Dull and grey. Thirties semis below. Partly obscured by wisps of cloud. West London. Soon to be on the ground. Flight over had been tolerable. Aroused from my dozing by a mediocre breakfast. As dull as dinner the previous evening. The cabin crew were pleasant enough. Mature. One, I thought, resembled Rolf Harris. But the whole thing lacked sparkle. But I didn’t doubt the coffee was freshly brewed. From old socks.
The final few days across Florida had been hectic. Unrelenting rain on the final hundred mile push to the coast. But a little kindly respite once I’d reached the finish. Intersection of the 206 and the A1A. Not a photogenic spot I’d admit, but I’d not really cared for that. Just glad to be able to head off a short way to find Ron and Nancy, with whom I’d be spending a couple of nights. Hot shower beckoned.
I’d deliberately pushed hard towards the end. Eager to have a whole day off the road to sort out my trusty steed and all the kit, preparing it for the rigours of the baggage handlers. And a chance to have a sociable evening with Ron and Nancy. Mark the end of my fourth continent.
Next morning I’d started in earnest. Rental car. Free upgrade to something more practical. Thrift shop for a couple of cheap suitcases. Nancy had already found me a cardboard bike box from a local shop. It’d be tight, but I was sure I’d be able to fit my loyal companion in. She’d be in pieces of course. Lots of them.
Five hours sleep. Then the three hundred mile sprint south to Miami International. They’d said six hours. Made it in five. Including lunch. Two and a half litres and an Interstate had been fun. I’d half expected dramas dragging everything to Check-in, but in the end a few helpful souls from the rental car company had lent a hand. Soon where I’d wanted to be. Drinking coffee close to the departure gate. Three hours to kill.
