Passing Out is Always An Option

*** continued from previous post ***


I took a deep breath and sat up, stretching the cramps that had set into my arms and hands.

I surveyed my surroundings. Well, we definitely were at the top. There were some rolling hills in front of us, but nothing to compare to what we had just navigated. Later, I would discover that we had climbed about 1700 feet in 12 Kilometers. Or, in devil-speak Canadian measurements, about 4.5 liters a minute. Not too shabby. After I restored my heart rate to a manageable level, and decided that I hadn't wet myself, (okay, who am I kidding - hadn't wet myself TOO severely), I took stock.

While we were level, the road surface had not improved. The rain had not improved. Your Mother's mood had not improved by any appreciable degree. Our hypothermia situation had not improved - in fact, it was worse. The temperature had plummeted as we climbed into the Rockies. And, like a big, moldering mutant strawberry cradled in the congealed whipped cream of a day-old Belgian Waffle, twilight was descending. - rapidly.

But, on the positive side, we could be hit by lightening any moment, so there was always hope.

"What do we do now?", Mom asked in a dazed voice. "Do we turn around?"

I thought, however briefly, of turning the bike around and riding down the mountain, and my boys - and you know what I mean by 'the boys' - don't feign ignorance - shot straight up into my throat, through my head, and were dancing somewhere above the tree tops trying to escape. The only thing worse than coming UP that road in this weather, was going DOWN that road in this weather. Miles of braking down the side of a gravel mountain didn't appeal to me. Somewhere, in the recesses of my brain a tiny voice reminded me that I would, at some point, need to take the bike down this very same road. I hate that voice. It's annoying. All high-pitched and squeaky. And preachy to boot. And usually right.

Damn you internal monologue!

"I think I would rather feed marshmallows to alligators with my lips than try and ride back down that road,” I said and wiped rainwater from my glasses. It was an exercise in futility. "Hopefully the worst is behind us. Let's just push on and get to the Lodge."

"Does the GPS say we are close?"

"I don't know. When we met those jeeps Sweet Alice let out a tiny scream then passed out."

Mom pondered this for a moment. "Was passing out an option? I wish I'd known that. I would have blanked out as soon as we hit the gravel."

Let me say this again: Your mother is a wise, wise woman.

*** the journey continues ***

It's A Little Game Married People Play

*** continued from previous post ***


"Whoopsie!", I say, with a melodic lilt that manages to annoy even myself.

"Well great," Mom sighs.

It is now that my masculinity kicks into high gear. I need to take control. I will not stand idly by and let this cursed day get the best of me. I will solve this problem, like so many men before me have solved problems of their own creation.

I will lie.

"Look, standing here is doing us no good. Get on the back of the bike and we will push on. I know how to get to the Nordic Centre." (Lie #1)

"I'm sure Sweet Alice can get us that far, and probably a bit beyond." (Lie #2)

Really, it can't be that bad. (Lie #3)

“I told them in the note when I booked the place that we were coming in on motorcycle. (This is true.) If they thought we couldn't make it, they would have told me." (I believed this to be true.) It's going to be fine. (Lie #4)

Your mother - my wife, my companion, my friend, co-conspirator, cheer-leader and all around pal these last 30 years - knew right away I was spewing total bullshit.

"Fine," she said and without another word climbed on the back of the bike. Though silent, I could read her body language under the layers of clothing. She had not so much capitulated as she had decided, as if she were on a dare, to see how this would play out. And of course, then hold me accountable. It's a little game married people play.

I took a deep breath, fired the engine, and without further ado set off to find this Canadian / Scandinavian Cloning Facility masquerading as some sort of ski operation. I had turned the volume down on the GPS, but I could see our rough path laid out on the map to where Sweet Alice thought the PO Box might be. It was just a big arrow pointing towards the mountains on the other side of town. It did nothing to calm my nerves when the screen started flashing red and the word DANGER in all caps popped on and off the screen like a demonic jack-in-the-box. F' you Sweet Alice! I've had enough of your silliness for one day! I clicked into first and hit the gas. Right or wrong, I was at least moving and that felt good.

