Best State in which to Ride a Motorcycle

Progressive Insurance has ranked the top states in which to ride a motorcycle. And the winner is ... Florida? Here's an excerpt by Bart Madson of Motorcycle-USA.com who comments on this ranking:

"Progressive Insurance came up with the rankings, publishing the top-20 states to ride based off its own research data. Florida topping the list nearly made me choke, but the inclusion of corn-covered, flat-as-a-board Kansas as fifth and Nebraska 14th! But, but, but… How?!" -- Bart Madson, Managing Editor, Motorcycle-USA.com

Read more.

God Shuffled His Feet, And Looked Around

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He turns to the man standing beside him, and points to me with a hitch of his thumb. "This guy knows bikes." To which the crowd nods in agreement.

I would like to look at the scenery as we cross the lake, but my adoring fans will have none of that. I am now THE NICE BIKER FROM THE STATES. I sneak a quick glance here, a look over my shoulder at the far shore there. As the ride progresses there are two things that I DO notice however, and they are:

1. Your Mom is a now a celebrity.

2. Suddenly, it's getting dark. Very, very dark. And the water, which a few minutes before was as flat as a North Dakota ski resort, is now white-capped and slapping the sides of the boat.

Well isn't that curious, I think to myself before I'm dragged back into conversation.

"So tell me," one of my new-found friends asks, "after buying a bike like that, you must have ridden a Molokoi B-30. Right?"

You would think so," I say without missing a beat having not a clue as to what a Molokoi B-30 is, "but regrettably, I never had the chance."

"Really?" he asks, somewhat shocked. "They were all over the place in the late 70s and early 80s. Everybody rode one."

"Well, there you go." Hardly noticing, I brush a few raindrops off of my bald pate' with the sweep of a fingerless glove. "That would have been about the time I was with the crew in El Salvado - - -" I feign a look of utter shock, with an exaggerated motion, I bite my lip. I bow my head, and bang on my brow with my fist. "Whoopsie. Let's pretend I didn't say that, shall we?"

They all nod in agreement. I could have gone all Pirate on their asses and taken over the boat had I wanted, they were mine. You dodged one there, Canadian Maritime Fleet! But alas . . . as you have no doubt noticed, my quick wits and the ability to lie on the fly has painted me, yet again, into a bit of a corner.

I smile. All teeth and charm. I can't wait to hear what I'm going to say next.

Luckily, right at this particular moment, God intervenes. And as God is wont to do, takes a righteous whiz over the whole of creation.

And the rains . . . the rains they came a pouring down.

*** the journey continues on 11/17/2011 ***

Chapter 4 - FERRY OF THE DAMNED

* * * after a short mid-winter break, we return to our story with Chapter 4 of the ongoing saga * * *


A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.

We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.

Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?

"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."

Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.

"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."

I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."

Yes, I Ate My Napkin. Deal With It.

*** continued from previous post ***


"What are you going to get babe?", I say, and turn the page of the menu to the 'specials' section.

"One of everything.", Mom says from behind her menu.

"Get two of everything - we'll share."

That made her smile. I love watching your Mom smile, her blue eyes twinkle and her entire face brightens. After all these years the sight still catches my heart. "Look here," I point to the "Good Morning!" special. "They have a breakfast buffet!"

Your mother, as a general rule, hates buffets. She's lacking the 'glutton gene'. It's a huge drawback in our relationship, but one I'm willing to overlook primarily because I get to finish her steaks.

"You know, that actually sounds good this morning. If they have waffles I think I'll give that a try. I've been craving waffles," she says, with an evil little grin blossoming. "You know, we could have had hot, toasty waffles earlier this morning, but you'll remember - we had to pack light."

For some reason this made a lump grow in my throat. Why would this make me so emotional? As I began to black out I realized that in a hunger-induced stupor I had eaten my napkin. Again. A nice glass of water fixed that.

Our waitress floated over to our table with coffee for me and a steaming hot tea for your Mother.

"Are you folks ready to order?" she asked, setting our drinks on the table from the tray she carried.

"How is your breakfast buffet?"

"Oh," she said refilling our water glasses, "very popular and very good. All of the usual breakfast stuff, a wide array of breakfast meats plus some very nice freshly baked cinnamon rolls, danish, and some wonderfully fresh locally grown fruit."

"By any chance do you have waffles?" I ask on behalf of your Mother. As for me I'd already decided. She had me at "meats".

"We do! We have a waffle maker, and some delicious strawberries and whipped cream if you want."

