Rolling down the eastern seaboard, I’ve got my diesel wound up

The snow hit in Montreal about five p.m. yesterday. Seven o’clock this morning, my fat-ass Ford Expedition lumbers through the slush, skidding and sliding around corners. I scare the shit out of several Canadian jaywalkers.

Gas, food, parking: ten bucks, five bucks, twenty bucks Canadian. Get your passport out for crossing the border. Second time for immigration control, fifty miles inside the United States.

Office complexes and twists of Interstate metal in Troy, New York. Across the George Washington bridge; the dark towers of Manhattan burning yellow on the horizon. Double-park at the Doubletree at JFK and jack in. It’s nearly midnight. I gotta be up in six hours.

Man, these road trips can be tough. I miss you a hell of a lot.

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