|
|
|
This is Yolanda's Chuck Wagon, in the middle of nowhere outside of Coolidge, where we planned to have lunch & spirits. I see this place every time I drive to Tucson, but I have a strict rule about not drinking & driving. I have no such rule for bicycling. (I don't know what Burford was going overboard for. Probably thought he saw an empty Marlboro package.) |
|
Unfortunately, contrary to the sign, Yolanda's is closed--for lunch, anyhow. They stop serving lunch at 2 & dinner doesn't start till 4, by which time we'd be--with any luck--far down the road. The bartender is playing video poker. Over his shoulder he calls out, "What'll y'have?" Originally, when the drinking plank was adopted as part of our Phoenix-Tucson platform, we had planned to take two travel days. But now we're doing it in one day. I've been eating CLIF bars and drinking lots of water; at this point, booze doesn't seem the wisest choice of refreshments. Buford's driving, so he can't drink. Gail doesn't want to drink alone (can you believe it?). |
|
| The stop had been unsuccessful in another way--no Marlboro Miles had been found. But as we were leaving, a woman walked in and asked the bartender for--yep!--a pack of Marlboros. |
|
In this type of situation, Burford can almost always be counted on. He propositioned her, telling her he was "on a scavenger hunt." Unlike the Sonoran Desert, the woman gave up the Miles without a fight. ("But she never would make eye contact with me," beamed Burford.) |
 |
|
