*** continued from previous post ***
I collected myself enough to take a further assessment of the situation.
The road had leveled out - and thank the Gods for that - but the path that lie ahead looked like . . . well, like we were going to be driving possibly THROUGH or INTO a lake. Seriously.
The tiny voice inside said, "Sure. Why not?"
STFU internal voice or I swear to God that I will lobotomize myself here and now. Where's that screwdriver?
"Let's get going," Mom said, and settled back into her seat. "I really, really, really, really need to be off the bike."
Wuss. We had only been riding for . . . okay, we'd been riding for about 13 hours. Still, that's no reason to get testy. I made a mental note to have a talk with your Mom about her attitude. But not right now. Probably not this week. Sometime after Halloween seemed safe. And then I would put it in a letter and make sure I was out of town when she read it.
With another sigh I pulled back onto the gravel and back onto the track. An old sound clip from MSTK3000 popped into my head, (Yeah, it was getting crowded in there.), and said, "Off to meet my doom Mom. See you after school!"
So we putted along the gravel towards the lake. It was definitely easier going now that the road was not at an insane angle, but it was getting very soft between the washboards. 15 mph was about the max speed. Any faster and I felt like my fillings were going to rattle out of my teeth.
As we approached the water the view grew more and more disconcerting. Ahead was a lake. Big lake. Deep lake. On the right side was a sheer rock cliff that rose, from what appeared to be directly from the water, to a height of maybe 150 feet. Or 7000 grams in hell-measure. Naught but water on the left. The road looked like it simply ended.
I wanted to cry, but no one would have heard me and I don' know about you, but that just seems a waste.
*** the journey continues ***
Showing posts with label Rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rain. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
They Clone Vikings Don't They?
*** continued from previous post ***
Now I know what I wrote earlier about driving on gravel. I had driven the Vision on gravel in the past, and while it is tricky, it can be done if the gravel is packed hard and there aren't too many pot-holes or soft spots. You don't want to hit a soft patch with the front tire of a bike. It has a tendency to dig in and not want to move. Yet, our friend inertia, and the back of the bike, will have none of that. So best to avoid the situation entirely.
But if all was well you could put the baby at a constant speed of 15 to 40 miles an hour - depending on conditions, easy on the brakes and easy on the throttle, with a very light touch for steering and you should be fine. 'Should be' being the operative words. Yet it's edging towards dark, it's been raining for days, and your Mother, bless her soul, is delusional. Possibly – although I have no proof - possessed.
"What's a Nordic Centre," I ask.
"I have no idea, but it really doesn't matter."
"You think that's where they herd Scandinavians to keep an eye on them?"
"No. I think it probably has something to do with the 1988 Winter Olympics."
I stroke my chin in contemplation. Which is ridiculous, because I'm wearing a helmet so it looks as though I'm trying to get bugs off my face plate in a slow, drunken motion. Suddenly an image of countless tall, blonde people that we’ve encountered since crossing the border fills my mind.
"Could be, could be. But these Canadians are a wily bunch. They may be trying to clone Vikings. How would you like that? Herds of Vikings pouring south across the border, downloading music illegally. Sharing files. Littering."
Mom pounded her gloved fist on the side of her helmet. "They are not cloning Vikings!"
"But," I add, "at least they would be polite Vikings. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to be pillaged and raped, I want to be treated with a little respect."
It's then that I notice that your Mother had developed a nasty - and by no means attractive - eye tic. Perhaps I should leave this line of speculation for another time.
"Come on babe," I say, "let's have a look at that map she drew for you."
Mom held the sheet of paper out to me, and before I could grasp it and take a gander, the ratio of water to paper became too much. It disintegrated like a ball of toilet paper in the tree of a cranky old fart that one day pushed the neighborhood kids too far.
I heard God laugh. I kid you not.
Turns out, it wasn’t God. It was just your mother sobbing.
*** the journey continues ***
Now I know what I wrote earlier about driving on gravel. I had driven the Vision on gravel in the past, and while it is tricky, it can be done if the gravel is packed hard and there aren't too many pot-holes or soft spots. You don't want to hit a soft patch with the front tire of a bike. It has a tendency to dig in and not want to move. Yet, our friend inertia, and the back of the bike, will have none of that. So best to avoid the situation entirely.
But if all was well you could put the baby at a constant speed of 15 to 40 miles an hour - depending on conditions, easy on the brakes and easy on the throttle, with a very light touch for steering and you should be fine. 'Should be' being the operative words. Yet it's edging towards dark, it's been raining for days, and your Mother, bless her soul, is delusional. Possibly – although I have no proof - possessed.
"What's a Nordic Centre," I ask.
"I have no idea, but it really doesn't matter."
"You think that's where they herd Scandinavians to keep an eye on them?"
"No. I think it probably has something to do with the 1988 Winter Olympics."
I stroke my chin in contemplation. Which is ridiculous, because I'm wearing a helmet so it looks as though I'm trying to get bugs off my face plate in a slow, drunken motion. Suddenly an image of countless tall, blonde people that we’ve encountered since crossing the border fills my mind.
"Could be, could be. But these Canadians are a wily bunch. They may be trying to clone Vikings. How would you like that? Herds of Vikings pouring south across the border, downloading music illegally. Sharing files. Littering."
Mom pounded her gloved fist on the side of her helmet. "They are not cloning Vikings!"
"But," I add, "at least they would be polite Vikings. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to be pillaged and raped, I want to be treated with a little respect."
It's then that I notice that your Mother had developed a nasty - and by no means attractive - eye tic. Perhaps I should leave this line of speculation for another time.
"Come on babe," I say, "let's have a look at that map she drew for you."
Mom held the sheet of paper out to me, and before I could grasp it and take a gander, the ratio of water to paper became too much. It disintegrated like a ball of toilet paper in the tree of a cranky old fart that one day pushed the neighborhood kids too far.
I heard God laugh. I kid you not.
Turns out, it wasn’t God. It was just your mother sobbing.
*** the journey continues ***
Monday, February 21, 2011
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 ***
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 ***
Labels:
Canada,
cannibal,
GPS,
Humor,
motorcycle,
mountains,
Rain,
satire,
Victory Vision
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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***
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***
Labels:
address,
GPS,
Humor,
motorcycle,
Rain,
Victory Vision
Friday, February 11, 2011
Non-Refundable - The Path to Insanity
*** continued from previous post ***
I had booked an all-inclusive package. Everything was covered; meals, snacks, ‘high tea’. The only additional charges were for beer, wine, and spirits. The Lodge garnered the highest ratings on various websites, and was written about, quite elegantly, as a 'gem', and a 'hidden treasure', and 'an experience not to be missed'. A place where the food was "indescribable, delicious and a rare gourmet treat not often found outside of Europe". I was sold. I was the target market. There was one caveat however; the place was not, by any stretch of the imagination, cheap. Gripped by the fever of adventure, I had hovered my quivering hands over the mouse and throwing caution to the wind, I clicked the button and committed ourselves to three non-refundable days at this alpine paradise.
You might want to remember the words 'non-refundable'. Those two words lead to insanity. Which brings us back to the outskirts of Carnack.
Now, as you recall if you’ve been paying attention, your mother was not in the best of moods. Who can blame her? It had been a weird, weird day. From the night before in Galway's Bay to the Ferry and Toads and Rain and Cannibals and Beavers and a guy named 'Ted' that I don't have the energy to write about. So, the day is winding down, the sun is slipping away, and it's frickin’ raining buckets. Again. Or Still. Doesn't matter. But at least we are near the Holy Grail – Hidden Valley Lodge.
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?"
*** the journey continues ***
I had booked an all-inclusive package. Everything was covered; meals, snacks, ‘high tea’. The only additional charges were for beer, wine, and spirits. The Lodge garnered the highest ratings on various websites, and was written about, quite elegantly, as a 'gem', and a 'hidden treasure', and 'an experience not to be missed'. A place where the food was "indescribable, delicious and a rare gourmet treat not often found outside of Europe". I was sold. I was the target market. There was one caveat however; the place was not, by any stretch of the imagination, cheap. Gripped by the fever of adventure, I had hovered my quivering hands over the mouse and throwing caution to the wind, I clicked the button and committed ourselves to three non-refundable days at this alpine paradise.
