It's All In A Name

*** continued from previous post ***


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

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

We didn't even care that we were starving.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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 *** 

It's not that I'm promoting cannibalism . . .

*** continued from previous post ***

So we took a short break before we entered, what I affectionately refer to as "The Great Brown".  It's that vast area of Eastern Washington beyond the Cascade mountains stretching almost to the city limits of Spokane.  Semi-arid.  Basically flat, empty, rocky, and save for a brief period in spring - brown.  Brown as an environmentalist's lawn in July.  Brown as a eco-friendly naturally-died macrame hanger.  Brown as a Charlie.  Here the freeway is straight, and flat, and goes on forever and ever and ever and a bit further than that.  The traffic was light and everyone was behaving themselves.

  

That is to say that the next 100 miles was, no other way to put it, dead-on boring.  Bang your head against the handlebars boring.  Nothing to do but set the cruise control on the Vision and practice my mad skills of riding without hands.  It's an amazing sight and one that never fails to get a reaction from the people on the road.  I'm not sure your Mom appreciates this particular talent.  She doesn't say anything, but I can infer much from the screaming and the pounding of fists and the raking of the nails on my exposed neck as I stretch my arms out to the side like wings and make airplane noises.

"Rrrrrrooooooooommmmmmmm!!!!   Zzzzrooooooooooommmmm!!!!"

"Eeeeeeeiiiiiieeeeeee!!!!", your Mother would respond. Bam.  Bam. Bambambambambambambambam!  

"Whhooooooosssssshhhhhhhh!!!"  "VvvvvvvrrrrrrrooooooooommMMMMM!!!"

"Aaaiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!"  Bambambambambambambam.

So as you can see, we found a way to entertain ourselves.  Remember Amber, the secret to life is making your own joy no matter what the situation.

            We finally reach the town of Ritzville, where we will leave our eastern heading and turn north towards Canada.  Here we will pull off the "slab", as the freeway is referred to in the biking community, to give ourselves a much needed break and a bite to eat.  For some reason, my upper back and neck was a little sore and Mom said her arms and fists were killing her.  You just never know what muscles you use when you ride.  We saw a sign that proclaimed - and quite succiently I thought - "EATS!"  This was the place for us.  I appreciate advertising that doesn't beat around the bush.  There was no mystery here.  No 'TJ McDoolde Hackers'.  No 'Peach Tree', which, contrary to its name offers neither peaches NOR trees on its menu.  Or 'Cannibal Jacks' which I won't even get into here but take my word was quite a disappointment.  And despite what my lawyer said, I still think is open to a lawsuit for false advertising.  Plus, the staff is quite testy and uncooperative. 

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***