It's ALL YOUR FAULT!

*** continued from previous post ***


"What are we going to do?" she asks, but it's not really a question. What she REALLY said was, I can't believe you didn't check this out and now here we are exhausted, wet, cold, and with no place to stay and we've forfeited a bunch of money because you're an idiot and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!

I panic. The ball is squarely in my court. I am, as our illustrious President Bush had said, the decider. I got us into this mess, and it's up to me to get us out. Silly woman trusting me. She should know better than that. I thought that I could use this line of logic to put the blame on her, and then realized there were other things in life I wanted to experience. A Canadian Hospital was not one of them. I was in the pit of despair, then - BOOM - another flash of inspiration!

"Okay, here's what we will do. We've come this far, let's give it a shot." And then, because I haven't made enough mistakes, I add, quite casually the most damning statement that I've ever uttered in my life. "Worse comes to worse, we will just turn around, find a motel, and try to get our money back tomorrow. I'm sure they'll understand if we cannot physically get to the Lodge."

I can see Mom weigh the options in her mind. On one hand, she could go along with this scheme. On the other hand, she could trick me into taking my helmet off and hit me in the head with her friend, the rock, and try to claim that I'd run away. I can see in her eyes that at this point it's a coin toss.

"Fine. You want to try it, we’ll try it. The lady inside gave me directions. She said about 5 miles out of town, beyond the Nordic Centre, is where the gravel starts. I asked her if the road was good, and she said "Well, good for a car. It's hard-packed. I don't know how it would be on a motorcycle and honestly I haven't been up there in years." Her eyes pierce me like an ice-pick in peanut butter. "That was a direct quote."

I become distracted by the ‘Nordic Center’, but shake the thought out of my head. I have more important matters to contemplate.

*** the journey continues ***

In The Mountains of Madness

*** the journey continues ***


I can feel something building in your Mom. Something dark and disquieting. Something powerful and ominous and thoroughly unpleasant.

"Oh for God's sake. This is ridiculous.” She punched me on the shoulder but there was little enthusiasm in the act. “I saw a sign a bit down the highway for an ‘Information and Tourist Centre’. Let's just head over there, I'll go inside and I'll get directions."

This was the best idea that I'd heard all day. "Suz," I say, "you my dear are absolutely brilliant! No wonder I love you so much!"

She looks at me. Or maybe through me. "Sure. Whatever." She casts a weary eye about our surroundings, "Let's just get to the Lodge."

With the optimism that can only be mustered by the seriously mentally ill, we wheel the bike around and in a few minutes are pulling into the parking lot of the Information Centre to get the low-down on all things touristy. I don't even mind that the place is spelled all Frenchy.

"Tell you what," Mom says as she pulls off her helmet, "you stay here with the bike and I'll just pop in. I'll be back in a jiffy."

I think this has less to do with saving time, and more about having a short break from me, but I'm smart enough not to press the issue. "That would be grand sweetie. Thank you."

She heads off towards the building. Slightly shuffling, shoulders hunched. The day has certainly taken its toll. But I'm positive this will soon be just a memory that we can laugh about later.

I'm sure I make a sight, sitting in the parking lot in the pouring rain on a weird shaped bike, arguing with a GPS, but I could not care less. Any modesty had been beaten out of me long, long ago. Just for giggles I plug the PO Box into Sweet Alice. To my surprise, it actually registers on the screen! Although it is obviously wrong, because it shows the location up in the mountains where there are no roads. Yet, I'm encouraged that the Lodge is around here somewhere and not an internet scam as I was beginning to suspect.

The minutes tick by. And tick. Then tock. And eventually they drag on and there is no sign of your mother. I'm actually beginning to get worried. What if my premonitions were right, but I had the wrong Tourist Centre? What, if at the very moment, my loving wife of 28 years was being all molestered by cannibals? Canadian cannibals at that?

Right then and there I began to hate Canada.

*** the journey continues ***

It's Never Too Early To Suck Up To Our Eventual Robotic Overlords - All Hail Klatu 9!

*** continued from previous post ***


I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."

Uh oh.

Ever so quietly, barely audible, I hear the sultry Aussie voice of the GPS whisper "Your not gonna find it Mate. Take my advice, turn around."

"Shut up," I mutter, now frantically pressing the scroll buttons hoping beyond hope that I had somehow missed the listing.

"Game oveh. Yer screwed. I suggest suicide," purrs my digital Sweet Alice.

I lean close to the screen, "Shut the hell up before I rip you out by your wires and chuck you into the ditch."

"Who are you talking to?", Mom asks.

"Nobody," I reply, a bit more harshly than I intended.

Like syrup being poured from a bottle, the GPS whispers, "Tell you what Mate. How 'bout if'n I direct you to the nearest Hospital 'cause yer gonna need one inna minute."

Mom leans forward. "Are you strangling the GPS?"

I look to my hands. Unconsciously, they've gravitated towards the GPS and are now engaged in some serious squeezing. "Umm . . . no. I think there's a loose wire, I was just trying to fix it."

Even through the rain and the helmets I can hear your Mom sigh.