You might want to remember the words 'non-refundable'. Those two words lead to insanity. Which brings us back to the outskirts of Carnack.
Now, as you recall if you’ve been paying attention, your mother was not in the best of moods. Who can blame her? It had been a weird, weird day. From the night before in Galway's Bay to the Ferry and Toads and Rain and Cannibals and Beavers and a guy named 'Ted' that I don't have the energy to write about. So, the day is winding down, the sun is slipping away, and it's frickin’ raining buckets. Again. Or Still. Doesn't matter. But at least we are near the Holy Grail – Hidden Valley Lodge.
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?"
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
Lodge,
non-refundable,
Rain
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Chapter 6 - Dah Bears
Today we begin Chapter 6, one of my favorite chapters. In fact, I'm working this one up into a reading/performance that I'll be testing in the next few months.
Enjoy!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 27th, 2008
Dear Amber,
Okay, I’ll let up on the Pirate stuff. Mom says it’s making you feel bad.
Mom, always with the feelings.
On a brighter note, I ran into that boy you liked so much in high school. I gave him your number. Crazy how we met – it just happened that I was crossing the street in front of the half-way house when I noticed him in a fetal position on the sidewalk. I didn’t even know he was out! Stroke of luck there, eh?
Love you,
Daddio
Chapter 6
Dah Bears!
So we weaved and hummed our way through the afternoon gloom down a freeway that alternated between blinding sun and a very thin, partially suspended flash-flood. I don't mind admitting that, perhaps in retrospect, a marathon day through the Canadian Rockies was --- well, let's just say optimistic at best. The words 'foolish', 'stupid', 'ninny-brained', and 'completely off yer flippin' rocker' could also apply, and your mother, in the days to come, would remind me of this fact. Quite frequently. And with emphasis on the 'stupid'.
Yet, low and behold, we survived, and we were finally on the outskirts of Carnack. Hidden Valley Lodge was close enough to taste. In my head I could feel the softness of the bed, the warm inviting clutch of a hot shower. Inside my damp and pungent helmet my nostrils flared in anticipation of the divine aroma of something other than wet Canadians and muddy roads. Yes, we were close, oh so joyfully close, that for a moment I thought we were already at our destination and this was nothing more than a nightmare, a fever dream of insanity and maple leaves.
Before I go on, I should probably tell you a bit about our destination. I had scoured the internet for lodging that was both unique and wonderful. Remember, our plans were to spend three days using Hidden Valley Lodge as our base to explore all the wonders that encapsulate the adventure that is Banff. I wanted this to be an EXPERIENCE. You know? After all, isn't that what life is about? A collection of experiences? I felt it my duty to create a memory so powerful that I would visit it for years to come, and draw pleasure from each detail etched in my mind. You only get so many chances in life for something truly exceptional, and I wasn't about to let this one slip away. So, with that in mind I had spent days looking for 'just the right place to stay'. Luckily, I found Hidden Valley.
I suppose that some people would conclude that my enthusiasm and lack of attention to detail could be perceived as a negative. Your mother is often in that group. I, on the other hand, like to think of myself as a free-spirit, a generalist that lets the details work themselves out. It's only life, you know? And as long as no one is dead or seriously injured, or in prison, then what really is the problem?
Ha Ha! Take that you conventional thinkers! I am an explorer, a Pirate of life sailing on the outer bounds of human experience. You know, as long as that experience involves a comfy bed and a working bathroom. Oh! And lights. . . I like lights. And heat. And something to eat. And maybe a drinky-poo. But other than that I'm zipping along the edge every day, unfettered and free. OH! And TV and a wireless internet connection.
This is rather a long walk to set the tone for the rest of the story, and, as you shall soon see, I offer this not so much as an explanation but rather as a defense.
So . . . where was I? Oh yes . . . Hidden Valey Lodge. This place looked fantastic. A lodge in Carnack, AB, (please note the "in Carnack"), where the wildlife came right up and knocked on your door. Where your balcony hung over a 'wallow' and the deer and elk and moose would make a daily pilgrimage to slurp the salts that lined the banks of the muddy pit below. An enchanted abode where every room had a fantastic view of a gorgeous mountain valley, full of meadows and creeks and butterflies and rainbows and possibly - yes, just possibly - Unicorns and Gnomes. Although they didn't say that in their advertising, it was strongly implied.
*** the journey continues ***
Enjoy!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 27th, 2008
Dear Amber,
Okay, I’ll let up on the Pirate stuff. Mom says it’s making you feel bad.
Mom, always with the feelings.
On a brighter note, I ran into that boy you liked so much in high school. I gave him your number. Crazy how we met – it just happened that I was crossing the street in front of the half-way house when I noticed him in a fetal position on the sidewalk. I didn’t even know he was out! Stroke of luck there, eh?
Love you,
Daddio
Chapter 6
Dah Bears!
So we weaved and hummed our way through the afternoon gloom down a freeway that alternated between blinding sun and a very thin, partially suspended flash-flood. I don't mind admitting that, perhaps in retrospect, a marathon day through the Canadian Rockies was --- well, let's just say optimistic at best. The words 'foolish', 'stupid', 'ninny-brained', and 'completely off yer flippin' rocker' could also apply, and your mother, in the days to come, would remind me of this fact. Quite frequently. And with emphasis on the 'stupid'.
Yet, low and behold, we survived, and we were finally on the outskirts of Carnack. Hidden Valley Lodge was close enough to taste. In my head I could feel the softness of the bed, the warm inviting clutch of a hot shower. Inside my damp and pungent helmet my nostrils flared in anticipation of the divine aroma of something other than wet Canadians and muddy roads. Yes, we were close, oh so joyfully close, that for a moment I thought we were already at our destination and this was nothing more than a nightmare, a fever dream of insanity and maple leaves.
Before I go on, I should probably tell you a bit about our destination. I had scoured the internet for lodging that was both unique and wonderful. Remember, our plans were to spend three days using Hidden Valley Lodge as our base to explore all the wonders that encapsulate the adventure that is Banff. I wanted this to be an EXPERIENCE. You know? After all, isn't that what life is about? A collection of experiences? I felt it my duty to create a memory so powerful that I would visit it for years to come, and draw pleasure from each detail etched in my mind. You only get so many chances in life for something truly exceptional, and I wasn't about to let this one slip away. So, with that in mind I had spent days looking for 'just the right place to stay'. Luckily, I found Hidden Valley.
I suppose that some people would conclude that my enthusiasm and lack of attention to detail could be perceived as a negative. Your mother is often in that group. I, on the other hand, like to think of myself as a free-spirit, a generalist that lets the details work themselves out. It's only life, you know? And as long as no one is dead or seriously injured, or in prison, then what really is the problem?
Ha Ha! Take that you conventional thinkers! I am an explorer, a Pirate of life sailing on the outer bounds of human experience. You know, as long as that experience involves a comfy bed and a working bathroom. Oh! And lights. . . I like lights. And heat. And something to eat. And maybe a drinky-poo. But other than that I'm zipping along the edge every day, unfettered and free. OH! And TV and a wireless internet connection.
This is rather a long walk to set the tone for the rest of the story, and, as you shall soon see, I offer this not so much as an explanation but rather as a defense.
So . . . where was I? Oh yes . . . Hidden Valey Lodge. This place looked fantastic. A lodge in Carnack, AB, (please note the "in Carnack"), where the wildlife came right up and knocked on your door. Where your balcony hung over a 'wallow' and the deer and elk and moose would make a daily pilgrimage to slurp the salts that lined the banks of the muddy pit below. An enchanted abode where every room had a fantastic view of a gorgeous mountain valley, full of meadows and creeks and butterflies and rainbows and possibly - yes, just possibly - Unicorns and Gnomes. Although they didn't say that in their advertising, it was strongly implied.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
Banff,
Humor,
motorcycle,
mountains,
Rain,
Victory Vision,
wet
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Hidden Slavery of Canada
*** continued from previous post ***
I tugged at your Mom's arm, "Are those Circus Midgets?"
