We spend money, spin wheels and win some prizes. And look, I’m not going to judge which California is better, because it’s pretty cold and I have to go to Boston. In the United States, you can take historic Route 66 for most of the route between California and Boston. Not us, not when there is East Anglia to sail. Get your kicks mostly on the A47.
And then tragedy: there is no more gasoline. The 50 liters and a little (a full refill is 52.21 liters) lasted us 573.8 miles. The Sandero does not automatically switch to LPG. It takes a few cranks to restart the engine and an engine warning light doesn’t seem to be a big fan of its dry running, although it recovers quickly on its own.
There’s more power and torque on the LPG, but in general driving you’d be driven to notice it, especially if you’ve stopped and started again. You’ll feel a bigger difference if you flick between the two on the go.
Now LPG-only, however, we reached Boston, whose rather gleaming new football stadium is on the outskirts (14 hours, 627 miles), appropriately on Pilgrim Way. As we pass, The Pilgrims apparently have their doubts about their manager, who they later part ways with. If I had known (as a former player-manager of London Colney’s Pear and Partridge FC), I would have submitted my CV.
Instead, we head to Bermuda, not far from Nuneaton (and the MIRA Proving Ground). In a maze of industrial areas and housing estates, Bermuda Village – don’t laugh – is proving hard to find. But it’s there (5:30 p.m., 726 miles), Bermuda Road leading to Bermuda Village and with a bus circling around a small green with a mailbox on it that, if you squint a little, you could pretend you had three sides and was therefore a true Bermuda Triangle. Or not. It was two quite long days.