“Strangling a helpless piece of technology. You've gone round the bend, eh? Toys in the attic and all that? You f'ed it up right good now, ain't ya?", whispers my sweet Aussie princess.

I may have started to weep. I don't know. Suddenly inspiration strikes!

"Suz! We have the confirmation email in the saddle bag. The address and phone number are on there. I'll just plug the address directly into the GPS and whoopsie-doodles, we will be there in a flash!"

Ha Ha! Take that you commie-pinko GPS! Your taunts mean nothing now! I've beaten you at your game for I am an AMERICAN! I am from THE STATES! Our kind created you, and our kind will destroy you at will! Well, until the eventual takeover by our Robotic Overloads. Which we all know is a given. All hail Klatu 9!

*** the journey continues ***

There May Be Trouble Brewing On The Home Front

*** continued from previous post ***


We rolled through the city limits of Carnack, (motto: Hey! You just drove through Banff at insane speeds! Well done! Enjoy your stay! Bye!"), and Mom, in her ever inquisitive, and I must admit that at this point in the day, somewhat annoying voice, leans forward on the bike and asks, "Thank God. I'm beat. So, where exactly is this place?"

Hmmmmm . . . that's a really good question. As a man is want to do, I supply an answer, even if it is less than helpful. "It's in Carnack."

She doesn't hesitate, she just pulls back and bitch-slaps the back of my helmet. Hard.

"Oh," I say, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "You mean the address. Well tell you what, we will find a parking lot, I'll consult Sweet Alice, (how I long to hear her sultry Aussie voice!), and I'll have you warm, dry, and dozing peacefully in half an hour. Hour tops."

"Okay," she says, but I can hear the suspicion thick in her voice as she answers, much like the subtext in the voice of a film-noire' gumshoe grilling his prime suspect. And not the hot girlfriend suspect. The ugly thug suspect.

With all haste I find an empty parking lot, shut down the bike, and pray that the oracle of the GPS will save us.

I bring up the map on the touch screen. Sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed. We are in Canada. More importantly, we are in Carnack. I punch the button for "Local Attractions", then "Amenities", then the sub-menu for "Hotels". An alphabetical list of all the wonderful places to stay in this paradise are displayed crisply and precisely on the screen. "Here we go," I say with confidence, "I'll just scroll down and find. . ."

Well that's curious. There is no "Hidden Valley Lodge" on the list. I don't panic, because I know it will be listed under "Lodge, Hidden Valley". I chuckle at my mistake and Mom returns a hopeful, yet weary smile. The rain is dripping down the side of her helmet, resembling - although I would never tell her this - a garden fountain gone bad.

I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."

Uh oh.


*** the journey continues ***

A Non-Refundable Deposit Is A Harsh Mistress

*** continued from previous post ***



On reaching the bathroom the pressure of having to pee increased ten-fold because - well because I was near a toilet. See my bladder, in anticipation, was about 6 steps ahead of my body. I tried to explain that I had 57 frickin' layers of clothing on, and that it would take me a few minutes to disrobe, but my bladder was having none of it. So I hurriedly, and I do mean hurriedly, stripped off as many layers as possible while crossing my legs and bouncing up and down in the stall.

I will not go into details, but you can ask any man and he will agree, that one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a much needed pee. I know it's not the same for women. But for men? If you could bottle that feeling or put it in pill you could make millions.

Success! Having accomplished my mission, I struggled for the next 10 minutes trying to re-layer. I may have once again put the top of my Frogg-Toggs on my legs but I don't know. The euphoria of warmth, and dryness, and an empty bladder all blended into one magical blur and before I knew it I was back out in the great hall looking for your Mom.

I finally found her standing outside like the trooper she is, ready to get back on the bike. I was relieved to see that she hadn't been eaten.

"Where," I asked her, "did all those frickin' people come from?"

"Well, I overheard some of the women talking. Evidently there was a tour bus, or maybe three, that dropped them off here and they were waiting for another one to pick them up."

I wondered, was this a habit of the Canadian Tourism Industry to randomly abandon the elderly at Tourist Centers? You couldn't blame them. Old people can be a real pain in the keester with all the "I'm tired" and "I'm hungry" and "Dear God George isn't breathing!" It just never stops.

"Come on," Mom said, "time to hit the trail."

Against all common sense we saddled up and hit the wet, cold, misty road. Again. We were now so far behind schedule that it wasn't even funny. But the lodge beckoned. A non-refundable deposit is a harsh mistress.


*** the journey continues ***

For I Am From THE STATES!!!!!

*** continued from previous post ***


It's about this time that I come to my senses, and realize I'm wet. Wet and cold. Wet and cold and confused and not entirely convinced that we are not about to encounter cannibals. Don't let anyone ever tell you that hypothermia can't be fun. I wanted to curl up next to the bike, on the black tarmac of that wet parking lot, and take a nice long nap. Slip sweetly into the river of sleep to ride forever on dream currents of fancy. The only thing that stopped me was that nagging urge to pee. The human body is an amazing thing. All kinds of checks and balances.