We wandered through the streets of Carnack for what seemed an eternity. Missing turns, pulling u-turns in parking lots, changing lanes abruptly - you know, all the stuff that makes taking a HUGE FLIPPIN' MOTORCYCLE THROUGH UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY DURING RUSH HOUR IN A MONSOON so exciting. But my perseverance paid off. At last, I spotted a sign for the Nordic Centre.

I patted your Mom's leg in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, and we took the turn into the mountains. It was probably gorgeous and breathtaking. I have no idea.


*** stay tuned - 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 ***

Something Dark and Disquieting This Way Comes

*** continued from previous post ***


Mom climbs off the bike and instantly her seat is wet. I don't think she cares anymore. She rummages around in the various articles that we've stowed and, after what seems like an eternity, finds the confirmation paper. It starts to get soaked immediately, so she folds it in half and hands it to me, trying to keep the printing dry. We don't need any more mishaps on this fine and beautiful day.

Triumphantly, and with a wag of my tongue in the general direction of the GPS, I unfold the note. HA! There is the confirmation. There are the dates. There is how we paid. There is, quite quizzically, no phone number. Perhaps I should have noticed that before.

No matter, there is an address. Oh yes . . . there is an address. Hope flushes through my system like Mentos in a Diet Coke. Rain had peppered my glasses and I squint to read the print in the dimming gray light. The address is . . . PO Box AB804, Carnack AB.

I swear I heard the GPS snicker.

"What’s the matter?" Mom asks but her tone says she really doesn't want to know.

"Well. Well, well, well." I brace myself, "Seems like the only address we have is a PO Box."

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


*** the journey continues 02/21/11***

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 ***

The Gathering Gloom

*** continued from previous post ***

Funny thing about what Sweet Alice is showing me. It looks like this road, a very major road by Canadian standards, it about to end. Abruptly. In about 5 miles. (Or about 9 kilometers in hippie-speak.) Directly into a huge lake. I blink, thinking I've seen wrong. No, there is no mistake, the road just ends.

I lean back in the seat, and motion for Mom to raise her visor. "Hey, get a load of this. The road just ends. It runs into a lake."

"Really?" Mom says. "Well, is there another road we can take?"

"Funny thing, that," I answer, trying to mask the panic in my voice, "No. According to the GPS, this is the only road. For like . . . miles."

"Oh," Mom says, with no surprise in her voice. "Is there a bridge?"

I consult the oracle of Sweet Alice. "Ummm . . . no."

I zoom out on the map. There is a dotted line across the lake labeled "Ferry".

"It says we have to take a ferry," I tell her, just as we pass a sign that says "Shelter Bay - Galena Bay Ferry 10 km."

"Cool!" Mom replies and settles back in her seat. She loves Ferries.

"Yeah," I agree, and pull down my face-shield.

I'm thinking that a Ferry ride is going to be a nice little break. And how pretty is this going to be? I mean we are in the middle of INCREDIBLE scenery. There's no wind. The sun is. . . hey . . . where did the sun go? I hadn't noticed that. Ah well, it is still warm.

So there are a few clouds. Big deal. We may get a sprinkle or two. Just a passing summer storm. I'm a Northwest boy. I can take it.

I mean. . . how bad can it get?

Right?

* * *

 
September 23, 2008

Dear Amber,

I hope you enjoyed these installments on what has turned out to be quite a trip. Buckle up - we haven't even reached the good stuff yet.

Oh! I watched “An Officer and a Gentleman” last night. If they try and give you the call sign ‘Goose’, run and don’t look back.

Love you,
Daddio

PS. Your car was stolen and set afire last night. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.



*** the journey continues after the New Year with Chapter 4 - Ferry of the Damned! ***

Nothing Says Love Like A Shared Toad Moment

*** continued from previous post ***

Schedule or no schedule, the hand writing was on the wall. I'm no genius, but I can see that if we don't leave soon, this has the potential to cast a pall over the vacation. I don't want this to be remembered in my later years as "Frog Kill Trip", (Or toads . . whatever). I put an arm around Mom, share a toad moment with her, then casually pull her towards the bike. A couple of other cars have pulled into the Rest Stop as I steered Mom towards the Vision. Latte-slupin' hippie-girl is now cornering other travelers, going over the same story with each visitor. Some feign interest. Others are truly disturbed. One group of tall blond men, possibly a group of quintuplets, ignored her completely.