She leaned close and whispered "I don't know, and I don't care. I just want a burger and for this day to be over."
We waited our turn in line and I got a good look at the person tending the cash register. Why, these weren't Circus folk at all! These were children!
The boy, in a pre-pubescent octave only audible to dogs and squirrels said, "Welcome to McDonalds, can I take your order?"
Now I'm not kidding when I say this kid is young. What kind of a country uses forced child labor to serve hamburgers? What kind of monstrous society put's its youth into corporate slavery? This is the dark belly of Canada that they don't tell you about. This is the ugly flip-side to all the politeness and beauty and well maintained roads and health care for all.
He took our order and tried to make change. After fumbling at the till for a minute he said, "Um . . . can you help me? We don't learn subtraction until next week."
Your mother began to weep softly. "Just keep the change son, just keep the change," I said.
His face lit up like a carelessly tossed match at the gas station. "Thanks mister! Woo Hoo!" he shouted and held two quarters above his head in triumph. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had given him a $20 for a $12.28 purchase.
Later we would discover that due to the boom in the oil and natural gas industries in Alberta, the minimum wage, service-oriented jobs were impossible to fill. So Canada had lowered the minimum working age to 14. They are seriously discussing lowering it to 12. No joke. Soon, I imagine, your fries will be served by toddlers. Oh, you'll get your order, but you'll have to change their diapers first.
So began our last stretch to the Holy Grail of the day – Hidden Valley Lodge in Carnack Alberta. Here we were to take a 3 day rest, explore the area, and enjoy the ambiance, soak up some nature. It looked like a fabulous place when I booked our reservations, and we were more than ready to get there. But we still had a bit of traveling to do, so we wolfed our burgers and with a heavy sigh once again hit the road.
After traveling for a few miles, Mom leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder, "When will we get to Carnack?" Which really meant "When will be done with the Godforsaken day?"
I shouted into the wind, "Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours at the most. Maybe quicker if this rain would let up."
Yes, our day was almost done.
Or so we thought.
*** the journey continues ***
I tugged at your Mom's arm, "Are those Circus Midgets?"
She leaned close and whispered "I don't know, and I don't care. I just want a burger and for this day to be over."
We waited our turn in line and I got a good look at the person tending the cash register. Why, these weren't Circus folk at all! These were children!
The boy, in a pre-pubescent octave only audible to dogs and squirrels said, "Welcome to McDonalds, can I take your order?"
Now I'm not kidding when I say this kid is young. What kind of a country uses forced child labor to serve hamburgers? What kind of monstrous society put's its youth into corporate slavery? This is the dark belly of Canada that they don't tell you about. This is the ugly flip-side to all the politeness and beauty and well maintained roads and health care for all.
He took our order and tried to make change. After fumbling at the till for a minute he said, "Um . . . can you help me? We don't learn subtraction until next week."
Your mother began to weep softly. "Just keep the change son, just keep the change," I said.
His face lit up like a carelessly tossed match at the gas station. "Thanks mister! Woo Hoo!" he shouted and held two quarters above his head in triumph. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had given him a $20 for a $12.28 purchase.
Later we would discover that due to the boom in the oil and natural gas industries in Alberta, the minimum wage, service-oriented jobs were impossible to fill. So Canada had lowered the minimum working age to 14. They are seriously discussing lowering it to 12. No joke. Soon, I imagine, your fries will be served by toddlers. Oh, you'll get your order, but you'll have to change their diapers first.
So began our last stretch to the Holy Grail of the day – Hidden Valley Lodge in Carnack Alberta. Here we were to take a 3 day rest, explore the area, and enjoy the ambiance, soak up some nature. It looked like a fabulous place when I booked our reservations, and we were more than ready to get there. But we still had a bit of traveling to do, so we wolfed our burgers and with a heavy sigh once again hit the road.
After traveling for a few miles, Mom leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder, "When will we get to Carnack?" Which really meant "When will be done with the Godforsaken day?"
I shouted into the wind, "Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours at the most. Maybe quicker if this rain would let up."
Yes, our day was almost done.
Or so we thought.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
child labor,
Circus,
hamburger,
Rain
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Fast-food Circus Midgets. WTF?
*** continued from previous post ***
The afternoon progressed much as it had since we left the ferry. A wet, sodden hell.
There is only one more remarkable thing that happened between the Tourist Center and reaching Carnack, AB.
Some town we went through, (and believe me they all began to run together at this point), had a McDonalds that provided easy access from the highway. It had been a couple of hours since our last stop, and we were both in dire need of warmth, food, and some time off the bike.
Now a McDonalds in Canada is like a McDonalds in the US, only more northerly. Booths are the same, layout of the restaurant is the same, menu (mostly) is the same. That sweet, sweet generic goodness that reinforces the realization that we, as a species, are really not so different from each other pours out of every napkin holder. It is strangely reassuring that we all have the need for a Big Mac and fries every now and then, and if the 'Quarter Pounder with Cheese' is called a 'Half-Liter with Curds', well it's not so far out of your comfort level to be disarming. In fact, it's just safe enough to be charming.
So, what made this stop unique?
We went to the rear of the restaurant to order, and I realized that the staff were all Circus Midgets. No kidding. They could barely see over the formica. I wondered if this was some government program to help the Little People, or if perhaps their Caravan had suffered a breakdown, and they were making some extra cash to get a new distributor for the elephant truck. The thought crossed my mind that I may be, once again, hallucinating, yet strangely everyone else seemed normal size.
*** the journey continues ***
The afternoon progressed much as it had since we left the ferry. A wet, sodden hell.
There is only one more remarkable thing that happened between the Tourist Center and reaching Carnack, AB.
Some town we went through, (and believe me they all began to run together at this point), had a McDonalds that provided easy access from the highway. It had been a couple of hours since our last stop, and we were both in dire need of warmth, food, and some time off the bike.
Now a McDonalds in Canada is like a McDonalds in the US, only more northerly. Booths are the same, layout of the restaurant is the same, menu (mostly) is the same. That sweet, sweet generic goodness that reinforces the realization that we, as a species, are really not so different from each other pours out of every napkin holder. It is strangely reassuring that we all have the need for a Big Mac and fries every now and then, and if the 'Quarter Pounder with Cheese' is called a 'Half-Liter with Curds', well it's not so far out of your comfort level to be disarming. In fact, it's just safe enough to be charming.
So, what made this stop unique?
We went to the rear of the restaurant to order, and I realized that the staff were all Circus Midgets. No kidding. They could barely see over the formica. I wondered if this was some government program to help the Little People, or if perhaps their Caravan had suffered a breakdown, and they were making some extra cash to get a new distributor for the elephant truck. The thought crossed my mind that I may be, once again, hallucinating, yet strangely everyone else seemed normal size.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
Cheeseburger,
Circus,
fast food,
midget,
Rain,
Tourist Centre
Friday, January 28, 2011
Chapter 5 - THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH CANADIANS
*** continued from previous post ***
September 27, 2008
Dear Amber,
I’m really having a hard time letting go of you being a Pirate.
Is it too late to change your course of study?
Love,
Daddio
PS. You may want to ignore any notes posted to you by your friends on Facebook or in email. I couldn’t sleep last night and I found your password and login, so I posed as you for a bit. Ever notice how sometimes things that seem hilarious at 3 AM, seem a little crude the next day? Ah well.
PPS. Um . . . I may have taken a bit out of your bank account as well. It’s ok. You owe me.
Chapter 5
The Road to Hell is Paved with Canadians
Did I mention it was raining?
As I said before, most of the trip was a blur. Literally. Riding in the dense mist of a rain-soaked road with spray kicked up by thousands of tires - did you ever see the freeway during rush hour with a good rain pounding the pavement? If you're not driving through the thick of the storm it really is an amazing sight. A gray tunnel of dirty spray. But we WERE driving through it, and it took A LOT of concentration just to keep the bike going down the road. We were wet, tired, cold, and, as Mom pointed out, for some reason when she gets tired I get cranky. Luckily our communication was kept to a minimum, for each time I raised the shield to try to say something - surprise! A mouth full of oily Canadian road juice. Yum.
