Our Introduction to Canadian Hopitality

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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 ***

Canada - Prelude To Wierdness

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Blinded by anticipation, (and perhaps a touch of heat exhaustion), we journed on across the border to Galway Bay.

Beautiful country. The town of Galway Bay isn't far across the border, which is a blessing because by this time we are bushed. It's nearing 6 o'clock. The heat has really taken the spunk out of us. And if you've ever been de-spunked, you know just how uncomfortable that can be. Luckily we've already booked a room at a motel that, while it isn't exactly 4 star quality, received very high-ratings on various websites for cleanliness, quiet rooms, and comfortable beds.

Galway Bay proper is definitely a summer 'cabin on the lake' type place. No central core so to speak, just a collection of businesses and services lining both sides of the highway about a half-mile from the lake itself. As we drive through town we see several restaurants, most of them empty or closed, a good size grocery store, etc. We don't see any chain restaurants - no fast food except for what looks like a family-run drive-in, but that's okay. We try to avoid the chains when we are on the bike, preferring to spend our money locally. You know, like good little world-class consumers.

I decide to allow Sweet Alice the opportunity to redeem herself after her 'petite' foible'. I plug the address for the motel into the little digital bugger, and her soothing voice purrs the turn-by-turn. We have forgiven each other our temper from earlier in the day. Friends again and full of trust, we follow the path she has chosen and soon enough we find ourselves at said Motel.

How best to describe this establishment? It is one of those old 50's strip-type motels. You know, single-story. Faded signs. Whitewashed cinder blocks. Neon that may or may not work. Psychotic maniacs peeking out from behind curtains and giggling. But, we have reservations, and it got good reviews, and we are exhausted and sweaty. Mostly sweaty. We have now been on the bike about 11 hours, 7 of it in 100+ heat. We just want off the bike for the night. Possibly forever. I'm sure you can sympathize.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

The Things We Do For Love

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After horking a delicious road burger we noticed something odd - the temperature, which if you'll remember started out in the low 50s, and had dropped to the low 30s at the top of the pass, had firmly planted itself around 100 degrees.  I had warmed up long ago, and was feeling fine and fresh in my mesh.  Your Mom, bless her little heart, was not fairing so well.  She had taken her lining out of the jacket, shed layer after layer like a snake in spring until she was down to a T-Shirt.  She'd traded her heavy gloves for a lighter pair, and was still sweating.  Quite profusely I might add.

"Go ahead.  Say it," she said as she crammed her shed clothes into a zippered pocket on the nylon bag.

"Wouldn't think of it dear," I said and patted her on the arm.

Relief filled her eyes and I could see a little tension ease from her shoulders, "Thank you."

"Think nothing or it.  These are the things we do for love."

That brought a smile to her face.  "So, just for giggles, if you weren't so nice, what would you have said?"   

"For giggles?  Okay.  I may," I said, and busied myself with putting my gloves back on, "although it would be quite rude and unnecessary, pointed out the fact that, except for a brief time on the pass, you made the wrong choice of gear, and will now boil like a lobster for the remainder of the vacation, until you dehydrate into nothing more than a dried husk of your former self.  And I certainly wouldn't point out the fact that I had told you so.  Or, that if we had the UberBitchin' Tote 9000, I could have whipped you up an iced espresso at any given moment thereby saving you from death by thirst and at the same time searched on the Netz for how to remove sweat stains from chrome.  But I, m'lady, am a gentleman above all else, so I shan't say a thing."

She shook her head and chuckled softly.  "It's a good thing I love you so much."

For that she got a nice long hug.  I would have held her longer but she was beginning to smell a bit.  Plus she was a slightly slippery to the touch.  One sweaty, sweaty little lady.  Eww.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***