Confirmation. The bikes are here somewhere, but for now that may as well be nowhere. So we’re instructed by the airline to remain at the motel to take delivery.
A sea fog rolls over my malcontent. What was once a sunny trail has been replaced with the cool grey cling of uncertainty as we continue to wait well past noon.
Boredom. Killing time reconsidering routes and staring out into the empty forecourt of the Genelg motor inn. I’m not sure what’s gloomier, the atmosphere in here or the fog out there.
Two battered bike boxes arrive along with some pissant courier. He was doing his best to be obstructive by refusing to deliver them anywhere else but the reception. Creating no end of consternation with management that was clearly audible from the forecourt of the Genelg motor inn.
Reassembled, checked and rechecked we were off. Horses helmet (destroyed in transit) needed replacement. We burst through the bike shop doors with minutes to spare. Bought. Gone.
Now we needed to bike across town to get the last of our provisions from ‘Anaconda’. I wasn’t sure who Anna Conda was, all I know is she had a sexy voice on the phone.
We made the serpentine temptress, but Anna had been replaced by a spotty teenager. Oblivious of my requests and obviously more interested to escape in his four wheeled wet dream at five.
Provisions sourced, we retraced our trail in the failing light and fog of the Genelg motor inn.
‘Bugger this’ muttered Horse, ‘let’s get a beer’.
It arrived. A fierce south easterly squall made good what it was threatening all day. It arrived with a banshee howl and throat rattle of an old smoker.
I didn’t care. Horse didn’t care. And I doubt Anna Conda cared. For tomorrow we ride.
Where to? Well that was a question neither of us knew the answer to.
All I knew is we weren’t going to spend another day at the Genelg motor inn.