So we droned on and on and on. Through mountain passes. Through small towns. Through the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I don't remember much other than the recurring thought of 'Hey! We’re going to die!', yet there were a couple of interesting moments worth mentioning.
At some point in the trip, I can't tell you exactly when, or exactly where, because I may have had an out of body experience wherein I was having warm tea and crumpets with the Queen, or Bob Dylan - it doesn't matter really except if it was Bob Dylan I should probably get some therapy because roving hands from the Queen is one thing, but from Bob? . . . but I digress. The fact is at some point mom had to pee.
Fine. I'll just whip this baby across three lanes of certain death and find her a bathroom because that's just the kind of guy I am. Far be it from me to point out that she has a bladder the size of a grain of rice. Did I mention I may have been a tad cranky by this point? Did I mention how hard it was raining? Take that and double it. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best and often much less.
*** the journey continues ***
September 27, 2008
Dear Amber,
I’m really having a hard time letting go of you being a Pirate.
Is it too late to change your course of study?
Love,
Daddio
PS. You may want to ignore any notes posted to you by your friends on Facebook or in email. I couldn’t sleep last night and I found your password and login, so I posed as you for a bit. Ever notice how sometimes things that seem hilarious at 3 AM, seem a little crude the next day? Ah well.
PPS. Um . . . I may have taken a bit out of your bank account as well. It’s ok. You owe me.
Chapter 5
The Road to Hell is Paved with Canadians
Did I mention it was raining?
As I said before, most of the trip was a blur. Literally. Riding in the dense mist of a rain-soaked road with spray kicked up by thousands of tires - did you ever see the freeway during rush hour with a good rain pounding the pavement? If you're not driving through the thick of the storm it really is an amazing sight. A gray tunnel of dirty spray. But we WERE driving through it, and it took A LOT of concentration just to keep the bike going down the road. We were wet, tired, cold, and, as Mom pointed out, for some reason when she gets tired I get cranky. Luckily our communication was kept to a minimum, for each time I raised the shield to try to say something - surprise! A mouth full of oily Canadian road juice. Yum.
So we droned on and on and on. Through mountain passes. Through small towns. Through the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I don't remember much other than the recurring thought of 'Hey! We’re going to die!', yet there were a couple of interesting moments worth mentioning.
At some point in the trip, I can't tell you exactly when, or exactly where, because I may have had an out of body experience wherein I was having warm tea and crumpets with the Queen, or Bob Dylan - it doesn't matter really except if it was Bob Dylan I should probably get some therapy because roving hands from the Queen is one thing, but from Bob? . . . but I digress. The fact is at some point mom had to pee.
Fine. I'll just whip this baby across three lanes of certain death and find her a bathroom because that's just the kind of guy I am. Far be it from me to point out that she has a bladder the size of a grain of rice. Did I mention I may have been a tad cranky by this point? Did I mention how hard it was raining? Take that and double it. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best and often much less.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
Canadians,
Humor,
mist,
motorcycle,
pee,
Rain,
satire,
Victory Vision,
wet
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Rain. Mountains. Maniacs. Oh My!
*** continued from previous post ***
By now the traffic from the boat is long gone, blasting at a break-neck speed to God knows where. I couldn't worry about them. We had our own place to go, and we were WAY behind schedule.
Nothing to do but get back on the road.
For the next two hundred miles, (or 8 thousand km in Canadianeese), we wind our way through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Nothing compares to the Canadian Rockies. They are unimaginably beautiful. The size, the sheer granite cliffs, the peaks reaching into the clouds lend an aura of antiquity that is rarely experienced elsewhere.
I would have probably enjoyed the scenic grandeur much more had the deluge from the Sky God not returned with a vengeance. But it gets better because what party would be complete without rain's other two friends? Fog and mist. Certainly not this one. Rain, fog, mist, and horribly, horribly wet roads. Oh! Did I mention through all of this splendor of nature that we were on the Trans Canadian highway which evidently is THE ONLY FRICKING ROAD IN CANADA???
So, if by enjoying the scenery you mean traveling at 80 miles an hour through mountain passes with heavy traffic tail-gating you at every turn while riding through a lake, then yeah - this was a stroll in the park.
You have to understand that I was concentrating so hard on keeping the bike upright and on the road that much of this portion of the trip is a blur. So, if I'm a tad scant on details you'll have to forgive me. At some point in the future I may be able to access the memories through hypnosis, but I seriously doubt it.
To give you the flavor of this leg of the journey you only need three words, a mantra so to speak. Learn them and repeat them for the next 4 hours.
Rain. Mountain. Maniacs.
Yet, as I've come to learn, every dark cloud may have a silver lining, but it also has a much darker - and definitely evil - core. In fact, I've come to understand that the 'silver lining' much ballyhooed in lyrics and prose is actually a tin-foil hat for the cumuli-nimbus bunch. Dark clouds are, straight off their rocker, toys in the attic, monkeys in the fridge, bees in the glove box, fundamentalist Christian women with eyes open WAY to wide banging on your front door because you just happened to leave your 8 foot 'Christ on a Stick' neon "WWJD? He'd pick up some harlots and PARTY LIKE HELL" sign turned on and it's causing a row at Easter Services - bat-shit crazy.
These Canadian clouds would just not stop hammering home their point. Whatever that was. Oh yeah. . .it was "LET'S KILL THE GUYS FROM THE STATES. LOL". Frickin' clouds typing in all caps and using leet. I hates 'em.
I thought of home. It was nothing but a distant memory.
Right then I knew one thing for certain: if we survived this vacation Mom was going to kill me.
And honestly, I couldn't blame her.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so ends chapter 4 of this tale. Hope you're enjoying it so far. :)
David
*** the journey continues tomorrow with Chapter 5 - 'The Road To Hell Is Paved With Canadians ***
By now the traffic from the boat is long gone, blasting at a break-neck speed to God knows where. I couldn't worry about them. We had our own place to go, and we were WAY behind schedule.
Nothing to do but get back on the road.
For the next two hundred miles, (or 8 thousand km in Canadianeese), we wind our way through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Nothing compares to the Canadian Rockies. They are unimaginably beautiful. The size, the sheer granite cliffs, the peaks reaching into the clouds lend an aura of antiquity that is rarely experienced elsewhere.
I would have probably enjoyed the scenic grandeur much more had the deluge from the Sky God not returned with a vengeance. But it gets better because what party would be complete without rain's other two friends? Fog and mist. Certainly not this one. Rain, fog, mist, and horribly, horribly wet roads. Oh! Did I mention through all of this splendor of nature that we were on the Trans Canadian highway which evidently is THE ONLY FRICKING ROAD IN CANADA???
So, if by enjoying the scenery you mean traveling at 80 miles an hour through mountain passes with heavy traffic tail-gating you at every turn while riding through a lake, then yeah - this was a stroll in the park.
You have to understand that I was concentrating so hard on keeping the bike upright and on the road that much of this portion of the trip is a blur. So, if I'm a tad scant on details you'll have to forgive me. At some point in the future I may be able to access the memories through hypnosis, but I seriously doubt it.
To give you the flavor of this leg of the journey you only need three words, a mantra so to speak. Learn them and repeat them for the next 4 hours.
Rain. Mountain. Maniacs.
Yet, as I've come to learn, every dark cloud may have a silver lining, but it also has a much darker - and definitely evil - core. In fact, I've come to understand that the 'silver lining' much ballyhooed in lyrics and prose is actually a tin-foil hat for the cumuli-nimbus bunch. Dark clouds are, straight off their rocker, toys in the attic, monkeys in the fridge, bees in the glove box, fundamentalist Christian women with eyes open WAY to wide banging on your front door because you just happened to leave your 8 foot 'Christ on a Stick' neon "WWJD? He'd pick up some harlots and PARTY LIKE HELL" sign turned on and it's causing a row at Easter Services - bat-shit crazy.
These Canadian clouds would just not stop hammering home their point. Whatever that was. Oh yeah. . .it was "LET'S KILL THE GUYS FROM THE STATES. LOL". Frickin' clouds typing in all caps and using leet. I hates 'em.
I thought of home. It was nothing but a distant memory.
