I plan my strategy

*** continued from previous post  ***

We arrive at the store, "Buckshot - If it's alive we'll help you kill it!", and I instantly become distracted by the "Buckets of Bargains" lining the parking lot by the entrance to the store. You never know what treasure you'll find at a drastically reduced price. I once found an Electric Smoker designed specifically for Elk meat, with utensils, digital readouts, and a recipe book for $10. I brought it home and realized (with some strenuous prodding from your Mother), that not only do I not like smoked Elk meat, but I've never hunted Elk in my life and barring the apocalypse, more than likely never would. I tried to explain to her that that wasn't the point. The smoker was $10 marked down from $800! I had just saved her $790 and all she could do is criticize. (Later, we would get 50 cents for the while kit-and-kaboodle at a yard sale - but that's a different story entirely.) So I suppose her irritation as I rummaged through each bucket was understandable. Still, the exercise satisfied the 'hunter/gatherer' instinct, that pervasive and primitive genetic memory in my soul.

"Look Suz! We could use one of these!"

"What is it?"

I pick a treasure from a bucket and hold it up for her to see. "It's a device for making potable water from just about any source! Isn't that amazing? And the best part is its only $39.99."

"And why would we need potable water? We're not backpacking are we?"

"Well," I said as my brain scrambled, "no, but what if we were stranded in the desert? You'd thank me then."

"I'm not trying to be a wet-blanket here, but are there any deserts in the Canadian Rockies?"

Gah! I hate it when she gets all reasonable like that. However, that would not deter me. "Most of Eastern Washington is semi-arid."

"And," she said, "we will be through that part in about three or four hours. We will not die of thirst in that time."

Ouch. A right hook. "Fine. But when you're passed out from dehydration don't come running to me."

"Okay. That's a deal. If, on this trip, I'm comatose from lack of water I won't look to you for help."

I didn't much care for her tone, but I let it go. Evidently, this little shopping spree was going to be much more confrontational than I had imagined. So be it. I was up to the challenge.

"Come on, let's go find a bag," she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me through the sliding double doors into the store.

You ever notice how different stores have different smells? I mean of course there are the obvious ones like a candle store, or a Florist, or a mortuary, but I'm talking more about regular stores - office stores, hardware, you know. This store definitely had an odor. I couldn't quite place it but it smelled very . . . redneck-y. Kind of like chew and beer and bad cologne. Much like your Uncle Scott before a date. Or maybe it was latex and bug spray and gunpowder. Or, just stale air freshener. I would have wandered around, trying to quantify the odor, seeking out the source, but Mom, having learned her lesson, refused to let go of my hand and before you know it we are in the aisle for all things packy.

There were backpacks and daypacks and rucksacks. There were stuff bags and canteen holders and tackle boxes. There were camel packs and quivers and, what I thought at the time was a holder for unruly children but in actuality was a portable toilet. (Guess it's a good thing you're not little anymore, huh? Mistakes like that can require extensive therapy later in life. Just ask your sister.) Unfortunately, nary a motorcycle bag to be seen. This however did nothing to daunt your Mother.

"This will do just fine," Mom said, picking up a duffel bag made of heavy canvas and approximately 92 feet long. You could have stored a torpedo in there. And the crew to fire it. Maybe the boat as well.
*** continued from previous post  ***


"Ummmmm. . . .", I say, as if I'm actually contemplating her selection of luggage but was in reality biding time so that I could point out the absurdity of her choice without getting smacked. Physically or mentally. "I think, and I'm going out on a limb here, that it may be a bit big for the bike."

"Hmmmmm. . .", Mom paused, and sat the bag on the floor. "You may be right. But it would certainly hold all of our stuff." She surveyed the length of the duffel. "I don't think it's that big."

I had a momentary vision of us going down the road with either the bag draped over the trunk and dragging on both sides, or your Mom balancing it on her head along the axis of the motorcycle's length, like a canoe on a car-top. Neither was going to work. Yet, experience has taught me that I could not quell this idea without offering a suggestion of my own. Luckily I had something in mind, something for which I had been dreaming of for quite a while. I tried to contain my excitement. If I were to be successful it would have to be a slow and gentle journey to get your Mom to come around and agree to what I was thinking. Would my ploy work? Only time would tell.

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Chapter 1

The Journey Begins . . . Sort of

Since you've forsaken us and left us to wander alone in our twilight years while you're off getting all Navy-a-pated - we did what most 'recently elderly' people do and bought a new motorcycle.  She's a 2008 Victory Vision.  This beauty is like nothing you've ever seen.  I tell you the styling on this bike is revolutionary.  She is an ode to art deco.  She is a sonnet of line and form and function with a bass note of devil-may-care intensity.  Cherry Red.  106 cc's and 96 hp.  Cruise control.  Stereo.  GPS.  Heated seats.  Heated hand-grips.  Electric adjustable windshield.  Enough computer chips to build a robot.  