I think I actually saw your Mom drool. "We'll both have the buffet," Mom added quickly, as if the waffles were going to evaporate before she could get the sentence out of her mouth.

"Okay," Denise - for that was the name stitched on her prison uniform - said, taking our menus. "Plates are out there," she pointed to the atrium, "help yourself when you're ready."


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be prosecuted. ***

I Named My GPS 'Sweet Alice'

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Now that the familiar part of the trip was behind us, the time had come for me to test out my newest toy.  Our shiny, new, (RoXor - I told you I liked refurbs) GPS that we had mounted to the console of the bike a mere week before our trip.  

I had long lusted for this unit.  If you do not understand the term 'techno lust' you are no daughter of mine.  And I'm not speaking of the feeling that comes over you at a Rave from too much 'punch' and the pounding beat of 'The Crystal Method', I'm speaking of the romance of gadgetry.  The seductive world of chips and processors and memory and astronomical pricing for first-adopters.  God I love technology!  I think I now understand, and I'm generalizing here, some women's insanity for shoes.  Or maybe not.  That's just weird.  

Anyway, back to the object of my current adoration.  The GPS was a thing worthy of adoration.  Full color touch screen, its voice integrated with the speaker/sound system on the Vision - all the bells and whistles.  The epitome of our technological civilization.  The pinnacle of Homo Technus.  A miracle really, think about it - I could have saved us so much time if I'd had a GPS when you were small.  No more getting lost for hours.  No more tears.  No more frantic calls asking someone if they perchance knew where in the Hell we might possibly be.  I was giddy as a lotto winner, (not a Megamillions winner - somewhere around a $5000 scratch-ticket winner), as I plugged our destination of Galway Bay, British Columbia into the unit and watched, with fascination, as me lover-ly, lover-ly rudimentary autonamaton plotted our course.  

My enthusiasm lasted about 30 minutes, whereupon, somewhere in the godforsaken badlands north of Ritzville, I had a minor breakdown and heated argument with the GPS.  No kidding.  I had set the GPS to a female Australian voice.  She was hot.  I named her Alice.  Sweet, sweet Alice.  As difficult as it to believe, my innate sense of direction was failing me that day, (I know!), and before you could say 'dust bowl' we took a wrong turn, then another.  My precious was not amused.  That little floozy got sarcastic in a hurry.  I may love technology, but I hate uppity machines.   

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

The Things We Do For Love

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After horking a delicious road burger we noticed something odd - the temperature, which if you'll remember started out in the low 50s, and had dropped to the low 30s at the top of the pass, had firmly planted itself around 100 degrees.  I had warmed up long ago, and was feeling fine and fresh in my mesh.  Your Mom, bless her little heart, was not fairing so well.  She had taken her lining out of the jacket, shed layer after layer like a snake in spring until she was down to a T-Shirt.  She'd traded her heavy gloves for a lighter pair, and was still sweating.  Quite profusely I might add.

"Go ahead.  Say it," she said as she crammed her shed clothes into a zippered pocket on the nylon bag.

"Wouldn't think of it dear," I said and patted her on the arm.

Relief filled her eyes and I could see a little tension ease from her shoulders, "Thank you."

"Think nothing or it.  These are the things we do for love."

That brought a smile to her face.  "So, just for giggles, if you weren't so nice, what would you have said?"   

"For giggles?  Okay.  I may," I said, and busied myself with putting my gloves back on, "although it would be quite rude and unnecessary, pointed out the fact that, except for a brief time on the pass, you made the wrong choice of gear, and will now boil like a lobster for the remainder of the vacation, until you dehydrate into nothing more than a dried husk of your former self.  And I certainly wouldn't point out the fact that I had told you so.  Or, that if we had the UberBitchin' Tote 9000, I could have whipped you up an iced espresso at any given moment thereby saving you from death by thirst and at the same time searched on the Netz for how to remove sweat stains from chrome.  But I, m'lady, am a gentleman above all else, so I shan't say a thing."

She shook her head and chuckled softly.  "It's a good thing I love you so much."

For that she got a nice long hug.  I would have held her longer but she was beginning to smell a bit.  Plus she was a slightly slippery to the touch.  One sweaty, sweaty little lady.  Eww.