So rather than drift into oblivion, I busied myself locking up the bike, getting my collapsible cane from the trunk, and making my own way towards the Centre which, although it is less than 200 yards away - or 7892 grams in Canadianeese - I can barely see through the rain and the fog and the mist. But I steel myself for I am from 'THE STATES' and will never give in, never give up, and never. . . ummm never . . . ummm . . . never go to bed without brushing my teeth.

Did I mention this place is big? Huge. As I approach the massive, wood framed double glass doors I see a family milling about the entry way. Milling is like loitering only with more hand gestures. The family consists of three kids - two adults. Or maybe two adults, two kids and an evil troll - I didn't get a good look. Concern is written on their face like talentless graffiti on a police car window. Have you ever watched a dog trying to cross a busy highway? That was them, trying to make a break for their vehicle between deluges and sprint for the car.

As I do the three-prong shuffle to the door they held each other close, the adults clutching their children's shoulder with the grip of a paranoid hawk. Evidently I was the deciding factor in their little dilemma. Right before I stepped up on the sidewalk they made a dash, flying past me with brochures touting "See Canada's Unspoiled Wilderness", and "Visit Lake Louise in Banff National Park", and "STDs The Canadian Way!" positioned over their heads like cub scout pup-tents.

Before you ask, I have no idea what's the difference between Canadian STDs and regular, good ol' USA STDs. I don't think the family picked them for their content as the publication was large enough to shelter at least two of the trolls.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

649 Liters Per Hour in the Rain. Again.

*** continued from previous post ***


So I closed my eyes and change lanes at 649 LPH. LPH. That's Liters Per Hour. Finally, I'm getting the hang of this Satanic measurement system. My eyes are closed because I'm not stupid. I don't want to see death coming. After a few seconds of leaning I figure I'm either in the right lane or on the shoulder about to plummet into a ditch. Either way we are coming to a stop, the question is how fast? You know how much I like surprises.
The gods were favoring us and I maneuvered safely to the right turn lane and gently braked to take the exit to the Centre. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn't realized how tired I was, or how much I needed to use the Loo until we were circling the building, looking for a parking spot.

This wasn't a rest area - no small port-o-potty for this place - it was a huge building with a parking lot that could accommodate more than a few large buses. However, only a few cars populated the stalls nearest the building and we had our choice of where to put the bike. I pulled into a slot a bit away from the other steaming vehicles. Mom hopped off the back the second the bike stopped moving. Evidently she wasn't kidding when she said she her need was urgent.

"Sorry. Come and meet me inside," she said, and sprinted in the direction of the door. Although 'sprinted' may be too strong of a word. She hadn't even stopped to take off her helmet. Which was probably a good thing, for now there was no rain - we were simply living in a lake with tiny air spaces between the water. How can I convey how she looked as she semi-bolted towards the rest room? Words fail me but I shall try my best. She looked large, bulbous, and sported a cherry-red helmet-shaped head. Layers of over-sized outerwear. Frogg-Toggs that look like a haz-mat suit, and a strange, strange waddle to her walk that I can't erase from my mind to this day.

I turn away. I can't look anymore. What have I done to the woman I love?

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

A Cannibalistic Canadian House of Horrors . . . . Or Not.

*** continued from previous post ***


Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.

Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.

In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.

I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."

I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

God Shuffled His Feet, And Looked Around

*** continued from previous post ***


He turns to the man standing beside him, and points to me with a hitch of his thumb. "This guy knows bikes." To which the crowd nods in agreement.

I would like to look at the scenery as we cross the lake, but my adoring fans will have none of that. I am now THE NICE BIKER FROM THE STATES. I sneak a quick glance here, a look over my shoulder at the far shore there. As the ride progresses there are two things that I DO notice however, and they are:

1. Your Mom is a now a celebrity.

2. Suddenly, it's getting dark. Very, very dark. And the water, which a few minutes before was as flat as a North Dakota ski resort, is now white-capped and slapping the sides of the boat.

Well isn't that curious, I think to myself before I'm dragged back into conversation.

"So tell me," one of my new-found friends asks, "after buying a bike like that, you must have ridden a Molokoi B-30. Right?"

You would think so," I say without missing a beat having not a clue as to what a Molokoi B-30 is, "but regrettably, I never had the chance."

"Really?" he asks, somewhat shocked. "They were all over the place in the late 70s and early 80s. Everybody rode one."

"Well, there you go." Hardly noticing, I brush a few raindrops off of my bald pate' with the sweep of a fingerless glove. "That would have been about the time I was with the crew in El Salvado - - -" I feign a look of utter shock, with an exaggerated motion, I bite my lip. I bow my head, and bang on my brow with my fist. "Whoopsie. Let's pretend I didn't say that, shall we?"

They all nod in agreement. I could have gone all Pirate on their asses and taken over the boat had I wanted, they were mine. You dodged one there, Canadian Maritime Fleet! But alas . . . as you have no doubt noticed, my quick wits and the ability to lie on the fly has painted me, yet again, into a bit of a corner.

I smile. All teeth and charm. I can't wait to hear what I'm going to say next.

Luckily, right at this particular moment, God intervenes. And as God is wont to do, takes a righteous whiz over the whole of creation.

And the rains . . . the rains they came a pouring down.

