I should have paid more attention to the metric system in school

*** the journey continues ***


"Yeah," I smile, "it's been a warm one."

"Oh yeah. Been near 40 degrees here all week!"

Now I know this next part sounds cliche' but I swear it's true. He casually swats a fly on the counter with a vicious 'WHACK", then scrapes the remains onto the floor all the while maintaining eye contact. I suspect the fly has more than likely been contemplating suicide for several days, but couldn't muster the energy nor the enthusiasm until this moment.

Something he says wedges in my brain. 40 degrees? What crazy-talk is this? If it were 40 degrees I could see my breath, and all I can see is a faint stream of steam wafting lazily from your Mother.

I look at the man blankly, then I remember - Canada! Different measurement system! My brain hums and vibrates, trying desperately to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit. All that I can remember is 0 degrees Celsius is 32 degrees Fahrenheit. I madly do mental gymnastics. I carry a two. I divide by Pi. Finally I give up. 40 doesn't sound that hot to me, but what do I know? So I do what I do whenever someone is trying to impress me with a bit of knowledge that they assume I will appreciate. I whistle softly, then say "Wow".

"Yeah," he says, and starts to move around the counter. God, please let him be wearing pants! Please let him be wearing pants!

We have a good turn of fortune and he IS wearing pants. Not very attractive ones, but that's beside the point and I don't want to start criticizing his fashion. I have no idea of the local culture. This could be semi-formal dinner wear for all I know. For this is Canada - land of mystery.

"Been a scorcher all right. A real heat-wave," he adds with a slight bob of his head.

Mom and I smile and nod vacantly. I don't know about your Mom, but I'm having trouble focusing.

I think - and this is just some crazy speculation on my part - that I may be a little low on the moisture content.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Our Introduction to Canadian Hopitality

*** continued from previous post ***

I pull the Vision up to the front of the office, and we de-saddle. It takes us a couple of minutes to get the helmets off, and pry the sweat-laden jackets off our backs. I cast a cautious glance around the place. I don't know what I'm looking for, but the Border Guard's line of questioning keeps running through my head - possibly there are roving bands of agitated Canadians about - mayhap a family of vicious baboons skulking about the trees, or, more than likely considering how our day has gone so far, an ovulating T-Rex with a failed relationship and a knife.

Throwing caution to the wind I open the door and step inside the small office.

Oh goody. This should be fun.


Firstly, there is a man. The thing that catches my eye is his lack of upper garments. The gentleman is in his early 70's, balding, but with tufts of unruly hair on either side of his head that looked as if it were trying to escape. Or coalesce into wings for an escape. Very gray. Not the tufts, they are pure black, which is odd because it is his chest-hair that is gray. I don't let my eyes drift if-you-know-what-I-mean.

Please God, let him be wearing pants.

The front "desk" itself, and I use the term loosely, looks like it possibly doubled as a Formica lunch counter at some point in the not too distant past. The heat is heavy in this place. Somewhere buried deep in the rooms behind him I hear the dying gasps of an air-conditioner. Oddly, the whole office smells of bologna. Bologna, beer, and failed, failed dreams.

I try not to judge. It is very, very hot. I shudder to think of what your mother and I look like. I don't know about myself, but your mom is a sweaty, sweaty, sweaty little lady. She wears a bright yellow bandanna around her neck, and her shirt looks damp. (It is.) Her head looks like it may have been improperly cured during the formative process. That may be because of her hair, but I'm not ruling out that her skull may have become squishy in the furnace of her helmet. Her 'doo' is sort of clumped all over to one side, giving her the appearance that she had just stepped off the fore-deck of a ridiculously fast boat. Then applied a liberal coating of shellack.

I smile, and she smiles back but it looks odd, out of place, and forced.

"Hot enough for you?" He asks, and breaks into the kind of grin that causes people to get hit in the head with bricks.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

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 ***