*** the journey continues tomorrow *** 

All It Takes is Motorcycle Maintenance

I ran across this article in the New York Times. It has to do with the two authors' attempt to find people who have uncovered simple solutions to world problems. In this article they found that medical workers could greatly extend their relief efforts by utilizing motorcycles to get to outlying areas of Africa. In addition, they found a way to keep the bikes maintained on a regular basis. Here's an excerpt from this excellent article by Tina Rosenberg and David Bornstein:

"Until 2008 Kotelo could visit only three villages a week, because he had to reach them on foot, walking for miles and miles. But in February of that year, Kotelo got a motorcycle ─ the best vehicle for reaching rural villages in Africa, most of which are nowhere near a real road. Just as crucial, he was given the tools to keep the bike on the road: he received a helmet and protective clothing, he was taught to ride and trained to start each day with a quick check of the bike. His motorcycle is also tuned up monthly by a technician who comes to him. Now, instead of spending his days walking to his job, he can do his job. Instead of visiting three villages each week, he visits 20. Where else can you find a low-tech investment in health care that increases patient coverage by nearly 600 percent?" -- Tina Rosenberg and David Bornstein

Read the rest of the story.

Chapter 2 - The Great Brown

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Chapter 2

The Great Brown

Frozen.  

That's what I was.  Frozen.  

You think I jest.  T'was a sad sight, watching your poor old father shiver and shake as I scooped slush off the windshield of the bike.  Why the hell don't you ever see a motorcycle with wipers?  That's what I'd like to know.

Oh yeah.  Not supposed to ride a bike in the snow.  That’s why.

We pushed on.  Down.  Down.  Down.  Away from the snow and the cold and the grey sullen skies of our homeland.   

I could go into great detail describing to you how I shredded the twisties as we descended the east side of the Cascades and navigated those rare and beautiful miles into the tiny burg of Naches.  But I won't.  I'll spare you the minutiae of each turn of the tire, each apex, each rise of the blacktop.  I shall resist the urge to create a lyrical ballad - an ode to the pines and the rivers and the wondrous, wondrous curves. 

Let's just say if the road and I were both doing time in prison by the time we arrived at the bottom I could have traded it for smokes.  

Oh stop cringing.  I thought that image rather clever.  You're a Navy girl.  Suck it up.

The temperature inched steadily upward as the day progressed from early to mid-morning.  Steadily and rapidly.  Really rapidly.  Climbing faster than a helium balloon escapes a toddler's sticky fist at the zoo.  Not that it made much difference.  My core was hovering somewhere between Minot, ND in January and the McMurdo Station in . . . well, pick a month.  August will do.  I had a ways to go before I would be warm again - if ever.  And miles to go before I sleep but that's a different story entirely.  

For a moment there I seriously considered setting myself on fire.  I reasoned that it probably wouldn't be that bad, and I could more than likely put it out before I incurred too much damage.  You know, finding the sweet-spot wherein the fire had warmed me enough that I could taste again, but right before I entered the burnt-marshmallow stage.  

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

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As you'll remember, the road to Chinook Pass is no cake-walk. In less than an hour you climb from 500 feet above sea level, to 5400 feet all the while winding through dense forest and steep roads, literally clinging to the sides of the mountains. I remind you of this so that the next part of our story makes sense.

For you see I, the man who was adamant about this being summer, and now less than 10 minutes into our voyage, was beginning to get cold. The temperature dropped with every hill, every twist and turn of the road. I should have pulled over and put on some extra layers - and possibly set fire to my chest - but I thought the seat warmers and heated grips would be enough. Plus, there was that little pride thing I had going. No way I was going to admit I'd made a mistake in my choice of gear after the discussion your Mom and I had earlier. I was able to fake it almost all the way to the top of the pass. I'm sure that your Mom thought my shivering was nothing more than a bit of rough road. She may have had her suspicions, as evidenced by the following conversation that took place half-way up the mountain.

Mom leaned forward and said, "Sure glad I wore my heavy gear. Yep I'm warm and toasty back here. In fact, I was thinking about unzipping my jacket a little. Cool off a bit. How you doing?"

I would have replied, but my jaw was locked in a permanent clench. I think I may have bitten my tongue in half. It didn't matter. Hypothermia was sitting in - hard. Less than an hour from home and I was about to die the death of the dinosaurs. Again, it didn't matter. It would all be over soon.

Yet I'm a survivor. I'm scrappy. Somehow I managed to hold on the last few miles where we reached the final ascent to the top of the mountain. I don't know if you remember this, but the stretch of road from the intersection of Hwy 410 and Hwy 123, to the top of Chinook pass - while only 3.5 miles long - climbs almost 750 feet with some MAJOR switchbacks. I mean MAJOR switchbacks. No, even bigger than that! This is usually the 'fun' part of the trip. Usually. But the Universe was getting the game on early because as we rounded a corner it began to rain. Then the rain turned to snow. And the snow began to stick. In August.