*** the journey continues on 11/17/2011 ***

With Enough Speed I Could Make It

*** continued from previous post ***


Finally the line to board the boat begins to move. Slowly. Very slowly. So slow in fact that it made me contemplate if driving a 900,000 pound bike down an incredibly steep slope with Canadians fore and aft was really such a good idea. The brakes on the Vision are great . . . but man, did my legs wear out. I had to paddle that puppy most of the way.

Of course, the insanely steep hill bottoms out and then climbs up an INSANELY steep ramp up to the level of the boat. For a moment I want traffic ahead of me to clear so I can gun this baby. Catch some air. I think if I did it right, hit the angle of the ramp at just the right speed I could probably not kill us.

Probably.

We wait our turn and the Ferry-folk point us to where we should park the bike. The space they have allotted us is maddingly small, and they want me to pull so far ahead that the tire is almost touching the bulkhead. It is then that I notice something is amiss. Something is very, very wrong. The staff manning the Ferry are . . . well . . . there's no other way to put it - they're smiling. Smiling and friendly. Instantly my spidey-sense tingles. It's a trap of some sort, of that I'm sure. I've ridden enough ferries in my day to come to understand how ferry staff should behave. They do not smile. They do not make eye contact. They sigh a lot. They're armed. They have all the personality of a pit-bull PMSing. I tense - just exactly what is your game, Canada? What diabolical schemes do you have for the people from THE STATES? Will they eat us? Are we the 'afternoon tea' for this boatload of maple-leaf worshiping hockey sacks?

Turns out my fears were unfounded. They were just nice. I'm not used to that kind of crap. I find it unsettling.

So we park and mom debikes. Or disbikes. Or crawls off the frickin' thing. Take your pick.

Another motorcycle pulls up behind us. It's a Suzuki S-50. They used to call them 'Marauders', I think. It's quite a bit smaller than an 800cc Suzuki C-50 that you ride - a bullet-proof cruiser if ever there was one - but it is still a good solid bike none-the-less. The person riding it is a young woman, and we find that she is very sweet and very shy. We strike up a friendly conversation, and I can't stop thinking of how much she reminds me of you and how much I wish your sister and you were here with us.


*** the journey continues - stay tuned ***

A Bevy of Beavers

*** continued from previous post ***


"The boat runs every half-hour. Or every hour." She pauses. "Or maybe hour-and-a-half." She shrugs. "It'll get here when it gets here." She looks at the long line of cars in front of us, and looks and the semi's backing up behind us. "Hope we all fit. It isn't a very big boat."

In my mind's eye I picture a smallish canoe with a Canadian Mountie in the bow, decked to the nines in his traditional uniform. The canoe powered by tame beavers. Now there's a thought: can you tame a beaver? That would ROCK! I would lash like six tame beavers to a rowboat and have them pull me around. Ah someday . . . the good life. What would you call a group of beavers? I think a bevy. A bevy of beavers. A bevy of beavers at my beck and call.

Damn I crack me up.

Mom and I prepare ourselves for a long, long delay. We hadn't figured this little escapade into our schedule, and although it is still early in the day I'm beginning to get a bit concerned about exactly what time we are going to arrive in Carnack, Alberta. We have Glacier and part of Banff National Parks to drive through, and although we will be on the Trans-Canada highway most of the time, I really, REALLY, want to get there before nightfall. For various reasons. Not the least of which is I promised your Mom.

Suddenly the girls let out a squeal. "Oh . . . there's the Ferry Grandma! It's coming!"

I look out into the brilliant blue water and am greeted with a pleasant surprise: There, skimming across the lake, gliding like a back-handed pimp-slap on a sweaty thug's face, is a ferry that looks like it will hold about 50 cars. Plenty of room. It's a one-deck, flat-bottomed craft with an elevated wheel-house off to the right side. Very old school, yet it looks fairly new. I notice it's hauling some serious ass in the water. It is, after all, staffed by the same speed-crazed maniacs that drive the roads around in these parts.

The Ferry is moving faster than even I had realized, and before you know it everyone has bidden adieu to their "line friends", crawled back into their vehicle, and started their engines. Mom and I hurriedly gear up, climb on the bike, and wait for the next phase of our adventure. But you know that odd feeling you get when you've been in line with someone and the conversation has run its course and then you realize that YOU'RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE SO YOU ARE GOING TO BE WITH THEM FOR A WHILE YET ONLY NOW IT'S AWKWARD BECAUSE YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY?

Yeah. That's how people were looking at us. Like they might just sit in their cars, pretending to be engrossed in what has become the most fascinating steering wheel they have ever seen, in order not to have to notice us standing outside their window. The Ferry, in all its glory, has no seating - no room at all really except for the deck which is now lousy with Canadians.

It takes a bit for the Ferry to unload. There are 18-wheelers. Campers. SUVs. Cars and delivery vans and trucks galore. We even get to see a small rear-end accident between a camper/trailer and a rental car as they exit the boat, so that's a bit of a spectacle. Really - you can't buy entertainment like that. We all slow and gawk as we board. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have giggled like a maniac at the people exchanging insurance information, but what's done is done. You can't put the cat back in the box. It does no good to close the barn door after the horse has run away. Unless you want to spite the horse in case it wanders back. But if you do that, you also need to reinforce that you are spiting the horse, because as you well know, subtlety is usually lost on an equine. It would probably be best to tape a sign to the barn door that reads "I'M LOCKING THE BARN DOOR SO YOU CAN'T GET BACK IN. SO --- FUCK OFF HORSE!".

