Blues falling down like rain: the greasy red mud sometimes trying to grab my wheels: like a tyre exploding in the desert sun: like the hands of an old clock. Remember when time, and time telling was analogue? Physical. You could wrestle with it. Not something made up. Or maybe it is.

Smart people figured out all kinds of ways to keep track of our journeys from dust to dust. Moons and hours: and minutes and wishes: the dreams of old dogs, legs twitching as they sprawl near woodstoves: the passing hearth, the smell of open fires. Giving or taking. My legs twitch a little bit too, sometimes. And tyres do explode. So, in spite of booking most of my travels months in advance– it's always about gripping the wheel in the moment.

Sixty shows in Seventy days? You never know how many miles are left until the main bearing…