Where There's a Will, There's a Way
I think the guests who've read down to this point finally get it. It's not miles per gallon, it's miles per grin.
Anyway, all this traveling talk (and Nobist's growls) reminded me of an old, dubious antidote from earlier riding days. Cut me some slack here, now so as not to let me hang myself.
--It was late and a weary traveler, let's call him Will, wandered into a rough & tumble biker bar, sat down and commenced to drink. After a while, some of the others in their Hell's Angel-type leathers noticed this guy was hitting on some of the other men. This was not the venue and, the bartender, loathsome to get out the mop and clean up the blood came over and, in no uncertain terms threatened, "Not another word out of you!"
Will then dropped his head between his shoulders, at least until this mountain of a greasy mechanic who just finished a very bad day walked in, ordered a Jack, neat, and growled, "What do you have to eat? I'm f---in' starvin'. I could eat a bull."
In one of his last moments of experiencing the simple pleasures of full range of motion in his extremities, Will raised his head, batted his eyes and went, "Mooo."
Resilient in wit, his body was soon to be tested in same.