Seriously, you can't be too blunt with a horse.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Motorcycles, Spontaneous Combustion and the 'Pfffftttt' Years

*** continued from previous post ***


I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."

Of course, as is normal, she then proceeds to tell us every horror story in her repertoire associated with a motorcycle. It's mandatory you know. When people do this, all I hear is the line from 'Christmas Story', "You'll put your eye out with that!" Evidently, she had known many a good man that had, through no fault of their own, spontaneously combusted while riding a motorcycle. But not before their legs were ripped off by vicious moles. And their arms, well, they simply fell off. Fell like over-ripe plums in a summer breeze. Not really a reason for the arm thing other than they were on a bike. She never came out and said it, but strongly implied that what else could one expect from such a lifestyle?

Once she finishes with her itemization of accidents, deaths, severed limbs, halitosis and chronic constipation, we strike up a proper conversation. She's Native American. Although in Canada, "Indians", as they are sometimes referred to by the less educated, are called "Carl". No wait . . . that's not right. They are referred to as "First Nation People". Although she calls herself an Indian. And maybe Carl. The sociological structure of Canada is highly confusing to me.

She looks at our license plates. "Oh, you're from THE STATES!"

Yes. Yes we are. And we are not armed. Probably. Mostly.

We continue talking. We learn that she and her granddaughters, who are now running back up the hill - at a pace that makes me want to sweat or puke, I can't decide - have been camping for the last week with their extended family at an annual reunion. I think she said there were 60 or 70 people at this particular gathering. I'm impressed. I could barely manage the 11 of us in Winthrop. For three days. I give her a silent, "Well done good lady, well done."

The girls have now joined us. Sweeties. Probably 10 and 12 or 13, but not in that stage of what I fondly refer to as the "Pfffffttttttt" years. As in, whenever you ask a question of a child in this stage of development, you get the same answer. "How was school today?" Answer: "Pfffffftttttttt." "Would you like some toast?" "Pffffffffttttttttt." "Shall I kill you with a brick, or would you prefer to be dumped by the side of the road to be ravaged by a homicidal UPS driver with a speech impediment?" "Pffffffttttttt."

We chatter away. Time passes. Seasons change.

I ask Carl how often the boat runs, and how much it costs.

"Oh, it doesn't cost anything. There's no roads up here you see. No way to get across the lake. So the government has to provide some way across, and there's no way they could charge for that." She then chuckles.

I don't say anything out loud, but I beg to differ. In THE STATES they would have found a way to charge you, tax you, and made you feel guilty for even driving up here in God-knows-where in the first place.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Chapter 4 - FERRY OF THE DAMNED

* * * after a short mid-winter break, we return to our story with Chapter 4 of the ongoing saga * * *


A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.

We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.

Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?

"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."

Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.

"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."

I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."

The Ballad of Toad-Splat Curve

*** continued from previous post ***

Where was I?

Oh! The rest stop!

Okay, so we come to the rest stop beside this absolutely GORGEOUS blue-sparkled lake nestled at the base of a particularly spectacular mountain. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, at least I think they are. Canadians like to drive fast. I mean FAST. No, even faster than that! So I can't really hear too much other than an occasional sonic-boom as yet another SUV blows by.

There are two driving speeds in Canada: One; so slow you want to tear your face off, and two; so fast you want to tear their face off. It's like the 'Fast and the Furious' without the 'Furious'. More like the 'Fast and Extremely Cordial'. But I'm from "THE STATES", so, I'm a rebel - an 'Merican. I go any damn speed I want. I shift out of Warp 3, slow, make the turn, and glide down the gently sloping parking lot to the edge of the lake, do a quick "swoosh" of a u-turn, and then point the bike uphill for an easy egress.

There is one other car here, with a young woman that casts furtive and concerned glances in our direction, but relaxes as we de-gear and she hears us talk to each other in loving tones. It would have been great fun if Mom would have jumped off the bike, ripped off her helmet, and back-handed me as she screamed, "Why you stop the bike bitch? Did I TELL you to stop the bike?". But alas, she does not, so we are immediately cast as 'the-cute-older-couple-on-the-motorcycle-that-are-obviously-in-love-and-having-a-great-time-and-will-probably-not-stab-me-in-the-heart'.

I know, it's a curse, but someone has to bear the burden of giving the world hope - might as well be us. The point being, I watched her visibly relax. A little. Although, somehow I had a feeling this girl was in a constant state of flummox.

She is in her twenties. Are all women in Canada in a perpetual state of mid-20s? Probably. Although, on second glance this young lady might have been a bit older. Not more than 35 anyway. Slender, but not with the 'I-just-ate-a-sandwich-and-I'll-be-full-for-a-week-unless-I-throw up' kind of look, but rather a 'I'm-very-active-and-I-like-to-hike-and-listen-to-Dave Mathews-on-my-Ipod-and-I've-had-lattes-named-after-me-in-the-coffee-shop-where-I-play-my-guitar-on-Saturday-afternoons-so-I'm-more-hip-than-you-are' look. More than likely a Vegan. She doesn't have the look of meat about her, if you know what I mean.

