Like most old farts, I'm opinionated and have a big mouth. When I stepped up and reached my hand out to meet Doug I forgot to introduce myself, stammered and stuttered like a schoolboy and felt as plastic as the finders on my wannabe bike. I mumbled something about his being the reason I got a passport and invented Spud, after following his RRs-- sputtered out a little small talk... then moved away to snap pics and stalk him into the next state.
I felt intrusive among these men, set to their task, working their passion-- like a silly tourist in trunks and an Hawaiian shirt.
The image of Doug dosing his fill-up with with mystery oil from a hotel shampoo bottle was priceless and a memory that won't soon fade.
Papa, would you like your old cell?