Princess Thunderjugs, our pistachios ‘n’ cream 2015 Indian Chieftain with a paint-matched passenger pod lashed alongside, was in fine form today. There are two sidecars, our own dear PTJ and a red-over-red hack with a smaller, lighter car. With three rotating amputee passengers between the two rigs, we have plumbed the inky black depths of … [more]

I’m really not sure I’ve seen Glen that happy anywhere else on this trip. We were drifting through sand, banging over rocks and dodging pucker bushes in the nastiest, most capable off-road vehicles this side of an Israeli Tomcar. “All this thing needs is a crew-served and a big-ass turbo!” Whoopin’ and hollerin’, we clawed … [more]

Monday morning was hurry-up-and-wait, but every rider was cheerful and the feeling was as familiar as leather personnel carriers: we were embarking on a squad-sized vehicle road march, with a support team in larger vehicles. Up in our room, George and I had fiddled with gear, packing and repacking bags and pockets and jackets and … [more]

We all speak the same language, even if the dialects differ. It’s a language of cheerful suffering (aka “good training!”) and affected cynicism that papers over selfless service (e.g. “yeah, y’know, it’s all about me…”). Over dinner at the Burbank Marriott’s Daily Grill, the jokes leapt over each other like sportive otters, just the way you … [more]

  I don’t play games. There are so many other fine ways to waste time, money, and spousal patience that I’ve never really felt the draw. Well, not since all those bags of quarters invested in playing Battle Zone at the Plaid Pantry, anyway. The best moment in any game is the bonus round. That’s the one … [more]