If the first stage of grief is denial, the second is anger (maybe anger is supposed to come later, but for me it comes second). "You and your damn photos!" I yell at Brian. "I never should have let you stop to take photos. Stupid!" I grab his camera and scroll through the day's shots. "One hundred thirty-six photos. I declare this competition null and void on the grounds of photographic interference." Brian pleads some nonsense about just doing his job, but we're high up in the wilderness and we just lost and I don't want to hear it. Boss Hogg got to the farm first and now Uncle Jesse's gonna be foreclosed on, and-did he say 150 cars? Little did I know that I sent Jason and the GT-R out on the frickin' Coloradobahn.
We meet at a gas station in Lake City a mere, oh, two hours later. Jason is talking to an old-timer wearing a cowboy hat, explaining our ill-matched showdown. I say that I've just come from Telluride via Ouray while barely touching pavement the whole way, and he replies, "I reckon that if you two had started in Ouray instead of Telluride, you'd have got here right about the same time." Well, thanks for the advice.
I pull to the opposite side of the pumps and begin filling the H3T alongside the GT-R. My pump stops at 6.5 gallons, but Jason's keeps running until it clicks off at 9.7 gallons. So there is an upshot to my performance, after all. "You may have gotten here first," I tell Jason, "but if you cared about the environment, you'd have driven a Hummer."