Right then I knew one thing for certain: if we survived this vacation Mom was going to kill me.
And honestly, I couldn't blame her.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so ends chapter 4 of this tale. Hope you're enjoying it so far. :)
David
*** the journey continues tomorrow with Chapter 5 - 'The Road To Hell Is Paved With Canadians ***
Labels:
bas-shit crazy,
Canadian Rockies,
cumuli- nimbus,
fog,
Humor,
leet,
maniacs,
mist,
motorcycle,
Mounties,
Rain,
Victory Vision
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
It Looked Easy Enough On Paper
*** continued from previous post ***
Doing as I am told I get the gear out of the saddlebags and begin to put on the Frogg-Toggs.
These are great. Best investment in rain gear we've ever made. Light weight, breathable, and completely dry. It is a simple two-piece suit, with an extra long coat that fits over the high-rise pants so nothing gets where it shouldn't. The jacket even has a built in hoodie to go under your helmet should you so desire. They are fantastic. Except for one small, tiny little problem: I'm soaked to the bone already. I believe that may defeat their purpose. Like counting the calories in a Triple Burger with Cheese and an Insanely Large Fries after you've scarfed it in your car ducked behind, and slightly below, the steering wheel so no one will see what a horker your are.
When your Mom gets back from the bathroom I have managed to put on my rain gear.
Now, usually, this wouldn't be a huge accomplishment. In my defense it was the first time I had actually put on the Frogg-Toggs. And it had been raining. And I was cold. And we were in a foreign land, with foreign customs, and everything was all "kilometer this", and "liter that", and "no it's not play money just because it's a different color and no that's not Bob Dylan's head it's the Queen for Christ's sake so stop giggling and fork it over." So when I tell you that I struggled for a bit, and through sheer determination and perseverance, managed to put the jacket on my legs, over my boots, and had a hoodie hanging from my crotch, (I thought it was just to make it easier to pee with the chaps), you'll understand and not think less of me as a rider.
To my credit I discovered my blunder rather quickly. It may have been the howls of laughter coming from the cars passing me on the road. It may have been that when I tried to put the pants on my upper torso, I looked like a giant "V" and lunged hither-and-yon for a few minutes until I hit a light pole and realized something was amiss. But what it came down to was I just didn't feel comfortable with no hole for my head or slot to peek out through and the whole hoodie-in-the-crotch thing, the more I thought, was a dead giveaway. Typical 'Merican technology. You'd think something as complicated as this would have come with instructions.
It took your Mom like 2 seconds to get the things on. She is such a show off.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Doing as I am told I get the gear out of the saddlebags and begin to put on the Frogg-Toggs.
These are great. Best investment in rain gear we've ever made. Light weight, breathable, and completely dry. It is a simple two-piece suit, with an extra long coat that fits over the high-rise pants so nothing gets where it shouldn't. The jacket even has a built in hoodie to go under your helmet should you so desire. They are fantastic. Except for one small, tiny little problem: I'm soaked to the bone already. I believe that may defeat their purpose. Like counting the calories in a Triple Burger with Cheese and an Insanely Large Fries after you've scarfed it in your car ducked behind, and slightly below, the steering wheel so no one will see what a horker your are.
When your Mom gets back from the bathroom I have managed to put on my rain gear.
Now, usually, this wouldn't be a huge accomplishment. In my defense it was the first time I had actually put on the Frogg-Toggs. And it had been raining. And I was cold. And we were in a foreign land, with foreign customs, and everything was all "kilometer this", and "liter that", and "no it's not play money just because it's a different color and no that's not Bob Dylan's head it's the Queen for Christ's sake so stop giggling and fork it over." So when I tell you that I struggled for a bit, and through sheer determination and perseverance, managed to put the jacket on my legs, over my boots, and had a hoodie hanging from my crotch, (I thought it was just to make it easier to pee with the chaps), you'll understand and not think less of me as a rider.
To my credit I discovered my blunder rather quickly. It may have been the howls of laughter coming from the cars passing me on the road. It may have been that when I tried to put the pants on my upper torso, I looked like a giant "V" and lunged hither-and-yon for a few minutes until I hit a light pole and realized something was amiss. But what it came down to was I just didn't feel comfortable with no hole for my head or slot to peek out through and the whole hoodie-in-the-crotch thing, the more I thought, was a dead giveaway. Typical 'Merican technology. You'd think something as complicated as this would have come with instructions.
It took your Mom like 2 seconds to get the things on. She is such a show off.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Labels:
Bob Dylan,
chaps,
fries,
Frogg Toggs,
hoodie,
Humor,
motorcycle,
Queen of England,
Rain,
Rain gear,
satire,
Victory Vision
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
They Eyes of a Fish
*** continued from previous post ***
It's now apparent that the skipper is winding the engines out to ramming speed. We may skip the dock altogether and just run this baby right up on shore, Omaha-Beach style. To no one's surprise but ours he throws the engines in reverse at the last minute and we cruise at a civilized speed to the dock.
Now, I don't know if you've ever had this experience, but once in a while in life you will stumble across a situation where, earlier in the day you admired someone, then, through no fault of their own the situation changes and you pity them. That was us in a nutshell. As we disembarked none of our previous friends would look at us. If they did, it was to sneak a quick glance in our direction. But I knew what they were thinking. It was the same thing I would have been thinking had the situation been reversed. "Sucks to be you Chester!"
Yes. Yes it does. Thank you for noticing.
We wait our turn and I roll on the throttle and pull up the now rain-soaked steel ramp. I don't know if you have experienced the delight of a half-blind, (my glasses and visor were still fogged up), fish-tailing ride on a motorcycle up a steel ramp in the rain with maniac Canadians inches from the back of your bike, but it's not as much fun as it sounds. Then, just as our tires kiss the tarmac, it quits raining! Oh benevolent God in heaven, why must your sense of humor be so cruel?
At the top of the hill leading to the Ferry is a small parking lot and a squat building that may be a smoke-house or a rest-room. I slow the bike, take a sharp curve and cruise into the lot. This looks like a good place to re-group, catch our breath, put on our rain gear, and attempt to think through the rest of our day.
"Well," I say, as I pull off my helmet with a definitive sucking sound, (Think of pulling a suction cup off of a sheet of glass, or Robert Downey Jr. circa 1995 from a post Oscar party with an open bar and a group of Colombian "fans".), "that was something, eh?"
Mom cocks her head slightly. "Did you just say 'eh?'
The woman I love looks at me with the eyes of a fish. Dead, terrible eyes. "If you start talking like a Canadian I will be forced to kill you. Kill you dead. Right here. Right now. Do you understand? Get your rain gear on while I visit the rest-room and try to dry out a bit."
I think that this deserves a calculated reply but then my brain starts working and I decide to smile and pursue the path that has kept our marriage on the right track for almost 30 years - I keep my mouth shut.
*** the journey continues ***
It's now apparent that the skipper is winding the engines out to ramming speed. We may skip the dock altogether and just run this baby right up on shore, Omaha-Beach style. To no one's surprise but ours he throws the engines in reverse at the last minute and we cruise at a civilized speed to the dock.
Now, I don't know if you've ever had this experience, but once in a while in life you will stumble across a situation where, earlier in the day you admired someone, then, through no fault of their own the situation changes and you pity them. That was us in a nutshell. As we disembarked none of our previous friends would look at us. If they did, it was to sneak a quick glance in our direction. But I knew what they were thinking. It was the same thing I would have been thinking had the situation been reversed. "Sucks to be you Chester!"
Yes. Yes it does. Thank you for noticing.
We wait our turn and I roll on the throttle and pull up the now rain-soaked steel ramp. I don't know if you have experienced the delight of a half-blind, (my glasses and visor were still fogged up), fish-tailing ride on a motorcycle up a steel ramp in the rain with maniac Canadians inches from the back of your bike, but it's not as much fun as it sounds. Then, just as our tires kiss the tarmac, it quits raining! Oh benevolent God in heaven, why must your sense of humor be so cruel?
At the top of the hill leading to the Ferry is a small parking lot and a squat building that may be a smoke-house or a rest-room. I slow the bike, take a sharp curve and cruise into the lot. This looks like a good place to re-group, catch our breath, put on our rain gear, and attempt to think through the rest of our day.
