Coffeehouse Chronicles: The Professor, the Trolls, and the Prius

Still in San Diego

What up, Chroniclers?  Got yer cup?

Today marks our last full day in San Diego... or Chula Vista... or whatever municipality we've accidentally been vacationing in. At this point, our GPS history looks like an FBI cold case file.

The gang has another bike ride planned today. Unlike previous rides, we're hoping this one doesn't require a tetanus shot, police escort, or emergency furniture appraisal from the Doc.

A few days ago, we were gathered outside our rigs looking like a confused flock of migrating geese when another camper rolled up and asked, "Where you headed?"

The silence was deafening.

Nobody knew.

Turns out the route had been provided by Moe, which immediately lowered everyone's confidence level. This was the same Moe who had previously launched himself down the trail like his hair was on fire, later assuring us the ride was "only about 23 miles" and would somehow end on Coronado Island.

Whenever Moe says "only," what follows is never only.

The route took us through areas that can best be described as "urban archeology." We rode past broken car parts, shattered bottles, dilapidated RVs that looked abandoned but probably had someone living in them, and enough discarded furniture to furnish a two-bedroom apartment.

The Doc nearly crashed his bike when he spotted a pair of recliners.

"Those look like some solid chairs," he said.

Only our group can turn a scenic bike tour into an estate sale.

Somehow, after surviving Moe's Tour de Wrong Turn, we ended up in the Gaslamp District, where we celebrated our survival with lunch. Nothing brings people together quite like collectively realizing they're still alive.

Back at the RV park, the stories started flowing.

The crowd favorite involved Moe discovering he'd forgotten his emergency supply of adult diapers. Faced with this crisis, he directed the Cmdr. and Mrs. Scrubbles toward CVS using Google Maps.

Now, most people would simply say they got a little turned around.

Not Moe.

His route apparently led them through an area featuring enough sex workers that Mrs. Scrubbles thought Google Maps had accidentally switched over to Cinemax navigation.

Meanwhile, Dot, who actually grew up in San Diego, informed me of another shocking revelation.

Dot told me that we were not really in San Diego.

I had to inform the group of this update. News to many of us, because we've been under the false belief that we've been in San Diego for the last six days.

They stared at me blankly.

"We're in Chula Vista," I told the crew.

The Professor later confirmed Dot's assessment. During one of his rides, he found himself under a freeway overpass.

"There were trolls," he reported.

Naturally, everyone laughed.

"No, really. Trolls."

After further questioning, it turned out he meant a collection of colorful characters living beneath the bridge, complete with tents, loud dance music coming from a large Bluetooth speaker, and a surprisingly active social scene.

According to the Professor, they were very friendly.

In fact, they offered to watch their bikes.

Nothing says hospitality quite like a guy living under an overpass volunteering for bike valet service.

Last night, several of us headed to Petco Park for a Padres game.

Well... almost all of us.

There was only one party-pooping couple in the group. The Doc and Her Honor, Mrs. Mayor decided that they were going to skip the game and go out for a nice dinner instead. While the rest of us were preparing for altitude sickness in the nosebleed section, those two were apparently living the high life with comfortable chairs, table service, and food that didn't come wrapped in a foil pouch.

The rest of us considered this a questionable life choice. After all, baseball, overpriced hot dogs, and a six-person ride home in a Prius are the kinds of memories that last a lifetime.

The Doc later claimed he had no regrets. Of course, this is the same man who nearly abandoned his bicycle earlier in the week to rescue a pair of roadside recliners, so we're not sure his judgment can be trusted.

Now, Your Hero enjoys baseball and Petco Park remains one of the nicest parks around. The only issue was our seats...

Accommodating everyone was tough, because not everyone enjoys America’s pastime as much as Your Hero does.

The ten tickets I bought, and we'll just say the section was located somewhere between Earth and low-Earth orbit, were at a price that I thought everyone would be happy to pay.

As we climbed the stairs, the Cmdr. repeatedly asked ushers if Kleenex was available in the nosebleed section.

Each flight of stairs generated another oxygen deficiency joke.

By the time we found our seats, I’d expected sherpas and base camp supplies.

After the game, we became exactly what locals love most: six lost tourists staring at the GPS on their phones, attempting to navigate their way to a waypoint in the middle of the Gaslamp District.

Getting to the game had been easy because I arranged the Uber.

Getting home had been delegated to Moe.

This should have alarmed us all.

For those unfamiliar with Moe, his wallet is less an accessory and more a historical artifact. Legend says it hasn't been opened since the Ford administration. Archaeologists are seeking access.

Apparently Moe combined every coupon, Groupon, discount code, loyalty reward, and food stamp program known to mankind to secure transportation.

His chariot arrived.

Ahmed.

In a baby blue Prius.

Six passengers.

At first we thought Ahmed was picking up one of us.

Then we realized Ahmed was picking up all of us.

Watching six grown adults attempt to fold themselves into a Prius is comedy gold for everyone except the six adults involved.

At one point I believe two people occupied the same seat. The Cmdr. may have briefly become part of the dashboard.

Ahmed deserves his own chapter in the Chronicles.

Not only did he get us home, he somehow maintained a cheerful attitude while transporting what appeared to be a traveling senior-citizen circus act.

Which brings us to today.

Another bike ride.

Another mystery destination.

Another opportunity to discover neighborhoods that don't appear on tourist brochures.

The only thing we know for certain is that our guides will not be Moe or the Professor.

At least that's what we've been told.

Stay tuned, Chroniclers.

If you don't hear from us tomorrow, check under the nearest freeway overpass. The trolls will probably know where we are.

Until then, you know what to do: Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles