The Road to Hernias are Paved with Good Intentions

*** continued from previous post ***

We were starving, but sure we would find a charming restaurant just up the road.

But first, we had to make our escape. Like Ninjas. Sneaky Canadian Ninjas. Lest we forget ourselves and wake in a week or two sitting in the Pub with 'Zombie-Dude' pouring drinks for those only he can see. Quiet was the order of the day.

Eager to avoid a scene, we decided that we would PUSH the Vision far, far from the Motel so as not to wake nor rouse the Local Pitchfork Mob with the rumblings of our mighty exhaust. You know us, deep down beneath the leather and the helmets and the tattoos on our foreheads that say 'KILLER', we try to be considerate people. Mostly. The operative word being 'try'

Now, I don't know if you're aware of exactly how much the Vision weighs. The dry weight - and what the hell does that mean? What if you live somewhere it's raining all the time? Dry weight will do you no good. What you need is wet weight for a really informed decision. Or, at the very least, slightly moist weight - anyway, the dry weight of the Victory Vision is 849 pounds, give or take an ounce. The saddlebags were stuffed with easily another 45 pounds or so, the trunk was crammed with another 40 pounds and then you had that diabolical "100% FRICKIN' GUARANTEED WATERPROOF" bag and you can tack on another 25 pounds. I go 200. Your Mom is 105. The gear we were wearing, combined between us was at least 20 pounds with the armored mesh and helmets and Mom's security rock. A full tank of gas, (6 gallons), adds another 50 pounds rounded up. As you can see, if you've been doing the math, I was going to attempt to push well over 9000 pounds around with no reverse gear, no motor to help, and every inch uphill - and backwards. And why in God's name someone had coated the driveway with butter I'll never know. Perhaps it is some quaint Canadian custom of which I am unawares. Much like the Canadian propensity for human sacrifice around harvest time. Oh, those silly Canadian farmers and their festivals hearkening back to simpler days. I envy their simplicity. Any-who, I pop a hernia just thinking about it. Sherpa-ing an epileptic baby elephant - on crack - up the side of Mt. Everest wearing roller blades would be easier than rolling our beast backwards and uphill.

I pull up the kickstand and we promptly fall over.

HA! Gotcha! No, I pull up the kickstand, take a deep breath and push backwards with my legs.

And . . . nothing. Not even a budge. I try several more times without success.

"What are we going to do?" Mom asked.

"Hmmmm . . . " I pondered, "set fire to the bike and claim the insurance?"

"That would be fine, but we would be stuck in Galway Bay," she said and cast a nervous glance about, "possibly forever."

I saw her point. So through super-human strength, and a promise to the Elder Gods, (Cthulu, are you listening?), to give them my first-born son, (Jokes on them! I done been all fixapated! No more genetic wealth from this guy!), I finally got the bike rolling and managed to wrestle it far enough away from the motel that we believed we could make our escape without alerting the authorities. Which, thankfully, we did and trundled off down the highway with flowers and puppies in our hearts and a slight headache from exertion. Oh, and a major leg cramp. I was pushing 9000 pounds after all.



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

Our Introduction to Canadian Hopitality

*** continued from previous post ***

I pull the Vision up to the front of the office, and we de-saddle. It takes us a couple of minutes to get the helmets off, and pry the sweat-laden jackets off our backs. I cast a cautious glance around the place. I don't know what I'm looking for, but the Border Guard's line of questioning keeps running through my head - possibly there are roving bands of agitated Canadians about - mayhap a family of vicious baboons skulking about the trees, or, more than likely considering how our day has gone so far, an ovulating T-Rex with a failed relationship and a knife.

Throwing caution to the wind I open the door and step inside the small office.

Oh goody. This should be fun.


Firstly, there is a man. The thing that catches my eye is his lack of upper garments. The gentleman is in his early 70's, balding, but with tufts of unruly hair on either side of his head that looked as if it were trying to escape. Or coalesce into wings for an escape. Very gray. Not the tufts, they are pure black, which is odd because it is his chest-hair that is gray. I don't let my eyes drift if-you-know-what-I-mean.

Please God, let him be wearing pants.

The front "desk" itself, and I use the term loosely, looks like it possibly doubled as a Formica lunch counter at some point in the not too distant past. The heat is heavy in this place. Somewhere buried deep in the rooms behind him I hear the dying gasps of an air-conditioner. Oddly, the whole office smells of bologna. Bologna, beer, and failed, failed dreams.

I try not to judge. It is very, very hot. I shudder to think of what your mother and I look like. I don't know about myself, but your mom is a sweaty, sweaty, sweaty little lady. She wears a bright yellow bandanna around her neck, and her shirt looks damp. (It is.) Her head looks like it may have been improperly cured during the formative process. That may be because of her hair, but I'm not ruling out that her skull may have become squishy in the furnace of her helmet. Her 'doo' is sort of clumped all over to one side, giving her the appearance that she had just stepped off the fore-deck of a ridiculously fast boat. Then applied a liberal coating of shellack.

I smile, and she smiles back but it looks odd, out of place, and forced.

"Hot enough for you?" He asks, and breaks into the kind of grin that causes people to get hit in the head with bricks.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Canada - Prelude To Wierdness

*** continued from previous post ***

Blinded by anticipation, (and perhaps a touch of heat exhaustion), we journed on across the border to Galway Bay.

Beautiful country. The town of Galway Bay isn't far across the border, which is a blessing because by this time we are bushed. It's nearing 6 o'clock. The heat has really taken the spunk out of us. And if you've ever been de-spunked, you know just how uncomfortable that can be. Luckily we've already booked a room at a motel that, while it isn't exactly 4 star quality, received very high-ratings on various websites for cleanliness, quiet rooms, and comfortable beds.

Galway Bay proper is definitely a summer 'cabin on the lake' type place. No central core so to speak, just a collection of businesses and services lining both sides of the highway about a half-mile from the lake itself. As we drive through town we see several restaurants, most of them empty or closed, a good size grocery store, etc. We don't see any chain restaurants - no fast food except for what looks like a family-run drive-in, but that's okay. We try to avoid the chains when we are on the bike, preferring to spend our money locally. You know, like good little world-class consumers.

I decide to allow Sweet Alice the opportunity to redeem herself after her 'petite' foible'. I plug the address for the motel into the little digital bugger, and her soothing voice purrs the turn-by-turn. We have forgiven each other our temper from earlier in the day. Friends again and full of trust, we follow the path she has chosen and soon enough we find ourselves at said Motel.

How best to describe this establishment? It is one of those old 50's strip-type motels. You know, single-story. Faded signs. Whitewashed cinder blocks. Neon that may or may not work. Psychotic maniacs peeking out from behind curtains and giggling. But, we have reservations, and it got good reviews, and we are exhausted and sweaty. Mostly sweaty. We have now been on the bike about 11 hours, 7 of it in 100+ heat. We just want off the bike for the night. Possibly forever. I'm sure you can sympathize.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***