Across Continents

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Reduced to pulp


The final push into San Diego, a few days off the road in a small hostel close to the coast, was, at best, turgid. Mostly steady, heavy rain. Icy cold, the only respite the odd hour when it eased back a little to drizzle. It felt warmer but probably wasn’t.

A generously sized cheese and bean burritto had raised spirits a little, bought from a small campground cafe. Even the odd sip of warm coffee did little to improve matters. It was fundamentally a terrible day.

The ride into San Diego should have been relatively short – perhaps forty miles at most. To a carefully chosen hostel, expectation it would be quiet, and conventionally located. And it was. Problem was the cycle route had endless twists and turns, necessitating frequent stops to check the navigation. Quickly reducing my guide book to pulp.



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