Well, as I have said many times in my life - and never in a particularly positive tone - this should be interesting.

And it was. Interesting I mean. A little slippery. A little slidey. A little 'change your undies.' Despite the odds, and I might mention that I was beyond cold at this point, we managed to make it to the top. I pulled into a little rest area just over the summit, cutting a black stripe through the slush to the blacktop below, and coasted into a parking space. I would have wept but my eyelids were frozen.

"Can you believe this?", Mom asked shaking her head in amazement. "It's August for crying out loud."

I tried to say something. I can't remember what. It was probably poignant, beautiful, profound. A statement worthy of being carved in stone. A summation of the human condition that would have birthed insight and peace between nations but was now lost because I couldn't move my lips. Such is the tragedy of man.

Oh wait, I remember! I said, "COLD!"

"Yeah," Mom said, and pulled off her helmet. "It is a little chilly. What does the thermometer on the bike say. Like 38, 39 degrees?"

I managed to tilt my head to look at the digital readout on the instrument cluster. Either I heard ice crack on the back of my helmet or I had shattered another vertebrae in my neck. I hardly noticed. The display was frosted over just a tad. "33", I said. Only it came out "Thhhhhh. . .thhhhhh. . .thhhhh. . ." Sounding much like I was trying to blow up a balloon with a lisp.

"Aw, are you cold babe?" she asked, cocking her head. "Guess you should have worn your heavier coat."

It wasn't so much what she said, although that stung, it was the particular way she giggled as she said it that nailed me. Were it not for my complete inability to speak, or let loose of the handlebars, there may have an altercation.

However, I knew the hard part was behind us. Soon we would descend down into Eastern Washington where the weather was warmer, the roads were less crowded, and granola was not on the menu. We waited at the top of the pass for awhile, watching the light snowfall, allowing the feeling to return to my limbs, and then with a mighty 'Hi Ho Silver! Away!' we set out on the twisty path that would eventually take us to Canada.

Of course, before we could get to our first stop at Galaway Bay, BC we would have to cover 350 miles. As I explained to your Mother, "Piece of cake!"

Darn good thing it was early in the morning. Otherwise, we might have run into trouble.




*** the journey continues tomorrow

To Mesh or Not to Mesh . . . that is the question.

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"Dang", I said, rubbing my hands together, "little chilly out here."

"That's an understatement. It's freezing!", Mom exclaimed, wrapping her arms about herself.

"Well, I guess so much for the mesh jacket. I'm going to wear my heavier coat."

I don't think we had the mesh jackets the last time you were home, so you need to know that what I'm talking about is a full sized coat, with Kevlar armor in the elbows, shoulders, kidney area, and back that sports perforated holes on the sleeves and body. That way, when on the bike, the air flows through the holes keeping you cool. It's as comfortable as riding with a T-shirt, but wayyyyyyy safer. Well, relatively safer. If you like your skin it's definitely the way to go.

"I think you'll be sorry babe. Just layer up until we get over the mountains. It's supposed to be hot in Eastern Washington. Upper 90's in some places."

I have no idea why your Mother had her doubts about my weather prognosticating abilities, but she gave me a look like our old dog Barkley used to give me when I was trying to hide a pill in his food. "No, I'm going to stick with the heavier leather jacket."

"Tiger, I know it's cold, but this is a fluke. A local cold pocket. Let's at least try and bungee cord your mesh gear to the nylon bag. If you wear your leather I think you're going to be sorry."

"Well, I think you're going to be sorry for wearing your mesh."

I knew what this was. You're Mom had caved one too many times in the last few days to my demands. She was drawing a line in the sand. She was holding her ground. This was her Masada. She was the Romans. I, logically, must be the hold-outs at the top of the mountain. And we all know how well that turned out for our Jewish friends.

I decided to try one more time, "Sweetie, with the heated seats you'll be fine. Please, let's at least try and take your mesh."

"I'll be fine," she said, quietly and evenly. "If I get too hot, I'll unzip the liner and take it out."

I could see that arguing would be pointless. Fun no doubt, but pointless. Possibly, given her mood, dangerous. No, we would find a way to deal with whatever came our way. If worse came to worse, I would buy her another damn mesh jacket, and mail her heavy coat home.

"Okay. Well, let's get this show on the road, shall we?"