In a flash that sears my brain I realize that this girl is not a hippie. No, she is something far worse . . . she's an Emo-toadie. I can hear the plaintive wails of her song as she strums her guitar, bringing her gut-wrenching experiences to the dozen or so people that are either near death and unable to escape the coffee-shop couch, or, and this is a worst-case scenario, supportive of her art.

"I'm so sad for my toadie friends. Nobody loves them. Nobobdy loves them. Just like meeeeeeeeee....oh just like meeeeeeeeee. We all wind up as paste on the road of lifeeeeeee."

I swear to all that is holy, I'd hurl a day-old cruller at her head if I were to hear that song then burst my eardrums with a pencil for good measure.

Anyway, I manage to get Mom back on the bike, and with a wave and a hearty roll of the throttle I weave our way through Frog Fest 2008, (or Toad Fest . . . whatever), and manage to make it to the highway with nary a crunch neath our tires.

It takes us a few minutes to find our rhythm. But eventually, I clear my head of toads. I can feel mom behind me, cocooned in warty-green thoughts, relaxed and smiling. The air is clear, the sky is blue - although, it seems to be clouding up a bit to the north. Nothing to worry about I assure myself. Relaxed, refreshed, and rejuvenated the road rolls out before us like the tongue of a giant dog on a hot, hot day. But without the terrible smell. Or the spit.

So maybe not exactly like a giant, hot, dog-tongue but you get the picture.

I glance down at my new compadre, Sweet Alice, cradled on the dashboard of the Vision. Never tell your Mom - but my love for her grew by leaps and bounds as the miles ticked away. I love her. I love her so hard. Even if we have our little spats now and then, she fulfills my needs like no map ever could. Techno-lust pure and simple. What? Again with the 'I've never heard of 'techno-lust'? There's a complete page with references and annotations on Wikipedia. You can look it up. Wait . . . . . wait a second . . . . okay. There's one there now. Go educate yourself for goodness sakes.

Ah . . . good times . . . good times.

*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be forced to have a sex change procedure. ***

Please Pass the Shrimp Flavored Pancakes

*** continued from previous post ***

Anyway, we were tail lights. I navigated down the steep gravel road. Carefully. Painstakingly. At the bottom of the lane, ever hopeful that maybe they've built a IHOP while we were at the Tomb of the Alcoholic Simians, I stop the bike and ask Mom, "Hey, forgot to ask but did you see any place to get breakfast? I mean, before we went to Zombie-ville. Am I missing something?"

"No. Not really," she replies, somewhat cryptically.

"Yeah, me either."

As I search the clutter that is my mind for a solution to our current dilemma something tickles the recesses of my brain. I ponder Mom's phrasing. "What do you mean 'not really'?"

"Well, there was one place back where we filled up with gas. It was a seafood place I think, but the sign said 'Seafood and Pancakes".

Sure that I mis-heard her, I asked, a tad more abruptly than I had intended, "What the hell? Seafood AND Pancakes?"

She squeezed her new friend, Mr. Rock, a little too hard for my comfort. "It was that fast-food looking place across from the gas station."

My stare must have said it all. Somewhat, although not fully apologetic she said, "There was a motorcycle out front." As if this solved everything. As if since there was another person on a bike willing to gamble on what I could only imagine were shrimp-flavored pancakes, then since we were on a bike, it should be good enough for us as well.

My eyes narrowed. I believe that my stare is a laser, piercing, cutting. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in her helmet. I look like I've had a minor stroke.

"Seafood and Pancakes?", I snort, "I'm not that hungry." I eyed her suspiciously. What was her game? Had an empty stomach and a long trip put her in a place where SHE was willing to try a 'Seafood and Pancake' place? Where was my wife? Oh Canada, what have you wrought? What madness have you visited upon my bride?