Mom and I walk down to the edge of the lake and the girl, with some alarm in her voice, yells, "Watch out for the toads!"



*** the journey continues tomorrow. Those who comment will be eaten. ***

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 ***

Welcome to the Tomb

*** continued from previous post ***

Right about then I spot a sign for "Krakland's Tomb".

(I don't think that was the real surname, but it will suffice for our story.) Just a small blue sign with an arrow pointing up a tiny road that spiraled up the mountain. Finally, something interesting! Who can pass up something like that? I mean, it's a TOMB! I could have ignored a sign alerting me to "Krakland's Grave", or "Krakland's Final Resting Place", or "Krakland's Remains", but a TOMB? I would have sooner passed up a road-side stand giving out free money.

Plus -and I can't emphasize this enough - your Mother had begun to nervously tap her rock against the back of my head. I knew a little diversion would do us both good.

So, I turn up my least favorite surface - a gravel road - (I KNOW what I said, so hush) and carefully wind our way up the side of said majestic mountain. After a bit the roadway widened into a packed-dirt parking lot and sure enough there's a sign pointing to "Whose-his-head's Tomb".

So. Flippin'. Bizarre. Especially at 8:00 in the morning and malnourished to boot.

Here, on the side of the mountain, nestled with boulders, and dirt, and scrub vegetation, and the primal stink of the wild - with absolutely nothing else around - is a beautiful garden ringed by a high, wrought iron fence. A garden full of flowers and benches and presumably a Tomb, but the gate is locked. Evidently you can't visit the dead until 9 AM on weekdays.

We could peer through the fence and speculate on what we weren't able to see. It looked fascinating and very Zombie-ish at the same time. I mean who hasn't seen countless movies wherein a nice couple on a huge, futuristic motorcycle accidentally wanders up the side of a mountain to an elaborate tomb only to be eaten in the next scene? Amiright? It was just so utterly cliche' it made my fillings hurt.


*** the journey continues tomorrow and remember, comments are always appreciated ***

Hungry . . . So Very Hungry . . . .

*** continued from previous post ***

After we have satisfied the needs of the bike, we cruise up the street looking for a place to eat. That cracker had done its best, but it was no match for the raw beauty of Canada. We were famished at 5:30, we were now bordering on insanely hungry. If we didn’t find food soon I might have to consider eating your Mother.

Now, it is at this point that I should explain that all of Stonekeep is spread along one road that nestles against the base of a mountain, crosses a bridge over the Columbia River, and picks up its journey on the distant side of the valley. What I'm trying to say is - it ain't that big. But it is sprinkled over about 3 miles in a long, U-shaped strip. Still, by Canadian standards this is Gotham.

We spot fast food - closed at 8 AM in the morning. There are pizza places, Greek restaurants, pubs galore. There are Delis. There are Steak Houses, Italian restaurants, and a couple of seafood joints. But - and this is a big one - nary a chain restaurant nor breakfast cafe to be seen. Thus begins, what Mom and I lovingly call the new vacation game of "Where in the Hell is somewhere to eat?" We never spoke of it, but visions of the night before sprang into our heads like ill-trained Golden Retrievers that had just horked down a bottle of Ritalin from frazzled little Jimmy's backpack.

After scooting up the road, then crossing the river, it became apparent that we had run out of town. There were scattered houses, and at one point we thought of just pulling up in random driveway, and knocking on the door. We were fairly sure that the residents of said house would be too polite to deny us a Poptart. Or, Eggs Benedict. Maybe Prime Rib, we wouldn't be choosy.

We'd wasted about 30 minutes on this little hunt, this early morning exercise in futility. Agitation spread over us like a spilled glass of whiskey at the dinner table. I tried not to think of our schedule, but I couldn't help it. Today was THE long day. No time for lolly-gagging.

Right about then I spot a sign for "Krakland's Tomb".

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

It's All In A Name

*** continued from previous post ***


Now that we were putting Galway Bay in our mirrors we both relaxed a little.

I can't tell you how gorgeous the day broke. There are no words. It was the magic moment - the first light seeping into the landscape bathing every mountain, every tree and rock and transient sprawled in a ditch with the hyper-reality of razor sharp detail. We floated along incredibly wide roads engineered to perfection with nary a pothole nor frost-heave in sight. Our spirits soared as the Vision carried us along, effortlessly climbing up rugged valleys, through dense cotton mist hanging from the sides of granite peaks, only to descend to lake country where the road would meander through hamlets along emerald shores, skittering through dark forest and deep meadows as the black-ribbon propelled, no . . . commanded us along its path. Lulled us Siren-like with the rhythmic twist and turns and sweeps and climbs of a road hungry for travelers and adoration. I swear that a couple of times I heard the musical notes of divine communication, (You know, BAA - DAA!!!) as we would glide around a corner to be surprised by a view even more stunning, more incredible than the last. The bike hummed beneath us. The sun shone upon us. The road was our partner, and begged us to rush along its snaking length.