"Well," I say, as I pull off my helmet with a definitive sucking sound, (Think of pulling a suction cup off of a sheet of glass, or Robert Downey Jr. circa 1995 from a post Oscar party with an open bar and a group of Colombian "fans".), "that was something, eh?"
Mom cocks her head slightly. "Did you just say 'eh?'
The woman I love looks at me with the eyes of a fish. Dead, terrible eyes. "If you start talking like a Canadian I will be forced to kill you. Kill you dead. Right here. Right now. Do you understand? Get your rain gear on while I visit the rest-room and try to dry out a bit."
I think that this deserves a calculated reply but then my brain starts working and I decide to smile and pursue the path that has kept our marriage on the right track for almost 30 years - I keep my mouth shut.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
eh?,
ferry,
motorcycle,
pity,
Rain,
Skipper,
Victory Vision
Monday, January 24, 2011
It Was A Dark And Stormy Ferry Ride
*** continued from previous post ***
After the mandatory, "Well, good luck with all that, eh?", I can finally turn my attention to your mother. Her group has scattered like a bag of dropped marbles, and all that is left of her entourage is her and motorcycle girl. The time has not been kind. Mom - how can I put this gently - no matter how you slice it, she's not a pretty sight. Her hair is wet and matted and clumped to the side of her head like day-old oatmeal. Her mascara is running down her face giving the appearance that her eye may be leaking ink. Or dark, dark tears. I vote for the tears. We make eye-contact, and a silent thought passes between us. A shared observation between long-term companions that is understood immediately - there is no need to give it voice.
Although, had we chosen to speak, our communication would have been a simple "FUCKIN' A!!!".
Yes, that sums it up rather nicely.
I feel bad for the poor girl on the bike. With the enthusiasm of youth beaten out of her, she looks like the family dog that's been caught chewing on the baby one too many times.
I approach your Mom cautiously. Tentatively. Careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hey babe, how you doing? Have I told you today how beautiful you look?"
To your mother's credit, she didn't punch me in the throat. I love vacations!
"Little wet, little wet," she says, in a voice that is the einsiest, tiniest, itsy-bittiest four or five octaves too high.
"Yep," I reply. It seems like I should add something else, but, as I said before, I got nuthin'.
The ferry picks this moment to blast its horn. I look around, dumbstruck, forgetting where I am for the moment. Then it comes back to me in a flash. I'm in Hell. And not a regular Hell, but a maple syrup swilling north-of-the-border-down-the-rabbit-hole Canadian Hell. I expect Gordon Lightfoot songs over the ferry's speakers system at any moment.
"Looks like we've made it to the other side," Mom says. "Do you want to dig out our rain gear, or should we wait to get off the boat and then pull over?"
I notice that we are HAULING ASS into the dock. It looks like we are about half-a-mile away, but everyone on board has started their engines. I trust they know what they are doing. But it may be that they just want to turn on their heaters. The temperature has dropped from a pleasant 77 degrees, (that's Fahrenheit - in Celsius it would be like 10 kilometers), to a chilly 60. Sometimes I really regret having a thermometer on the Vision's instrument panel. I KNOW I'm cold, I don't need it quantified. And lucky us, the skies are looking angrier and more foreboding with each passing minute.
"Guess we should put on the rain gear but I don't think we have time. Looks like we will be at shore in a couple of minutes. I'll pull over once we get off, and we can put the Frogg-Toggs on then."
Mom nods approval.
*** the journey continues ***
After the mandatory, "Well, good luck with all that, eh?", I can finally turn my attention to your mother. Her group has scattered like a bag of dropped marbles, and all that is left of her entourage is her and motorcycle girl. The time has not been kind. Mom - how can I put this gently - no matter how you slice it, she's not a pretty sight. Her hair is wet and matted and clumped to the side of her head like day-old oatmeal. Her mascara is running down her face giving the appearance that her eye may be leaking ink. Or dark, dark tears. I vote for the tears. We make eye-contact, and a silent thought passes between us. A shared observation between long-term companions that is understood immediately - there is no need to give it voice.
Although, had we chosen to speak, our communication would have been a simple "FUCKIN' A!!!".
Yes, that sums it up rather nicely.
I feel bad for the poor girl on the bike. With the enthusiasm of youth beaten out of her, she looks like the family dog that's been caught chewing on the baby one too many times.
I approach your Mom cautiously. Tentatively. Careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hey babe, how you doing? Have I told you today how beautiful you look?"
To your mother's credit, she didn't punch me in the throat. I love vacations!
"Little wet, little wet," she says, in a voice that is the einsiest, tiniest, itsy-bittiest four or five octaves too high.
"Yep," I reply. It seems like I should add something else, but, as I said before, I got nuthin'.
The ferry picks this moment to blast its horn. I look around, dumbstruck, forgetting where I am for the moment. Then it comes back to me in a flash. I'm in Hell. And not a regular Hell, but a maple syrup swilling north-of-the-border-down-the-rabbit-hole Canadian Hell. I expect Gordon Lightfoot songs over the ferry's speakers system at any moment.
"Looks like we've made it to the other side," Mom says. "Do you want to dig out our rain gear, or should we wait to get off the boat and then pull over?"
I notice that we are HAULING ASS into the dock. It looks like we are about half-a-mile away, but everyone on board has started their engines. I trust they know what they are doing. But it may be that they just want to turn on their heaters. The temperature has dropped from a pleasant 77 degrees, (that's Fahrenheit - in Celsius it would be like 10 kilometers), to a chilly 60. Sometimes I really regret having a thermometer on the Vision's instrument panel. I KNOW I'm cold, I don't need it quantified. And lucky us, the skies are looking angrier and more foreboding with each passing minute.
"Guess we should put on the rain gear but I don't think we have time. Looks like we will be at shore in a couple of minutes. I'll pull over once we get off, and we can put the Frogg-Toggs on then."
Mom nods approval.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels:
dog,
ferry,
Frog Toggs,
Gordon Lightfoot,
Humor,
motorcycle,
Rain,
satire,
Victory Vision,
wet
Friday, January 21, 2011
It's NEVER Lupus!
*** continued from previous post ***
"Oh yeah, we get some heavy weather here in dese here mountains. Weather report said it was gonna rain this afternoon. In fact, they said it was gonna rain all week." He looked at me as I began to shiver. "Bummer that, you being on the bike and all."
Show no fear . . . show no fear, I chant in my head.
"Pfffffttttt. We never let a little bad weather stop us," I managed to say through chattering teeth. "You know the saying."
He looked puzzled for a minute, glancing around at his fellow Canucks to see if anyone would volunteer the answer. None did. Now I was going to have to make something up.
"Well, they say. . . ."
Everyone leaned a bit closer.
"They say. . . ." I falter. I need an ending - something dynamite. Several things go through my head. What do they say? 'Take your vitamins.' But I don't really see how that applies. 'Wear a condom.' Sage advice, but not appropriate for the circumstances. 'If life gives you lemons, take the frickin' things back and demand a refund, or at least an in-store credit.' That one is a possibility. 'There are two things in this world you should never trust - Carney Folk and mobile Dentists.' Solid wisdom right there, but again lacking that certain spark. 'If it's too good to be true you're probably hallucinating." Well, you can't argue with that. But. . . but. . . suddenly, inspiration strikes!
"It's NEVER Lupus,” I say with a satisfied smile.
Ha Ha! Hoisted on your own petard! Refute that logic silly Canadians!
I would like to take a moment and ask you if you have ever experienced a blank stare? A truly 'cogs-turning-in-the-machinery-but-nobody-to-push-the-start-button' stare? Time slowed. Sound and motion stopped. I could feel the mood turning.
Did I really just say that? What the hell? Lupus? I realize that I may be suffering from hypothermia. Curse you Gregory House! Begone demon doctor of the airwaves!
"I mean," I stumble, "that if you don't ride in the rain, it's not Lupus."
Well this is going nowhere. "No wait, I may have gotten my metaphors crossed. OH! I remember! If you don't ride in the rain, you're a *&$#@ pussy."
