The Road to Hernias are Paved with Good Intentions

*** continued from previous post ***

We were starving, but sure we would find a charming restaurant just up the road.

But first, we had to make our escape. Like Ninjas. Sneaky Canadian Ninjas. Lest we forget ourselves and wake in a week or two sitting in the Pub with 'Zombie-Dude' pouring drinks for those only he can see. Quiet was the order of the day.

Eager to avoid a scene, we decided that we would PUSH the Vision far, far from the Motel so as not to wake nor rouse the Local Pitchfork Mob with the rumblings of our mighty exhaust. You know us, deep down beneath the leather and the helmets and the tattoos on our foreheads that say 'KILLER', we try to be considerate people. Mostly. The operative word being 'try'

Now, I don't know if you're aware of exactly how much the Vision weighs. The dry weight - and what the hell does that mean? What if you live somewhere it's raining all the time? Dry weight will do you no good. What you need is wet weight for a really informed decision. Or, at the very least, slightly moist weight - anyway, the dry weight of the Victory Vision is 849 pounds, give or take an ounce. The saddlebags were stuffed with easily another 45 pounds or so, the trunk was crammed with another 40 pounds and then you had that diabolical "100% FRICKIN' GUARANTEED WATERPROOF" bag and you can tack on another 25 pounds. I go 200. Your Mom is 105. The gear we were wearing, combined between us was at least 20 pounds with the armored mesh and helmets and Mom's security rock. A full tank of gas, (6 gallons), adds another 50 pounds rounded up. As you can see, if you've been doing the math, I was going to attempt to push well over 9000 pounds around with no reverse gear, no motor to help, and every inch uphill - and backwards. And why in God's name someone had coated the driveway with butter I'll never know. Perhaps it is some quaint Canadian custom of which I am unawares. Much like the Canadian propensity for human sacrifice around harvest time. Oh, those silly Canadian farmers and their festivals hearkening back to simpler days. I envy their simplicity. Any-who, I pop a hernia just thinking about it. Sherpa-ing an epileptic baby elephant - on crack - up the side of Mt. Everest wearing roller blades would be easier than rolling our beast backwards and uphill.

I pull up the kickstand and we promptly fall over.

HA! Gotcha! No, I pull up the kickstand, take a deep breath and push backwards with my legs.

And . . . nothing. Not even a budge. I try several more times without success.

"What are we going to do?" Mom asked.

"Hmmmm . . . " I pondered, "set fire to the bike and claim the insurance?"

"That would be fine, but we would be stuck in Galway Bay," she said and cast a nervous glance about, "possibly forever."

I saw her point. So through super-human strength, and a promise to the Elder Gods, (Cthulu, are you listening?), to give them my first-born son, (Jokes on them! I done been all fixapated! No more genetic wealth from this guy!), I finally got the bike rolling and managed to wrestle it far enough away from the motel that we believed we could make our escape without alerting the authorities. Which, thankfully, we did and trundled off down the highway with flowers and puppies in our hearts and a slight headache from exertion. Oh, and a major leg cramp. I was pushing 9000 pounds after all.



*** the journey continues tomorrow and comments are always welcome ***