We'd eaten a fist full of mushrooms at a Dead show one night. After the show was over, I offered to drive home because I appeared to be the least fucked up and besides, I was the one who finally found the car. No, Dave insisted, he was fine. He drove all the way home from Sacramento without incident, even stopping at Denny's in Stockton for breakfast. The next morning he looks at me and says "I appreciate you driving home last night, man. I was ripped."