Tuesday 1st July: All Aboard, Reprobates and Tourists

In attempt to warrant the life size plates of pasta we had consumed the night before we headed out for a morning run. I found my mind stumbling through the wasteland of my running skills and desperately trying to figure out why I could cycle all day with an average heart rate of below 120 and yet as soon as I even set eye upon a pair of running trainers my heart rate would escalate through the roof, never to drop below 170.

Fed and feeling mildly smug for not having passed out at the mere prospect of a run, we set off with a bus route map for the whole of San Diego (!) Intrepidly and with great excitement we crossed the road to wait for the number 30 bus. Our first dilemma soon became apparent - should we hail the bus or nonchalantly wait for it to stop for us. In a moment of panic we opted for random arm movements and eye contact, not unlike when a man goes to give the universal 'bill please' sign just as the waitress turns away. As with beleaguered bill paying men around the world our frantic arm movements did the job and the bus drew to a halt.

Thankful that our plan had worked, our next hurdle was to purchase a day pass - 5 minutes later Tim had successfully fed and re-fed five dollar bills. In exasperation the driver started to pull into the traffic as I moved in with 20 quarters. As I lunged from hand rail to hand rail I plonked myself down next to Jack, I mean Tim, amongst the local vagrants. In America, at least on the South of the Pacific Coast, it appears that using buses is broadly translated as you have no home, income or meths left. I guess we could start using EPO to fit the criteria.

A mile or two down the road, we had to change buses to take us up to Clairmont Mesa Blvd. This seemed to take an inordinately great length of time for something that did not look that far on a map. The saving grace were the blue spongy seats that were far more comfortable than anything I have come across in the UK - wipe clean and due to the lack of numbers patronising the buses, like new. They felt like the deluxe seats in the back 3 rows of the cinemas which you always try to sneak into, then claim ignorance when you are pulled up on the matter that you only paid 10 pounds (damn American keyboards) to sit with the rest of the commoners.

Finally we made it to superstore land - Brent Cross I'm thinking - and with Tim sensing a Betty bonk around the corner rushed me into a cafe. REI could not be attempted with flailing glycogen levels. The resulting sandwich - don't forget the location of this 'deli' - was surprisingly tasty.

We asked a few people if REI was near but the typical geographical knowledge gained by driving from A to B, where B is not equal to REI meant no one had heard of it. I tried to forget the occasion on which a friend had pointed to some white cliffs (in Devon) and told me they were the fabled ones of Dover, as I chastised them for not knowing the location of a shop (and road) quite literally around the corner from them.

I guess you are all asking why we would go to such lengths to get to a shop. REI to the outdoors world is like Mecca to a Muslim - a pilgrimage that should be made if you are ever in the States and that way inclined. Whatever you want they have it. Yet again a worm hole could easily have existed with Ikea - yet again we entered in hunt of a couple of items and left with ten.

A few hours later we left in the manner previously suggested and two buses later we entered a big shopping centre. Quite why I had thought I wanted to go here, promptly escaped me minutes after setting foot in the monstrosity. To justify the journey coffee was bought and magazines cheekily red in the newsagents before returning the a bus stop for the final leg of our Bus Odyssey.

It was at this stage that my desire to conquer against all the odds left me, along with the intrepid bus taker that had been with me first thing this morning. Tim, a stickler for fully completing a task to it's original criteria demanded our loop of bus discovery could not and would not be closed by taxi. After waiting for 15 minutes, I thought I would check the bus timetable in an attempt to alleviate my boredom which has frequently led me to intently reading A-Z maps when stuck on a long car journey with a colleague you would rather not discuss full penetration butt welds with. Reading the map at 19:10 I realised that all buses after 19:00 took a different route. If there were any threads of humour left in me they were rapidly fraying as we got yet another bus which could drop us back on the route we needed. After yet more waiting with a couple of drunks who made even less sense than most, our final bus eventually came.

As the light was dropping we decided it was best to stay on the bus after the hotel to find a restaurant and avoid me sitting on the bed only to refuse to budge an hour later. Walking back after a great dinner, I suddenly realised the two miles back felt more like 20. We could of course have used our day passes to get us back on the bus if only there were still any buses running.