Eastbound And Down

With two hours of driving under our belts and safely out of the city, we stopped to give Spot a well earned drink. Embarking on that first stretch without the proper tools for the job (hat) had been reckless and we arrived at the gas station tense, but relieved to have made it in one piece. This was our last hope to obtain our coveted headwear. Fate stepped in again where we needed it most - there it was! On the shelf before us, as if sent by the trucking gods: the perfect truckers hat, 'Freightliner' emblazoned reassuringly across the front. We breathed a massive sigh of relief - we were going to be OK. 

Some put their faith in hats...

With the hat firmly wedged on Mike's head, all fears dissipated. Relieved, Tom crawled into the back to get some sleep before his early morning driving shift. Sleep was restless, was it the uneven southern roads or was Spot's engine not as smooth as usual? Trusting the power of the hat, Tom rolled over and attempted to sleep.

At around 4 am however, Tom woke up to neon lights piercing the cosy confines of the back of the van. The van was motionless. Where were we? Clambering into the vacant front section to peer into the outside world, the evidence started to piece itself together. Mike was emerging from a gas station, flanked by an grease-stained mechanic wielding two cans of oil. Spot had been parched of lubricant and delightfully lapped up both helpings of luxury oil. We eyed the cap suspiciously.

An Oily Night, Spot says 'Aaaah', and Mike's fuel of choice

We hit the road again, with Spot restored to his former self. After a couple of hours sitting in the co-pilot's seat, watching Mike struggle to the end of his shift, eye-lids practically welded shut, Tom took over. Lit by the eerie half light of the newly rising sun, Tom peeled the unconscious deadweight of a completely spent Mike off the drivers seat, rolled him into the back and took over the controls. 

In a 5 hour stint, through multiple time zones, we smashed through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, and finally came to rest in a gas station somewhere in Virginia. Spot rolled to a halt just as Tom's face made contact with the steering wheel, unleashing a shrill horn blast which snapped Mike out of his slumber. He quickly wrestled Tom off the wheel, removed the trucker's cap from his sweaty brow and threw his limp body into the back.

A succession of energy bars had kept us going through the night, but the miles were catching up with us - we were going to need some proper food. Our first interaction with humans for about 800 miles came as a shock. We felt like aliens walking into the nearby Subway; a raucous local family were communicating in some twangy foreign dialect, incorporating a mixture of snorts and coughs. As we approached the front of the line (queue) we were dreading opening our mouths to speak, convinced the locals wouldn't understand us. Tom went for it - ordering our subs in loud, slow phonetics. The old lady behind the counter stared blankly with a faint smile growing on her face. Tom had stopped speaking but she was still staring, showing no signs of taking in the order. 

"I shir can fix y'all oup, bu' furrrst til me wir in the wrrld y'alls are furm"

This time it was our turn to stare blankly. 

"England?" we guessed...

Suddenly she burst into a huge smile and seemingly satisfied with our response, went about preparing our sandwiches. The pattern continued and we'd soon spoken to everyone in the store, staff and customers included.

Bellies full, Mike took the final 6 hour shift, taking us right into the centre of Washington, DC. 

We had made it.