We were in farm country.
Mile after mile we passed one dilapidated trailer after another.
Some with tires on their roofs, others wrapped in Tyvek.
Some had evidence of pets - dogs, chickens and horses. Discarded litter boxes provided haunting evidence of ghostly kitties.
The yards were unified as breeding grounds. Chevies on blocks mounted big blocked Fords. Those pregnant Fords bulged and birthed Omnies, Chargers and the odd Chevy Acadian.
It was baby birthing season out there in car farmer country.
At the Gas station / liquor store / campground in Rawdon Gold Mines a big black Ram pulled up. The boys jumped out of the cab, crushed a beer then chucked the can into the bed.
You boys look like you found some mud!
Oh the mud we encountered. It was demoralizingly plentiful. There was enough clay caked onto my drive train to keep a pottery school in business for more than one semester.
What do you mean you’re riding a hundred miles? And peddling? Y’all gotta be crazy.
This fool?
Well, I can attes…
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