Protip: Profanity is always a proper choice and a good way to garner respect. It makes any situation more fun for everyone involved. But you knew that. You're in the Navy for God's sakes.
Had my ploy been successful? I look around at the faces staring at me for reassurance. The theme from "Jeopardy" is suddenly pumped over the boats PA system. My suspicions have been confirmed. The captain is an ass-hat.
"Oh," says scooter-boy, and offers a hearty laugh, "boy that there is the truth. You can tell the bar-hoppers from the real riders. You never see the bar-hoppers in the rain!"
The group agrees and we all share a good chuckle. Yet I see the signs, I know what will happen next. I've reached that certain plateau in my social skills where I go from absolutely amusing and entertaining to - and this is the absolute truth - dead on annoying. It's a short trip.
I'm cold, wet, shivering, slightly confused and out of ammo. In other words, I got nuthin'.
Luckily the rain is now coming down so viciously that even the die-hards have no choice but to return to their vehicles.
*** the journey continues. . . probably ***
"Oh yeah, we get some heavy weather here in dese here mountains. Weather report said it was gonna rain this afternoon. In fact, they said it was gonna rain all week." He looked at me as I began to shiver. "Bummer that, you being on the bike and all."
Show no fear . . . show no fear, I chant in my head.
"Pfffffttttt. We never let a little bad weather stop us," I managed to say through chattering teeth. "You know the saying."
He looked puzzled for a minute, glancing around at his fellow Canucks to see if anyone would volunteer the answer. None did. Now I was going to have to make something up.
"Well, they say. . . ."
Everyone leaned a bit closer.
"They say. . . ." I falter. I need an ending - something dynamite. Several things go through my head. What do they say? 'Take your vitamins.' But I don't really see how that applies. 'Wear a condom.' Sage advice, but not appropriate for the circumstances. 'If life gives you lemons, take the frickin' things back and demand a refund, or at least an in-store credit.' That one is a possibility. 'There are two things in this world you should never trust - Carney Folk and mobile Dentists.' Solid wisdom right there, but again lacking that certain spark. 'If it's too good to be true you're probably hallucinating." Well, you can't argue with that. But. . . but. . . suddenly, inspiration strikes!
"It's NEVER Lupus,” I say with a satisfied smile.
Ha Ha! Hoisted on your own petard! Refute that logic silly Canadians!
I would like to take a moment and ask you if you have ever experienced a blank stare? A truly 'cogs-turning-in-the-machinery-but-nobody-to-push-the-start-button' stare? Time slowed. Sound and motion stopped. I could feel the mood turning.
Did I really just say that? What the hell? Lupus? I realize that I may be suffering from hypothermia. Curse you Gregory House! Begone demon doctor of the airwaves!
"I mean," I stumble, "that if you don't ride in the rain, it's not Lupus."
Well this is going nowhere. "No wait, I may have gotten my metaphors crossed. OH! I remember! If you don't ride in the rain, you're a *&$#@ pussy."
Protip: Profanity is always a proper choice and a good way to garner respect. It makes any situation more fun for everyone involved. But you knew that. You're in the Navy for God's sakes.
Had my ploy been successful? I look around at the faces staring at me for reassurance. The theme from "Jeopardy" is suddenly pumped over the boats PA system. My suspicions have been confirmed. The captain is an ass-hat.
"Oh," says scooter-boy, and offers a hearty laugh, "boy that there is the truth. You can tell the bar-hoppers from the real riders. You never see the bar-hoppers in the rain!"
The group agrees and we all share a good chuckle. Yet I see the signs, I know what will happen next. I've reached that certain plateau in my social skills where I go from absolutely amusing and entertaining to - and this is the absolute truth - dead on annoying. It's a short trip.
I'm cold, wet, shivering, slightly confused and out of ammo. In other words, I got nuthin'.
Luckily the rain is now coming down so viciously that even the die-hards have no choice but to return to their vehicles.
*** the journey continues. . . probably ***
Labels:
annoying,
bar hopper,
cold,
condom,
hallucinate,
Humor,
hypothermia,
lupus,
motorcycle,
profanity,
Rain,
satire,
Victory Vision,
weather
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Shrivel Factor
*** continued from previous post ***
Here is the really funny part: The people in my particular group would wander away, one at a time, AND PUT ON FRICKIN' SHIRTS AND JACKETS AND HOODIES, then come back to tag-team each other, so the under-dressed could go put on some more appropriate clothes while the idiot from THE STATES gets soaked.
Bastards.
And you know why they acted so unconcerned? THEY HATE AMERICANS! No, that's not true. They had things like . . . oh, I don't know . . . maybe HEATERS, AND ROOFS, AND DEFROSTERS, AND CUPS OF COFFEE IN LITTLE DOOR HOLDERS, and NICE SMELLING AIR FRESHENERS so that the rain was nothing more than a small bother.
Then, as if the cake were not sweet enough - thunder and lightning!
"Whoa," my scooter-selling friend remarked, "dats a bit of weather dere, eh?"
I wanted to shout "Ya think?" but I wasn't ready to alienate an ally just yet. Water was now dripping from my nose. Cascading. A nasal waterfall to rival Niagara. (Niagara. . . Viagra. What the hell?) My glasses were covered in streaks, and the parts that weren't dripping were foggier than Keith Richard's childhood memories. I could feel water running through my mesh, soaking my shirt, and beginning to drip into my 'nether regions'. I looked up at the sky. Bad mistake. Water poured into my nostrils, making me choke.
“Is it raining?", I gasped." Another flash of lightning, this one too close for comfort. "I hadn't really noticed," I added nonchalantly, as parts of me that are never supposed to be wet unless I'm swimming, bathing, or suffering a mild seizure, became saturated. Saturated, cold, and shriveling by the minute.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Here is the really funny part: The people in my particular group would wander away, one at a time, AND PUT ON FRICKIN' SHIRTS AND JACKETS AND HOODIES, then come back to tag-team each other, so the under-dressed could go put on some more appropriate clothes while the idiot from THE STATES gets soaked.
Bastards.
And you know why they acted so unconcerned? THEY HATE AMERICANS! No, that's not true. They had things like . . . oh, I don't know . . . maybe HEATERS, AND ROOFS, AND DEFROSTERS, AND CUPS OF COFFEE IN LITTLE DOOR HOLDERS, and NICE SMELLING AIR FRESHENERS so that the rain was nothing more than a small bother.
Then, as if the cake were not sweet enough - thunder and lightning!
"Whoa," my scooter-selling friend remarked, "dats a bit of weather dere, eh?"
I wanted to shout "Ya think?" but I wasn't ready to alienate an ally just yet. Water was now dripping from my nose. Cascading. A nasal waterfall to rival Niagara. (Niagara. . . Viagra. What the hell?) My glasses were covered in streaks, and the parts that weren't dripping were foggier than Keith Richard's childhood memories. I could feel water running through my mesh, soaking my shirt, and beginning to drip into my 'nether regions'. I looked up at the sky. Bad mistake. Water poured into my nostrils, making me choke.
“Is it raining?", I gasped." Another flash of lightning, this one too close for comfort. "I hadn't really noticed," I added nonchalantly, as parts of me that are never supposed to be wet unless I'm swimming, bathing, or suffering a mild seizure, became saturated. Saturated, cold, and shriveling by the minute.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Labels:
Humor,
Keith Richards,
lightning,
motorcycle,
neither reigons,
Rain,
satire,
shrivel,
soaking,
Victory Vision
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Roid-Rage of the Rain
*** continued from previous post ***
Within seconds a few pitter-pats of God-juice turned into something much darker, much uglier and definitely much wetter. Think of a drop of regular rain. Now give it steroids. Make it do dual workouts at the gym. Give it a subscription to "Bodybuilder’s Monthly". Got a picture? Good. Now put seven of those together, squeeze them into a ridiculously small space like a Japanese commuter on an afternoon train, and you begin to see what I'm talking about.
When rain's big brother started falling, it actually stung my head - I kid you not. The drops were easily the size of quarters. And not wimpy Canadian quarters either, big burly 'real money 'Merican quarters' from THE STATES.
