Back in 1971, in my hippie days, I decided to drive up from Virginia to Cape Breton in Canada, take the ferry over to Newfoundland, and hitchhike from St. John to Port aux Basque. I got a ride to a desolate crossroads, no buildings, just the highway, low scrub, and an intersecting dirt road. I camped there overnight. Got up the next morning and hoped for a ride. After an hour of no traffic, a car came but passed me by. Later, a bakery truck approached. Donuts, I thought to myself! But it too went on past. Finally a pickup truck stopped. In it were two guys. Their job was to transport a truck transmission in the pickup truck's bed to the destination I was going. I put my backpack in the bed, and the passenger got out to let me sit in the middle. (Normally I would never sit anywhere except next to a door, and would not get separated from my gear, but . . . ). As I got in, the passenger went around to the cooler in the back and returned with theee beers. It was about 9 AM. He gave one to the driver, looked at me and said, in a Scottish brogue, "So, would you care for a beer?" I said, thanks, but it's too soon. He replied, "Oh, but it'll never be too soon, it'll only be too late."
(Needless to say, drank it)