649 Liters Per Hour in the Rain. Again.

*** continued from previous post ***


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

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

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

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

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

I should have paid more attention to the metric system in school

*** the journey continues ***


"Yeah," I smile, "it's been a warm one."

"Oh yeah. Been near 40 degrees here all week!"

Now I know this next part sounds cliche' but I swear it's true. He casually swats a fly on the counter with a vicious 'WHACK", then scrapes the remains onto the floor all the while maintaining eye contact. I suspect the fly has more than likely been contemplating suicide for several days, but couldn't muster the energy nor the enthusiasm until this moment.

Something he says wedges in my brain. 40 degrees? What crazy-talk is this? If it were 40 degrees I could see my breath, and all I can see is a faint stream of steam wafting lazily from your Mother.

I look at the man blankly, then I remember - Canada! Different measurement system! My brain hums and vibrates, trying desperately to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit. All that I can remember is 0 degrees Celsius is 32 degrees Fahrenheit. I madly do mental gymnastics. I carry a two. I divide by Pi. Finally I give up. 40 doesn't sound that hot to me, but what do I know? So I do what I do whenever someone is trying to impress me with a bit of knowledge that they assume I will appreciate. I whistle softly, then say "Wow".

"Yeah," he says, and starts to move around the counter. God, please let him be wearing pants! Please let him be wearing pants!

We have a good turn of fortune and he IS wearing pants. Not very attractive ones, but that's beside the point and I don't want to start criticizing his fashion. I have no idea of the local culture. This could be semi-formal dinner wear for all I know. For this is Canada - land of mystery.

"Been a scorcher all right. A real heat-wave," he adds with a slight bob of his head.

Mom and I smile and nod vacantly. I don't know about your Mom, but I'm having trouble focusing.

I think - and this is just some crazy speculation on my part - that I may be a little low on the moisture content.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***