away with the crew, who suggested we continued on to the 60 mile water stop. No problem. We were there nearly 45 minutes before the sag wagon showed up, by which time of course there was still no sign of the main crew who were five to ten miles further back still, and we were getting stiff standing around so on we went. There was only fifteen miles to go. Which is the story of how, with Dave's help and company, we rolled into the hotel at a record 2:15p, and still miles in front of the rest of the gang.

Scout certainly had a good day, but with Leo's last day being the next day, obviously I had to hand him off already to give Leo his well-deserved day in charge.

Friday 10 March Casa Grande AZ to Tucson AZ Elevation: 2389ft

Temp: 49f - 77f Ascent: 2389ft Distance 75 Miles

My face is still sore from the slapping we got last night for getting so split up yesterday, so I resolved to never set off before at least some of the crew were ready, figuring as long as they were in front and Bill was behind, by definition I'd be fine. Bill did not seem to understand that the message was also for him (no surprise) so despite looking like he was ready thirty mins early, he rolled out only ten minutes before the rest of us, and even the slow folks had passed him by Mile 5. So he continued to stretch the support crew to its extreme, having to wait for him to roll in before racing to try to catch everyone else before they reached the next stop.

One of the big dogs explained their day, and clarified for me why I don't like being in the peloton: "we just got our heads down and focussed on the wind". The wind was definitely a problem, but not being able to focus on the view, to me was worse. But there is also no question that I consider it just too risky. I just did not want to be in an accident, or worse cause one, just because I was in the peloton. Not even close to worth it. Meanwhile, as if to make my point, two of the big dogs were hit hard enough by rocks thrown up by the rider in front that they drew blood, but there was no serious damage.

We seem to be on Old Rt 80, new Route 80 and new Rt 8 for days on end, with the railroad and these roads running parallel each other for hundreds of miles. We switch from one road to the other, or from one side of the railroad to the other but we are never more than one or two hundred feet apart.

There followed a pattern of flat roads surrounded by hills almost like we are in a crater. We get closer and closer to the hill formations for miles, then suddenly there is a brief uphill while we squeeze through a pass, only to find the same thing on the other side: flat desert for miles, until we get to the next pass. It is not actually flat. For the past few days and a few more to come, we very gradually gain height, with each night stop 800-1000 feet higher than the previous one. Today was a perfect example: 2300ft of climbing, and only 272ft of descent, all of which were down culverts and bridges. A couple of coyote carcases are the first road kill we've come across.

Picacho Peak Right out of Casa Grande we could see the distinctive silhouette of Picacho Peak and spent half a day cycling towards it. On April 15, 1862, Union and Confederate troops clashed in the Battle of Picacho Pass, the only Civil War battle in Arizona and the westernmost battle in the war. Each year, the park hosts a re-enactment commemorating the battles of Picacho Pass, Glorieta Pass, and Valverde. Picacho Peak is part of an eroded volcanic flow and is "famous for its spring wildflower display, mostly Mexican poppies. The wildflowers are especially impressive after a rainy winter". It must have been a particularly rainy winter.

At one point at a water stop I happened to look up to see multiple con-trails all crammed together on the same vector. It made me realize how empty the skies had been and how carefully air traffic control bunches everybody up together!. Back in Massachusetts after 9/11 the silence had been deafening, drawing attention to how crowded the skies were normally. Now here was the converse: the sudden appearance of all the con trails, so close together, was a dramatic reminder of how empty the skies had been until now. Two of them were being created as we looked, and the trails appeared to be not so much on parallel tracks but rather they were headed straight at each other. Sure enough the two trails finally met. And then kept going. Obviously they were at different altitudes, and/or some sort of parallax error, but nevertheless spell-binding. We also saw a hot air balloon today to add to the more affluent tourist-oriented recreational options in the area. I gave the universal whistle pull sign to a loco engineer as a train rolled past and he rewarded me with a blast on his horn.

Bobby "Capt America" trying to enduce a smile