I got on the bus it was midnight, got ready for bed and slowly we drove out of town across the bridge and onto 80 West. As we sailed slowly by the skyline of San Fransisco i felt a little Frank Sinatra sort of romantic and lost, we were on our way to another city, and the bus had two drives. I went to my bed, the red bed in the back of the bus, i lay there freezing and wanting to wee every other hour all night long, i must have slept as time drifted from my watch to the sunlight on the mountains. I pulled the curtains to see snow covered mountains and a vast amount of America stretching out for miles, as it always will. This is the big country, this is the home of dreamers and in out of the way shopping malls men where cowboy hats and the car park is full of pick up trucks and tractors. We stopped in Battlefield which is 260 miles West of Salt Lake City, here we changed drivers and John the principle driver changed something in the engine. Michael the other driver talked about the other bands he had toured with, Dweezil Zappa, and Dave cracker barrel Mathews. These guys drive for a living 300 days of the year. I feel safe. Sleep was not deep at all, i was aware of the movement my bladder and sound, the bed is comfy enough and so is the ride it just takes a touring bunny to get used to it, I’m not sure I’m one of those. Over the years there have been many bus journeys, most of them spent in long bouts of mid to late hangover or alcohol induced snore, a safe place at the time. Jools used to decorate his bunk with drawings and Gilson i remember would use his as a serenity snug, a hideaway from the rest of us when he had stopped drinking. A massive inspiration to me without really knowing. We knew how to fill a bus with laughter, cards and other stuff in those days. Things have changed we have the internet, satellite TV and hot water! four drivers and a few mountains more to cover. I have no idea who lives here out on this empty desert and mountain but people do, its a far cry from the timber of old England, the village pub and the cricket pitch. We are between the two ears of the country, heading towards the middle of the American head, Nevada, Utah Wyoming and beyond, it could be a long few days. At least we are not in covered wagons being spied upon by Indians who send signals from the rocks above the pass.

Within minutes of me typing all of the above the bus stops and its broken down by the side of the road. The other bus stops and people get off to scratch heads, all around us mountains covered in snow and a sky so blue you could almost dive in. Suddenly we have lost two hours from our journey as we await spare parts to fix the problem, John the driver is trying his best to sort things out. The other bus gets the green light to leave us here, they race off heading for the hotel still over 20 hours away. I am alone on this bus with two drives and outside a mechanic looks at the engine as if its about to give birth, and to life i hope. I have trust in these guys, but if it all goes tits up how will i get to Minneapolis that i can’t even think about as we are hundreds of miles from the nearest main town. An adventure, wacky races springs to mind, perhaps this bus has been sabotaged not to win the race by one of the crew, or Glenn. My feet are through the floor and i don’t really care, I’m deep into the Elvis Costello book and retiring gradually from writing my own book, overwhelmed by the beauty of his words against mine. My gravestone I’m sure will read, unfinished business found here. Prayers are being said for the spare parts otherwise its a hire car and the long road into night. To be continued…stay tuned.