We didn't even care that we were starving.

I should have realized that we were being charmed into a false sense of security. But oh no, ever the "I'm-shoveling-through-all-of-this-crap-because-I-know-there-must-be-a-pony-in-here-somewhere" kind of guy, I cried "It's good . . . it's good", and shed a silent tear of gratitude behind my helmet's shield.

After a couple of hours in this land of dreams and "Tim Hortons" (although, none that we could find), we rolled off one of the mountain passes into the small town of Stonekeep.

Stonekeep! God I love those Canadian names! We have Federal Way. They have Revelstoke. We have Ritzville. (Which, does NOT live up to it's name in any way.) They have Castlegar and Calgary, Dead Man's Flats and Crowsnest Pass.

The Great White North must fuel the imagination. Either that or they've been reading way too many Fantasy novels and Dime-Store Westerns.

We pull into Stonekeep, find a gas station, and pause for a much needed fill-up, a leg stretch and enough food to feed a circus.


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

Told you we should have packed more

*** continued from previous post ***

We escape the Deli with our souls intact. Barely.

Mom communicates all that needs to be said in one word: "Burgers."

I'm relieved, the Drive-in looked a tad old, but not that bad. As we drove closer we noticed. . . AT LEAST 75 FRICKIN' PEOPLE LINED THREE ROWS DEEP AT THE WINDOWS. We drove down - the place was empty. We come back ten minutes later - it's the cast of 'High School Musical' with grips and drivers and demanding stage-mothers all vying for grease and cheese.

It's a sign. We give up. Well played Galway Bay. You've defeated two weary, slightly crazy travelers. From THE STATES. I hope you're happy.

Back in our room, with the door shut, curtains pulled, and air-conditioner blasting, we regain a bit of composure. By this time it's late. It may even be next week for all we know. Time has ceased to exist. I can't let the day end like this. I won't let the day end like this. It is up to me to salvage this vacation.

I struggle to my feet and journey the 10 steps to the motel office. As I walked I remembered our suicidal fly friend from earlier. I now understand. Perhaps Dave would take pity on me and smack me with a rolled up paper as well. No matter, all I need is something to sustain us. I think I saw a pop machine in there somewhere. Or it may have been a heat induced hallucination. I didn't care. Shirtless-old-dude may be my only hope.

I pull open the door to the office and a blast of slightly cooler air rolls over me. There is a woman behind the Formica now. Dave is nowhere to be seen, I don't know where he's gone . . . possibly back to the parallel universe from whence he came.

I am ecstatic to spot an upright glass-door cooler, like you would find in any grocery store, stocked full of muffins and bagels and fruit. Saved! I smile, go to the cooler and start loading my arms with all things fruity and carby.

"Excuse me," the woman says, none too kindly as I ogle an apple, "that's not for sale," and sucks a bit of food from her front tooth." (Yes, tooth. Singular.) It's for the continental breakfast in the morning."

WTF? CONTINENTAL breakfast? In a one-story cinder-block motel in Galway Bay, BC? Really? CONTINENTAL? I'm not ashamed to say that a small "Eeeep!" escaped through my clenched teeth and slid past my lips all Nancy Drew like. "Okay" I sigh, heavily. "How about the bagels and muffins?"

"Same deal.

It is then that I realize I may have to commit a crime. I wonder what the prisons in Canada are like? Probably much like the US, only they're polite when they rape you. I try a different tack. "You know, we're staying here tonight, and leaving very early in the morning. It wouldn't be a stretch to think that if we were staying later in the morning we would certainly be attending your continental breakfast. So . . . could we have our bagel and a muffin now please?"

The woman looks puzzled. "But they're for the breakfast in the morning," she repeats, as if this explains everything.

In my imagination, I'm pounding my fists on the side of my head. Or her head. Whatever. Yet I remain the very epitome of patience and international good will. "Okay. Look. If we were here in the morning, we could have all the bagels and muffins we wanted, is that right?"

"Well, within reason," she says.

I nod in agreement. "We certainly could have ONE bagel and ONE muffin, right? So, can't we pretend," I look at the clock on the wall, "that I'm just really, really early?"

I have hope. That's some sound, sound reasoning right there. I mean seriously, I'm not asking her to empty the till.

She narrows her eyes and says, slowly, as if talking to a complete idiot, "But those are for the continental breakfast in the morning for the motel guests."

Inside I scream and commit a crime of which I'm not proud. Suffice it to say that the Coroner would be quite surprised at what you could fit up a Canadian's wazoo. I could see no matter how persuasive I was there were no bagels or muffins on the dinner menu.

Fine. Forget the food. I try once again. "You know, all we really want is something cold to drink. How about the Cokes and Dr. Pepper?"

"That," she says with a smile, "I can sell you."

This makes no sense to me, but in order not to kill the positive momentum I've got going I say, "Great!", and pull out my wallet.

"Umm . . . All I have is American money, is that okay?"

