Off we go… Maybe.

Off we go… maybe.
Our journey was supposed to be simple enough: fly from Atlanta to Miami, then on to Heathrow using points with American Airlines. We had rented a car from Enterprise the day before, and when I picked it up, I did my usual walk-around inspection looking for scratches and dents that might have gone unnoticed. That’s when I spotted something a little more concerning — no spare tire. The attendant didn’t seem too bothered by it, but anyone who’s traveled enough knows a flat tire with no spare can derail an entire day in a hurry. Unfortunately, this tiny rental lot didn’t have another vehicle available, so we rolled with it and hoped for the best.
Back at home, everything was already packed and waiting by the door. In the morning, all we had to do was toss a couple of bags into the back seat and hit the road. Before leaving, though, we stood on the back deck sipping coffee as one of those unforgettable Alabama sunrises lit the sky in shades of orange, pink, and purple across the lake. Moments like that make you realize just how fortunate you are. It would likely be four or five months before we’d see that view again.

Our flight wasn’t until 4 p.m., but we decided to leave early anyway. Years of travel have taught me that if you’re going to spend time waiting somewhere, it’s far better to wait safely at the airport than stress out on the highway wondering if you’ll make your flight. As luck would have it, we breezed through check-in and security in record time. Naturally, we figured it was because we had given ourselves plenty of breathing room.
That’s when the adventure really began.
At first it seemed harmless enough — just a 30-minute delay on our flight to Miami. The reason, however, caught my attention: scheduled maintenance. A short while later came another 30-minute delay, this time on the Miami-to-Heathrow leg. Same reason. Okay… still manageable. No problem yet.
Then came another delay. And another.
Our layover window in Miami started shrinking fast. Soon both flights were stacking delays on top of delays like dominoes falling in slow motion. The first leg slipped again… then again. The second leg followed right behind it. Before long, our comfortable connection had turned into a tight 45-minute gamble.
I walked up to the desk to ask about alternatives because the last thing I wanted was to spend the night stranded in Miami. There was a nonstop British Airways flight leaving several hours later, and I asked if we could move to it. The agent smiled confidently and told me not to worry — there was still plenty of time, and if needed, they would simply hold the aircraft.
I wasn’t nearly as convinced.
A little later came yet another delay on the Heathrow flight, followed by two more on the Atlanta-to-Miami leg. At that point, the math was simple: we were now scheduled to land after our connecting flight had already departed.
While trying to figure out our next move, I happened to open my email. Sitting there was a message from American Airlines informing us they had already rebooked us onto the nonstop British Airways flight. Just like that, after nearly ten hours in the airport, we were finally leaving — and somehow still arriving at almost the exact same time as originally planned.
Best of all, I never even had to get angry at anybody.
I’ve always enjoyed flying with British Airways. The crews are consistently professional, calm, and welcoming, which somehow makes the chaos of travel feel a little smoother.

When we finally landed at Heathrow Airport, we had missed the last convenient bus to Hambridge. There was another route available several hours later, but it involved multiple connections along with a taxi or Uber ride to reach the chapel. Our friends Linda and Charlie were back in America, leaving the chapel sitting empty and waiting for us. They had been incredibly generous the year before, allowing us to stay there and store our motorcycle after our trip was unexpectedly cut short when I needed a hip replacement.
Rather than spend hours dragging luggage through buses and transfers, we decided to book an Uber for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Hambridge. It wasn’t the cheapest option, but it meant arriving at a reasonable hour and still having enough time to wander over to the pub for a proper pint and a pie.
England still had one hand clinging to winter. Nighttime temperatures hovered around 40°F, daytime highs barely reached the 50s, and rain drifted through the forecast for the next several days. Honestly, though, that suited me just fine. It gave me time to get the Suzuki V-Strom 650 ready for the road with new running lights and a thorough inspection before we pointed the front wheel north toward Scotland.

Directly across from the chapel sat a small farm with a tiny one-room shop stocked with basic supplies. Everything operated on the honor system. We wandered across the road, gathered what we needed, tapped the card machine, and carried our supplies back like travelers settling into base camp before the next leg of an expedition.
The following day our friend Sam Manicom rode up from Exeter to visit us, arriving with extra food supplies we were incredibly thankful for. Over cups of tea and long conversations, we talked about travel, the roads ahead, and the upcoming Adventure Bike Rider Festival — better known simply as the ABR Festival. Sam, who completed an eight-year around-the-world motorcycle journey, shared stories and laughs as naturally as breathing. Between his travels and his books, he’s become something of a legend in the adventure riding world, and it was great spending time with him again.

A few days later another friend, Mark, stopped by and took us out for lunch. More stories were exchanged, more laughs shared, and once again we were reminded that one of the greatest parts of motorcycle travel isn’t the places — it’s the people scattered across the map waiting to reconnect.

While going over the motorcycle, I remembered I had left a little Scotch behind in an aluminum fuel bottle. I poured myself a dram and savored it beside the bike. Ahhh… a perfect end to the day.
The next evening, I poured another glass.
WHAT HAPPENED?!
The Scotch had turned cloudy overnight.
Curiosity kicked in, so I started digging for answers. Turns out alcohol stored in a non-lined aluminum bottle can slowly leach aluminum from the inside of the container. The flavor may not change, but the drink itself can become neurotoxic. The cloudiness was the warning sign.
Needless to say, that bottle got dumped immediately.
One more lesson learned from life on the road: adventure rewards curiosity just as much as courage. Glad I paid attention before that little campfire whiskey turned into something far more dangerous.

As we watched the forecast, the clouds finally began to break apart. Blue skies pushed through. Temperatures climbed. Spring was waking up across the countryside.
It was time.
Time to throw a leg over the bike and head north toward Scotland.

Cheers and safe drinking,

2WANDRRs