Like everyone who's had their passport stamped a few times, I think I'm a solid traveler. But there's always a CF waiting in the woodshed and this morning it was my turn to look stupid. My train was leaving from platform 12 and for some reason I mixed that up.

As the train pulled away it was too late to jump off. Panic mode set in, but I reined it back and remembered that it's a train. There will always be a next station to hop off. So I did, then caught the next train back into town.

I think that's the cool thing about travel — there's always a mild sense that something could go terribly wrong. The only place I'm a local is Southern California, and I sometimes get very lost there. I don't try to fit in on the road, wearing the same baggy sweatshirts and ball caps that make my wife cringe at home. I know a little French and Spanish, but only enough to embarrass myself. So while I try to learn a little more each time I travel, there's always a point where the locals simply answer me in English to avoid embarrassing us both.

Anyway, the road is good for the head and there's nothing like a four-hour train ride to write the training plan for cross country season. I'm three days in and already out of books with not an English language bookstore in sight, so that's the best thing I can think of to distract myself from the real thinking that needs to be done. Eventually, that will happen. In the meantime, the next Charlie Foxtrot is right around the corner, So I have that to look forward to. Keeps a man on his toes.