The First Dirty Weekend - Part 2

Well, the fact I am sitting writing this, not elbow deep in tissues, eyes puffed up like an allergic reaction jabbering through my chocolate filled mouth, means we survived. Or at least, I did. Hopefully he feels the same.

Traveling comes easy to me. Packing, even easier. Yep, I had everything good to go until he was at the door and I realized I had forgotten my laptop, and the size of it. I proceeded to spend the next five minutes rearranging my bag this way and that so that I could get it zipped safely inside. Keeping in mind this was a small bag, small enough to fit inside the boot of a Porsche. They’re barely big enough to hold two bags from Sainsburys let alone laptops, toiletries and changes of clothes. But I did it.

The flight touched down, keys handed to us at the exit and we hit the road. Bliss. Especially if you have a secret hankering for service stations. Why this is, I do not know but isn’t there just something about grab and run that makes road trips, well, road trips? As it would turn out, we were doing more grab and run than I had anticipated. A lot more.

This is how I envisioned the following day – lazy room service breakfast, shower, hot runs on a track raced by Gods, work, more track, home to a few hours of indulgence in the spa before dinner, drinks and dissolving into a marshmallow soft bed.

What I got was, well…. a 6am wake up call that saw Mr Chill (we’re calling him that for names sake) rolling me out of bed, his eyes still closed insisting that I take much longer in the shower than he does. This, unfortunately, is fact. Aren’t all women the same? Everything else aside, we have hair. Men can lather and run, we have to condition. At minimum. I can do minimum, when I have to. What followed was a whizz by breakfast, courtesy of M&S micro stores and the joy of hours in traffic.

And then something happened. We hit the track, met the trainer and I didn’t care about breakfast or spas or luxury hotels. I could smell hot, melting rubber, hear the thrum of engines in my ears, the gear shifts crackling through the air like sound bombs. I didn’t want to be anywhere else but here.

‘Hot run?’ Mr Chill cooed, my helmet in his hand, instructor in the drivers seat.

Holy shit. This is the stuff dreams are made off.

We hit the track so fast it punched a hole through time.

Once he dropped me back, I waved Mr Chill good-bye as he vanished in a streak of white, his car consuming the track with squeals of delight and sashayed rather shakily toward the pit café for some down time with my manuscript and a well earned sugar shock. Boy did I need it.

By the time we hit our room that night, we needed nothing more than mini fridge wine, cool sheets and hours of wind down chat.

I got my lie in breakfast the next morning, a quick run to the spa and we even had time for some fly by supercar shopping between his meetings and my writing. And to think, the plane touched down in time for me to pack my girls lunches and tuck them into bed.

All in all, our first escape went pretty smoothly. Roadside toilet stops and combined hangovers included.

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