"Well, we always have crackers." She shrugged. A calculated pause and then, "We would have had more, but you packed light."

Touche', good lady. Touche'. I am suspect that we are seeing the birth of a recurring theme. Trying to nip this in the bud I say, "I understand that I may have cut back on the food items a bit too much. My apologies."

"Maybe a little. Too late now though."

I was plunged into the depths of despair, sure that I was about to experience the 'French Toast Calamari', or 'Cold Oyster Cereal' or the horror of 'Scrambled Fish Eggs'. Then - inspiration!!! "Hey! Sweet Alice will show us where we can find a restaurant! I completely forgot that she'll list all the local amenities!" I was giddy. Mom was relieved. Technology was once again our savior!

"Oh, so you and Sweet Alice have made up?"

I pause. "We've come to an agreement. An understanding if you will."

"Well, I'm happy for you both. Send me a card when you announce your engagement."

Deciding that this is a conversation best left for a time when my blood sugar was not in the basement, I pulled up the menu on the GPS, punched some info into menu and sure enough, Sweet Alice's screen spit out a list of places to eat.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Comments are always welcome. ***

Canada - Prelude To Wierdness

*** continued from previous post ***

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 ***

A Love Triangle Gone Bad

*** continued from previous post ***

Our exchange went something like this:

Me:  "Okay, well here we are, in the middle of a vast, flat nowhere.  Flatter than a flapjack in winter.  Flatter than a sod-buster's foot.  I'll just clear everything out, and plug our destination into the ol' GPS again and we'll get out of this spot of trouble lickety-split.  Shucks, this here ain't nuthin' but a little by-and-by no-how."

Mom:  "Why are you talking like a pioneer crossing the prarie?"

Me:  "Pardon Ma’am?"

Mom:  "When was the last time you had a drink of water?"

Me:  "Ummm . . . reckon I had me a taste of nature's nectar last time we stopped and shod the mule."

Alice:  "Recalculating. . . ."

Mom:  "How many fingers am I holding up."

Alice:  "Recalculating. . . "

Me:  "Six."

Alice:  "Drive 4.6 miles and take a right on Western Australia X-15."

Mom:  "Did she just say 'Western Australia'?"

Me:  "I think that Sweet Alice is a bit bamboozled with the abbreviation for Washington, (WA), and is recitin' our fair state as 'Western Australia."

Alice:  "Turn right on Western Australia X-15, watch out for Roos."

Mom:  "You named the GPS's voice 'Sweet Alice'?"

Me:  "Seemed appropriate at the time."

Alice:  "We don't have all day Mate!  Get yer arse goin'."

To which I obediently did as she commanded.  Alice is a harsh task-master, or task-mistress, but up to this point a fair one.  So, I follow her directions.  Surprise!  The road she has taken us to is gravel.  And 15 miles of it.  I am not taking the Vision across 15 miles of gravel in the middle of nowhere.  No how, no way.  That will simply never, ever, never-ever-never happen.  So instead of taking the suggested road I ignore Alice and continue straight.  I know this road will EVENTUALLY connect with another paved road that will take us where we want to go, I just don't know how far.  With a plan in place we thundered into the hinterlands of wheat and dust and heat and lives long, long lost.

 Alice:  "Recalculating. . ."

Mom:  "Well, that was less than helpful."

Me:  "What in tarnation has gotten into that filly?"

Mom:  "If you don't stop talking like that, I'll. . .I'll . . ."

Me:  "You'll what there little Missy?"

Mom:  "I'll poke you in the eye."

Now that takes me back a bit.  She may be serious.

Alice:  Recalculating. . ."

Me:  "Fine.  But at the next stop as soon as you go to sleep I'm burning your mother's furniture for a campfire."

Alice:  "Turn around and go back to Western Australia X-15.  Proceed 17.2 miles to Us 86, (Which she pronounced as 'us', not YOU-ESS), then take a right at the first junction."

Me:  "Um no."  I keep the bike going straight down the road.

Alice:  "Turn around."