I can't quite describe the look that passed over her face, but it was much like she had just experienced an ill smell in an elevator and heavily suspected it had originated with me. I'm a proud man, but this was not time for hubris or ego. I beg her to take my useless American money in exchange for three ice-cold cans of pop. (Yes I said pop. Screw soda. I'm from the Northwest. Deal with it.) I'm fixated on those drinks. That's really all I want. Something cold and familiar. After some hesitation, and a fair amount of disgust, she caves to my pleadings and accepts my pathetic American currency.

You ever tried to carry three cans of pop, sans bag, with a cane? I shall leave it up to your imagination.

Triumphant, like the mighty hunter returning to his clan, I bring the cold nectar-of-the-Gods back to your Mother. I approach her cautiously, warily. She has that wild look in her eye again, and her head still hasn't sprung back to it's proper shape. I drop to my knees and raise the mighty can of Dr. Pepper over my head. The provider returnith. Victorius. A kill of carbonated beverages as a supplication.

The offering appeases her.

"Okay," I sigh. "What do you want to do about dinner?"

"Well, I noticed some crackers in the bike. But not very many." She takes a long pull from her drink. "You know, usually I have all kinds of snacks. Beef Jerky. Peanut Butter. Candy. Cheese. More candy. Trail Mix. Nuts. A rasher of bacon. But you were the one that insisted on packing light."

I detect a hint of sarcasm and reproach in her voice. I know, hard to believe but it's true. I wonder just how long she's been waiting to make this particular point. Probably since we left the house.

She swirls vindication mixed with cold Dr. Pepper in her mouth and smiles.

The day is lost. I'm defeated.

We get the crackers and each of us take one - just one - for our evening repast. We chew slowly, in silence, and contemplate the day.

At least the bed is comfortable, and I has my Nets.

Tomorrow, I vow, will be different.

I mean really, could this trip get weirder?

--- END OF CHAPTER TWO ---


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Or Monday. I have a busy weekend. Quit complaining. I posted a long one today to hold you over. So . . . yeah. Okay, gotta go. The phones ringing. ***

The Power of Canada compels thee!!

*** continued from previous post ***


Back on the bike now, we cruised up and down the highway, looking for someplace to eat. People began to point as we rumbled by them for the fourth, fifth, even sixth time. We didn't want burgers, so we passed by the drive-in. Mom didn't want Greek food as it doesn't sit well with her when we are motorcycling. I heartily agreed. We spotted a Pizza place off the main drag, spent five precious minutes navigating and doing u-turns on the bike, to discover it was take-and-bake only. We became more frustrated by the minute. Although, had it been three hours earlier, we could have bought a double-cheese and thrown that sucker on the blacktop. About 10 minutes and the crust would have been crispy.

We traveled the strip again. Finally, we decided to just go to the grocery store, (it has a big sign that says 'Deli' prominently displayed out front), and just pick up something to take back to the room.

At this point, mom is tired and I'm getting cranky. And when I say tired, I mean really, really tired. And when mom is that tired . . . well . . . I'm Atilla The Hun with hemorrhoids. Or so she tells me.

So we wander into the grocery store. I use the term 'grocery' in the broadest terms possible.

There are a bunch of tourists picking over the shelves, all in a hurry - frantic even. Maybe the animals the border guard was talking about come and attack after dark. That would explain it, for the sun was setting. Or, and this is much more likely, the town was lousy with Vampires.

There is a large, and I do mean large - no, even larger than that - section of beer, wine, and hard liquor. Mom doesn't say it out loud, but I can clearly see she's contemplating taking to the hooch. Who could blame her? I manage to pull her over to the 'deli section', (Yes, the quotes belong there. If I were taking to you in person, I would have made air-quotes around that bit of descriptor), and we survey the bounty of the Galway Bay deli.

There isn't a lot from which to choose. There is a ragged and dog-eared sandwich wrapped in plastic. I can only imagine how many times this particular combination of bread and 'other' has been picked up, examined, and rejected. How can a sandwich be mushy and hard all at the same time? There's a spot on it that looks like someone pushed their thumb through the wrapping. Would I eat that? Not even on a dare.

Next shelf, wrapped in cellophane, is a lone dill pickle, slowly leaking it's life-force into the bottom of the cooler. There are a couple of packages of cheese. I have no idea how old it is. It could have been there since the Carter administration. It seems chock-full of malaise crusted with good intentions. I'm impressed. That's a pretty deep piece of cheese.


I point to two pieces of what I assume are pizza - and I'm taking a leap of faith here - and say to Mom, "Hey, you feeling adventurous? We could try that."

You know that dead-pan look mom gets right before she knees you in the groin? Perhaps you don't. I've seen it a couple of times in my life. Sometimes, I'll see that look in my minds eye just as I'm about to drift off to sleep. That’s why I scream when I nap. That was the look I now saw on her face.

The weirdness of the day, the heat, the fatigue, the Twilight-Zone ambiance that is Galway Bay beats us down like two drunk frat-boys at a Slipknot concert. At any moment, the whole scene may begin to drip and run and melt like a Jackson Pollock painting. Suddenly the entire experience comes into clear and sharp focus. We have no choice but to flee for our lives. Our very souls are in danger. For as the seconds tick by it becomes readily apparent that this place is cursed. Cursed with the demons of Canada.

We make a quick escape to the bike and scream like bats out of hell back to the strip.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***