Ordinarily this would be no big deal. But I believe I have come to understand how a rock star feels: Groggy, confused, and unsure of their gender. No wait, that's not right. Unable to get away from people even when death is imminent, that's what I meant to say. I could not get my crowd of Canadians to shut the hell up long enough to put on some rain gear. Srsly. I am not kidding.
Each time I tried to make my way to the saddlebags, someone would come up with another question about the Vision. Or query my views on the nature of being, and whether we live in a self-constructed reality built from a mathematically provable 'fuzzy-cloud' of possibility spawning alternate dimensions that break from our own universe at every juncture of choice, or, are we simply existing in an illusionary prison of pre-determined fate. No lie. I thought that was a pretty insightful question for a third-grader. But apparently, other countries actually educate their young in the public schools, unlike in THE STATES where we are happy if they don't shoot each other. At least during social studies.
And, since I was trying to maintain my new-found image as, "the-guy you-think-is-living-the-life-you-dream-about-and-is-having-more-fun-than-you'll-ever-have-because-he-has-a-really-cool-bike-and-a-nicely-shaped-head-while-I-have-to-work-pushing paper-for-people-I-hate-and-am-horribly-worried-about-that-lump-I-found-under-my-arm-when-I-took-my-shower-this-morning-oh-God-it's-cancer-IT'S CANCER-I-just-know-it!!!!!", I just stood there like a moron and got wet.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Within seconds a few pitter-pats of God-juice turned into something much darker, much uglier and definitely much wetter. Think of a drop of regular rain. Now give it steroids. Make it do dual workouts at the gym. Give it a subscription to "Bodybuilder’s Monthly". Got a picture? Good. Now put seven of those together, squeeze them into a ridiculously small space like a Japanese commuter on an afternoon train, and you begin to see what I'm talking about.
When rain's big brother started falling, it actually stung my head - I kid you not. The drops were easily the size of quarters. And not wimpy Canadian quarters either, big burly 'real money 'Merican quarters' from THE STATES.
Ordinarily this would be no big deal. But I believe I have come to understand how a rock star feels: Groggy, confused, and unsure of their gender. No wait, that's not right. Unable to get away from people even when death is imminent, that's what I meant to say. I could not get my crowd of Canadians to shut the hell up long enough to put on some rain gear. Srsly. I am not kidding.
Each time I tried to make my way to the saddlebags, someone would come up with another question about the Vision. Or query my views on the nature of being, and whether we live in a self-constructed reality built from a mathematically provable 'fuzzy-cloud' of possibility spawning alternate dimensions that break from our own universe at every juncture of choice, or, are we simply existing in an illusionary prison of pre-determined fate. No lie. I thought that was a pretty insightful question for a third-grader. But apparently, other countries actually educate their young in the public schools, unlike in THE STATES where we are happy if they don't shoot each other. At least during social studies.
And, since I was trying to maintain my new-found image as, "the-guy you-think-is-living-the-life-you-dream-about-and-is-having-more-fun-than-you'll-ever-have-because-he-has-a-really-cool-bike-and-a-nicely-shaped-head-while-I-have-to-work-pushing paper-for-people-I-hate-and-am-horribly-worried-about-that-lump-I-found-under-my-arm-when-I-took-my-shower-this-morning-oh-God-it's-cancer-IT'S CANCER-I-just-know-it!!!!!", I just stood there like a moron and got wet.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Labels:
education,
Humor,
money,
motorcycle,
Rain,
satire,
theoretical physics,
Victory Vision,
wet
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Is it rain? Or is God Crying?
*** continued from previous post ***
As a native North-westerner, you know that 'rain' comes in many flavors. There is the gentle ‘mist’ that creeps into every crack and crevice and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'light rain’ that trickles down gently from the skies, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the typical 'rain', as in "Hey, it's raining!", that pelts your skin and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'cloudburst rain', that comes from nowhere, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. Then we have the 'deluge', the big splattering drops that . . . well, soaks you to the bone in seconds.
These are the rains you know. Throw those conceptions right out the window. But first check to make sure there is no one walking on the sidewalk below. You don't need a lawsuit.
Oh, the first few drops were innocent enough. Sort of a "Hello, I'm rain. Pleased to meet you. Just passin' through. Just makin' the grass and the trees grow. Don't worry about me, I'll be on my way soon enough. You enjoy your day now."
Stupid rain. Once rain starts on a train of thought, much like a Pokemon aficionado or a model train enthusiast, it's hard to get it to shut up. So I became aware of this wet little bastard before anyone else on the boat. There are few advantages to being bald, but being the first to know when it's raining is right up there, second only to the ego stroke one receives from the never-ending stream of, "Hey! You have a really nicely shaped head." Every time someone says that to me, I think, "What the hell? Is it because they feel bad about me being bald? That's the only compliment they can think to say? Really? Would you tell a one-armed person, "Hey, the remainder of your arm is very cylindrical?
Or is it something else? Is the shape of my head so important that you feel the need to comment? I mean, it's not like I did anything. There are no special exercises to produce a 'nicely shaped head'. No creams, lotions, or injections. And what, I wonder , do my brothers with the less symmetrically shaped noggins hear? If human nature, and past experience is any guide, it probably isn't pleasant. "Oh dear. Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it?" Or, "My, were you left on your back in your crib a lot as a baby?" Possibly,"Jesus! Did anyone live in the accident?" Why comment at all? How many times has someone come up to you and said, "Wow. That is a really attractive elbow you got going there." Or, "May I just say that is one round eyeball. Very nice." No. You never hear, "I don't want to be forward, but your knuckles are particularly attractive today." And why? Because . . . it starts . . . it's probably just . . . well I have no idea, but as your Great Uncle Jonathon the Priest used to say when referring to the Church's position on celibacy, "that shit's just gotta change".
Odd duck that Jonathon.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
As a native North-westerner, you know that 'rain' comes in many flavors. There is the gentle ‘mist’ that creeps into every crack and crevice and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'light rain’ that trickles down gently from the skies, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the typical 'rain', as in "Hey, it's raining!", that pelts your skin and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'cloudburst rain', that comes from nowhere, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. Then we have the 'deluge', the big splattering drops that . . . well, soaks you to the bone in seconds.
These are the rains you know. Throw those conceptions right out the window. But first check to make sure there is no one walking on the sidewalk below. You don't need a lawsuit.
Oh, the first few drops were innocent enough. Sort of a "Hello, I'm rain. Pleased to meet you. Just passin' through. Just makin' the grass and the trees grow. Don't worry about me, I'll be on my way soon enough. You enjoy your day now."
Stupid rain. Once rain starts on a train of thought, much like a Pokemon aficionado or a model train enthusiast, it's hard to get it to shut up. So I became aware of this wet little bastard before anyone else on the boat. There are few advantages to being bald, but being the first to know when it's raining is right up there, second only to the ego stroke one receives from the never-ending stream of, "Hey! You have a really nicely shaped head." Every time someone says that to me, I think, "What the hell? Is it because they feel bad about me being bald? That's the only compliment they can think to say? Really? Would you tell a one-armed person, "Hey, the remainder of your arm is very cylindrical?
Or is it something else? Is the shape of my head so important that you feel the need to comment? I mean, it's not like I did anything. There are no special exercises to produce a 'nicely shaped head'. No creams, lotions, or injections. And what, I wonder , do my brothers with the less symmetrically shaped noggins hear? If human nature, and past experience is any guide, it probably isn't pleasant. "Oh dear. Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it?" Or, "My, were you left on your back in your crib a lot as a baby?" Possibly,"Jesus! Did anyone live in the accident?" Why comment at all? How many times has someone come up to you and said, "Wow. That is a really attractive elbow you got going there." Or, "May I just say that is one round eyeball. Very nice." No. You never hear, "I don't want to be forward, but your knuckles are particularly attractive today." And why? Because . . . it starts . . . it's probably just . . . well I have no idea, but as your Great Uncle Jonathon the Priest used to say when referring to the Church's position on celibacy, "that shit's just gotta change".
Odd duck that Jonathon.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Labels:
bald,
Humor,
motorcycle,
priest,
Rain,
satire,
Victory Vision
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