"How was your ride?" The gentleman sitting in the corner, clad in khaki shorts and possessing a brand new camping chair, sniffed us out. He too had ridden the hard miles of the motorways aboard his motorcycle to settle at a quiet pub in his comfy cushion, pint in hand, and observe the locals. We three talked for nearly an hour before the man, whose name I daresay I can't remember, departed only to be replaced by the next 70+ year-old Brit bloke ready to chat up the Americans on Enfields. Clive was a character I will never forget. The pure definition of jolly, and as nationally proud of England as Justin is of America. After introducing us to Graham and John—one of which a visiting Kiwi, Clive extended his formal invitation, authorized by the Queen herself, for America to rejoin the United Kingdom. "All would be forgiven!" Big smiles as contained as we could muster, we said with a straight face that we will immediately notify the American government and the people of such wildly generous opportunity. Please stand by. After cider (ours) and white wine (Clive's) drained 'business' from the conversation, we mostly reminisced over motorcycles loved and lost, adventures had and hoped for, and the many Enfields that—like Harley-Davidsons to Americans—have drawn in generations of Englishmen, sufficient or shit.