Me:  "No."

Alice:  "Turn around ya wanker."

Me: "NO!"

Alice:  "Recalculating. . ."

Mom:  "We could just turn it off. . ."

Me:  "No.  We did not spend our hard-earned money for a dash ornament.  Had I wanted that I would have bought one of them there little Jesus figures with the bobbly head.  No, I have faith that Sweet Alice will chart us a course straight and true."

Alice:  "Drive 87 miles back to Ritzville and try again."

Me: "What the f ---?"

Alice:  "Recalculating. . ."

Mom:  "Please don't tell me we're going back to Ritzville."

Me:  "No.  No flippin' way."

Alice:  "Yer fucked mate.  Yer off the map."

Me:  "Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!  You're a dad-burned GPS for criminy sakes!  You can't be lost!"

Alice:  "Oh, I'm not lost, you are.  If you don't want to follow my directions it's not my problem."

Mom:  "Are you trying to strangle the GPS?"

Me:  "Shut up and help me circle the wagons."

After some time we stumbled on a road that was paved and headed in a general northerly direction towards the golden land of Canada.  I took it without hesitation.  After a few miles we realized we were on the wrong side, (the SOUTH side), of I-90.

Mom:  "I don't remember crossing I-90.  How the heck did we get here?"

Me:  "I have no idea, but there's the exit to Ritzville."

Alice:  "Ha Ha.  Recalculating. . ."

Eventually we found our way.  I don't know how.  It doesn't matter.  If you have an explanation of how we headed north yet wound up on the south side of I-90 with no memory of crossing a 6-lane freeway I'm all ears.  It may have been aliens, or the past hour could have been a joint hallucination in the parking lot of "EATS".  I probably shouldn't have had the 'home grown' mushroom soup.  The point is we persevered and pushed on, blindly cheerful as ever.  Why this was nothing more than a minor setback.  A blip in our schedule.  Little things like this were bound to crop up every once in a while.  Best just to take a deep breath and push on.

Then we hit the wind.

*** the journey continues tomorrow *** 

I Named My GPS 'Sweet Alice'

*** continued from previous post ***

Now that the familiar part of the trip was behind us, the time had come for me to test out my newest toy.  Our shiny, new, (RoXor - I told you I liked refurbs) GPS that we had mounted to the console of the bike a mere week before our trip.  

I had long lusted for this unit.  If you do not understand the term 'techno lust' you are no daughter of mine.  And I'm not speaking of the feeling that comes over you at a Rave from too much 'punch' and the pounding beat of 'The Crystal Method', I'm speaking of the romance of gadgetry.  The seductive world of chips and processors and memory and astronomical pricing for first-adopters.  God I love technology!  I think I now understand, and I'm generalizing here, some women's insanity for shoes.  Or maybe not.  That's just weird.  

Anyway, back to the object of my current adoration.  The GPS was a thing worthy of adoration.  Full color touch screen, its voice integrated with the speaker/sound system on the Vision - all the bells and whistles.  The epitome of our technological civilization.  The pinnacle of Homo Technus.  A miracle really, think about it - I could have saved us so much time if I'd had a GPS when you were small.  No more getting lost for hours.  No more tears.  No more frantic calls asking someone if they perchance knew where in the Hell we might possibly be.  I was giddy as a lotto winner, (not a Megamillions winner - somewhere around a $5000 scratch-ticket winner), as I plugged our destination of Galway Bay, British Columbia into the unit and watched, with fascination, as me lover-ly, lover-ly rudimentary autonamaton plotted our course.  

My enthusiasm lasted about 30 minutes, whereupon, somewhere in the godforsaken badlands north of Ritzville, I had a minor breakdown and heated argument with the GPS.  No kidding.  I had set the GPS to a female Australian voice.  She was hot.  I named her Alice.  Sweet, sweet Alice.  As difficult as it to believe, my innate sense of direction was failing me that day, (I know!), and before you could say 'dust bowl' we took a wrong turn, then another.  My precious was not amused.  That little floozy got sarcastic in a hurry.  I may love technology, but I hate uppity machines.   

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***