I admit, I'm smitten.  I may, if pressed, leave your Mother for this bike - she's just that hot.  Not that your Mother isn't hot - she is.  But Mom doesn't cruise from 0 to 60 in 4.5 seconds unless she's mistaken the caffeine pills for breath-mints again.  How best to sum up the Vision?  She's a big-ass Buck Rodger's lookin' rocket-ship that raises more eyebrows than a beauty-pageant contestant explaining the nuances of quantum physics.  Yeah, that about covers it.  Needless to say, the brand-lemming bar-hopping motorcycle fashion crowd gives us a wide berth.  Evidently, and unbeknownst to us, it's entirely possible the Vision is a virus that may infect chrome.  But you know us.  You know how we are when it comes to other people's opinions . . . we could not care less.  Oh yeah - we're rebels.  We're trend-setters.  We just roll like that.  Plus, we're tired of sore butts and cold hands.  And cold butts.  And sore hands.  Our new baby is a plush recliner on wheels that corners so well and accelerates so quickly it should come equipped with an extra pair of undies and an insurance policy as standard equipment.  Zoooommmmmm!!!!!  

So, what do you do when you have a big honkin' bike?  Isn't it obvious?  You take a big honkin' trip.  And that's exactly what we intended to do.  Go bust some blacktop, you know?  Shred some twisties.  Run afoul of the law if possible.  Oh, the wild yonder called to us, begging us to explore, to investigate, to conquer its mysteries.  You don't keep a thoroughbred locked in the barn, do you?  Same with the Victory Vision.  She may look like a cover-girl model but our baby is no 'garage queen'.  She's a debutante born to tour the world.  The open road is her life-blood.  She is an artist of speed and g-force with the countryside her canvas.

  

Did I mention I love this bike?  But where to go?  That was the real question.  A relaxed weekend on the coast?  A nice day-long drive through the Cascades?  An over-nighter down on the Columbia River Gorge?

Silly, silly Amber.  This is us - these are your parental units of which we speak.  Short trips are for the weak and feeble.  Anything less than 300 miles a day is for sissies.  We had the time.  We had the equipment.  We lacked common sense.  All the cards were falling into place.  This was our chance to really test the legs of the bike as well as our endurance.  Possibly our marriage of thirty years, but that would come later.  So, in the fevered optimism that is our 'reason d'etre', we decided that a 2500 mile, week long motorcycle excursion to the Canadian Rockies, and Banff National Park in particular, on a big-ass spaceship-styled road-eating motorcycle seemed like a good idea.  

No, that's not quite right.  This trip seemed like a GREAT idea.


Protip:  Pay particular attention to the word "seemed".  Funny word that.  All kinds of interesting connotations.

*** continued tomorrow

Welcome to the blog

Well.

Recently I was told that I was, and I kid you not, 'too funny'.

Too funny as in "we really liked your book and laughed out loud all the way through, but too much of a good thing is too much so we're passing."

I think the book is funny.  Outrageous.  Farcical.  Slightly demented.

The book is written as a series of missives to my daughter as she endured Navy Officer Candidate School, and chronicles a week long motorcycle trip from hell that my wife and I took to Banff National Park in Canada.

It's just chock full of insanity.  And bears.  Mostly insanity.

Apparently it also came across that I don't like Canadians. (Says the agent).   Nothing could be further from the truth.  I envy Canadians.  Canada is like the US except they got it right.

Do I poke fun of Canadians?  Of course I do.  But anyone that reads the book will understand that the person I make fun of the most is myself.

So here's what I'm going to do.

Over the next few months I will post the book .  You'll get to read the whole thing.

I've come to the conclusion that this is probably the only way "David & Suzanne's Big Frickin' Motorcycle Adventure" will ever reach a readership.

So, here it is  for your amusement.  All I ask is that if you find it funny and enjoyable you pass word of the blog to your friends.  Or, if you don't like it, to your enemies.

Feel free to post in the comments section.

So here we go . . . .

****************************************************************************

David & Suzanne's Big Frickin' Motorcycle Adventure

 September 8, 2008

 Dear Amber,

Mom says that you made it to your Navy Officer Candidate School in Rhode Island, and that I should fulfill a hasty yet heart-felt promise and tell you about our trip to Canada.

 Fine.  I almost killed your Mom last week.

Talk to you later.

 Love,

Dad

*         *          *

 September 9, 2008     

 Dear Amber,

 Mom says that was a horrible letter and I should elaborate to soothe your nerves.  

Fine.  I almost killed your mother last week --- multiple times.

Feel better?  

Love,

 Dad

 PS.  Was your bedroom always full of water?

*         *          *

September 10, 2008

Dear Amber,

Mom says I am an awful father and to tell you what happened.  

I would argue that I'm an adequate father but a horrible husband.

I came to this conclusion as I sat on a wet gravel road, high in the Canadian Rockies, in the dying light of one weird, weird day.  Hungry, hypothermic, lost, full of remorse, Grizzly spittle drying on the back of my neck, and alone.  Horribly and utterly alone.  Well, except for your mother sitting behind me, gently weeping and describing my character in what I think are very unflattering terms.  She could at least have used words with more than four letters and some hyphens. 

Oh, there was a moose there too.  Did I tell you that? 

 Anyway, as I sat there, shivering, shaking, highly paranoid that we were going to be eaten at any moment I promised myself one thing:  I promised myself should I live I would tell the complete, unvarnished, absolutely true tale to my daughters as a cautionary fable full of insight, wisdom, and delicious, delicious meats.   

 Since your sister, being the first-born, can smell my BS a mile away and is pretty quick to run I guess you're the lucky one.

 It's okay.  You can thank me later.

So, did I tell you we bought a new motorcycle?

 No?

Okay, I'll start at the beginning.  I have it on the highest authority that this is a very fine place to start.  But do me a favor.  Hold your opinion until the end. 

*         *          *

Tomorrow . . . The Journey Begins.  Sort of.