Yes, people in the Northwest are weather wimps. Deal with it.

*** continued from previous post***


Having survived -barely - we trundled down the road.  

As we rode along, the lonely farms and empty wheat fields transitioned into miles of sparse trees, and then into dense pine forest as we approached Lake Roosevelt.  All I can say is about this particular section of the ride is that it was incredibly beautiful.  We drove along the shores of the lake close enough to catch the sparkles of reflected sunlight, tiny prisms dancing across our helmets and the body of the bike like nature's disco ball.  Here there was hardly any traffic.  This section of the trip verily defined great riding.  Plus, there was nary a tornado to be seen.  

Although one may have been hiding in the bushes.  Tornadoes are sneaky little bastards.

Yes, we were riding easy.  The only problem was, if I were to believe the readout on the dash and there was no reason to not, the temperature was now firmly planted around 12,000 degrees.  

No, it was really more like 106, but still flippin' hot.  I was broiling in my mesh, and I became truly concerned for your Mom in her heavy gear.  So, we improvised.  I stopped quite frequently, (schedule be damned), and we would drink copius amounts of water, then pull an old biker trick - we would take a bottle or two of H2O and soak Mom's handkerchief and our shirts.  As we drove along the wind would flow over our clothing evaporating the water and cooling us at the same time.  Nature's air conditioning.  

This was critical.  Especially for your Mom.  That kerchief rested against her cartoid artery, providing a direct link to her bloodflow.  This would buy us some time, but when your Mom would lean forward and say, "My, aren't the stars pretty tonight?"  I'd know she was overheating.  I would pull over, douse her with water as if she were a confused tourist at a WTO convention, and cruise back onto the road.  

I tried to enjoy the sights but your Mom's imminent death distracted me from the natural splendor a tad.  We sacrifice for love, no?


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

It's not that I'm promoting cannibalism . . .

*** continued from previous post ***

So we took a short break before we entered, what I affectionately refer to as "The Great Brown".  It's that vast area of Eastern Washington beyond the Cascade mountains stretching almost to the city limits of Spokane.  Semi-arid.  Basically flat, empty, rocky, and save for a brief period in spring - brown.  Brown as an environmentalist's lawn in July.  Brown as a eco-friendly naturally-died macrame hanger.  Brown as a Charlie.  Here the freeway is straight, and flat, and goes on forever and ever and ever and a bit further than that.  The traffic was light and everyone was behaving themselves.

  

That is to say that the next 100 miles was, no other way to put it, dead-on boring.  Bang your head against the handlebars boring.  Nothing to do but set the cruise control on the Vision and practice my mad skills of riding without hands.  It's an amazing sight and one that never fails to get a reaction from the people on the road.  I'm not sure your Mom appreciates this particular talent.  She doesn't say anything, but I can infer much from the screaming and the pounding of fists and the raking of the nails on my exposed neck as I stretch my arms out to the side like wings and make airplane noises.

"Rrrrrrooooooooommmmmmmm!!!!   Zzzzrooooooooooommmmm!!!!"

"Eeeeeeeiiiiiieeeeeee!!!!", your Mother would respond. Bam.  Bam. Bambambambambambambambam!  

"Whhooooooosssssshhhhhhhh!!!"  "VvvvvvvrrrrrrrooooooooommMMMMM!!!"

"Aaaiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!"  Bambambambambambambam.

So as you can see, we found a way to entertain ourselves.  Remember Amber, the secret to life is making your own joy no matter what the situation.

            We finally reach the town of Ritzville, where we will leave our eastern heading and turn north towards Canada.  Here we will pull off the "slab", as the freeway is referred to in the biking community, to give ourselves a much needed break and a bite to eat.  For some reason, my upper back and neck was a little sore and Mom said her arms and fists were killing her.  You just never know what muscles you use when you ride.  We saw a sign that proclaimed - and quite succiently I thought - "EATS!"  This was the place for us.  I appreciate advertising that doesn't beat around the bush.  There was no mystery here.  No 'TJ McDoolde Hackers'.  No 'Peach Tree', which, contrary to its name offers neither peaches NOR trees on its menu.  Or 'Cannibal Jacks' which I won't even get into here but take my word was quite a disappointment.  And despite what my lawyer said, I still think is open to a lawsuit for false advertising.  Plus, the staff is quite testy and uncooperative. 

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***