Oracular Journey
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.)