Thanksgiving took us up The Five for nine long hours. Later, we’d see helicopter images of the LA freeways locked up in both directions like rivers of lights in the night. A four lane stream of red going one way, a shimmering deluge of white coming the other. BUt we were fully laden and had a different kind of mission. No turkey for this wagon party, although we were hungry. We are always hungry.
As usual, Martin performed admirably. Everything we needed for six days on the road packed inside without too advanced a degree of Tetris finagling. Bravo with his own cushy spot behind the driver’s seat and a view through the windshield for when we wants to connect a new smell streaming into the van with the scenery outside. He was particularly piqued a long string of cow processing facilities, rank of manure and death.
Charlie drove the whole stretch with his shoes off, flipping through podcasts and trying to find something that didn’t remind him of the election.
After the first refuel, we found a field and played fetch for a while. We discovered later that the scrub grass was full of some tenacious type of thorn that embedded itself into the pads of Bravo’s feet. But he’s not a complainer. We pulled off some minor field surgery and mounted up to finish the voyage.
There seemed to be an unusual number of people eating as they were driving. Maybe they’d skipped breakfast for Thanksgiving dinner but were ultimately overcome by the demands of their bellys.
We planned to stay hungry. We’d eat later. For now, there were hundreds of miles to tick away en route to the track. Shoes off, music on, pedal down.