No Rest for the Wicket

*** continued from previous post ***


You ever notice how things look closer on a map?

Again we are sailing along a chain of lakes, drinking in the scenery like . . . like someone thirsty for scenery. No traffic, just miles of winding roads, forests and mountains. Picture perfect. It is a repeat of our early morning minus the primal hunger. The bike is running like a dream, Mom is relaxed on the back, and I'm shredding the corners. Life is good.

This is the vacation we sought. True, I'm a tad sleepy as my stomach tries to decide whether to digest my breakfast, or to shoot it straight out of my mouth, but all is well. I vowed to keep my ill-gotten sausage down. Not to brag, but I can handle my meats.

I notice a sign for a rest stop - thank you Ceiling Cat! - just as I had promised your Mom.

Did I tell you Canada is lousy with rest stops? All very nice, and very clean, and usually centered around some geographic or historic curiosity. Although I wonder if this is less a community service than an attempt to mask the notoriously weak Canadian bladder. It might be a government mandate. Are Canadians, by law, forced to urinate every 50 miles? Is there a compulsory hydration program of which we are unaware? Will I be questioned about my bathroom habits when I cross back into the US? ("Okay Mr. Moore, says here that you consumed 50 liters of beverages on your vacation, but we were only able to account for 42 liters. You'll have to park over there until Canada gets all of her moisture back.") How did they manage to make everything so convenient? Did someone get a grant? Was there an elected official with a potty obsession? Just what are the oversights of these bureaucrats? These things keep me up at night.

Where was I? I'm old and my mind tends to wander. And suddenly I have to pee.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***