The more people you put into a van, the more complex the interpersonal politics. For some reason, instead of two men with bikes, parts, and tools, we were carrying others as well. I wanted to go racing.

As we made our way to the Mass Pike, heading west to a Canadian track, it was revealed that sandwiches had been kindly prepared for all by one of the women. I thought of past examples. Ice in the cooler cools everything else by melting – the phase change takes energy from the drinks and food. The chaotic motions of travel had in the past caused carefully wrapped sandwiches to sink into the melt-water. Like “Titanic,” they could not be raised and returned to service. For this reason it had proved simpler to buy snacks when we bought gas.

Without thought I spoke up; “I hope that these sandwiches are not like those served on grade-school class outings – iridescent ham, drying cheese slices cracking at the edges, yellow ball-park mustard.”

The narrative wants to say, “There was complete silence,” but there wasn’t. There was the noise of the tires and of air struggling past the side-mirrors. But nobody said a word.

I had accurately put my foot in it. I don’t remember the words of The Sandwich Maker, but they were well-chosen to acquaint me with what an uncaring and thoughtless person I was.

Nothing vulgar – just intensely and cleverly heated.

That heat, radiating from this misfortune, made the rest of our trip socially awkward. The majority decided she and I deserved each other.

After 450 miles we found a nice Canadian supermarket before going to our motel (where, incidentally, water with sand came from the faucets). The majority decided to send the two of us into the supermarket to buy ingredients for dinner.

Now a marvelous transformation occurred. Put into a new situation we were both familiar with – click - we became a young married couple. We agreed that a salad was the right thing for a summer evening and we set about having a good time choosing the ingredients (which did include ham and cheese).

Back at the motel there followed a pleasant meal and drinks.

There was surely much more to the racing weekend, but those details have been overwritten by the salad story.