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Colder than . . . something.

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It was then that I noticed that the nylon bag I had strapped down so well had slipped sideways and was now, to put it delicately, dribbling off the side of the trunk. It was a pathetic sight.

As you know, I am nothing if not tenacious, so after a couple of hours, some blood, some cursing, and a promise to the Elder Gods to finally complete my application to Miskatonic University, (Cthulhu makes a bitchin' mascot! Take that Jersey Devils!), I had managed to put everything in order. Mostly. Which was good, because I was exhausted and our departure tomorrow would dawn bright and early. It was time to get some rest.

In our attention to detail I thought we were prepared for any contingency. HA! The Fates, God, The Universe . . . whomever is pulling the strings on this sideshow we call life just loves that kind of crap. Gives them a target. Bastards. But I'm not bitter. Well . . . yes I am, but it has nothing to do with this trip.

Mostly.



* * *



After a good night's sleep and a hearty pot of coffee, Mom and I, chipper as a cheer-leading squad on ecstasy, stepped out to greet the day and embark on our grand adventure. Oh the excitement! Is there anything more wonderful than starting out on a journey that you've been planning for months and months and months? There probably is, but I'm not going to ruin the moment by speculation. We were giddy, let's leave it at that.

Now as we stepped out the door the first thing we noticed was that it was cold. I mean really cold. Not just 'cold in relation to August', but cold as in . . . well, just cold. It was 51 degrees. Cloudy. Misting. Bone-chilling. Welcome to summer in the Pacific Northwest! As any true native Puget Sounder can tell you, summer begins on July 5th and ends the 8th of August. Then boom! Back again after Labor Day for 2 weeks. I think that those two weeks are strictly to mess with the minds of the kids who've had to go back to school. I remember, as a child, going to class on the first day of the fall semester, wearing my new coat and winter clothes because, "school starts in the fall', and immediately dieing because it was 80 flippin' degrees. Each year I vowed that next year I would do it differently. But, that first day of school would find me once again sporting a parka with sweat stains in the pits and suffering from heat exhaustion. Who needs kidneys anyway? Internal organs, in my opinion, are completely over-rated. Ah, good times . . . good times.


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Ooopsie goes the bike!

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I won't go into the details, but I found room for almost everything. The bird book fit very snugly into the inside pocket of my mesh jacket, so thank Jeebus no staples. The last piece of the puzzle was to put the bag, and my collapsible cane, on the trunk and secure it with bungee cords. Bungee cords. The bane of my existence. I don't know how much you've worked with bungee cords, but they should rename them, 'Hey! Look at what I put my eye out with!' cords. Although, that would probably be fairly difficult to market. The minutes ticked by, and after several failed attempts, plus a couple of very unattractive welts on my forehead, I managed to secure the 'whole kit-and-caboodle' to the rack on the Vision's trunk.

I stepped back to survey my work.

Well, I had seen worse, but not from anything other than first-graders making flower pots out of clay for Mother's Day. The sleek lines of the Vision were destroyed, and it looked like we were trying to use, and quite unsuccessfully, the nylon bag as an inverted rudder. The bag didn't so much rest on the trunk as it squatted there. The bungee cords sunk and bit viciously into the nylon, making it look like we weren't so much carrying a bag as trying to keep it from escaping. You think I'm kidding but I'm not. I swear, it looked as if a family of Gypsies were using the bike to caravan across the nation. Stealing babies. Tiny ones, to be sure because there was no room, but stealing babies none-the-less. (I'm taking old 16th century Gypsies here, not the new modern Gypsies with shiny trucks and lawyers and small weapons.) I cared not how the damned thing looked. The dead caterpillar was on there securely and that was my intent. Fashion be damned! For we were on vacation, and about to embark on a 7-day journey into paradise, and couldn't be troubled with petty things like style, and balance, and gas millage, and visibility, and aerodynamics.

I climbed on the bike to test the load balance. I pulled her into an upright position and immediately noticed that the right side of the bike seemed to weigh approximately 6000 pounds more than the left side as I arced over and dropped the bike on the ground with a stomach-churning 'screeeeeeeeeeccchhhh'. Which, as any experienced biker will tell you, is, and this is a fairly technical term - is really 'bad'.

Luckily the engineers who dreamt and built the Vision suspected that the owners might be grossly incompetent and designed 'tip-over protection' into the body styling so that, heaven forbid, you ever DID drop the bike it would land on the front and rear tip-overs ensuring no damage to the machine itself. Not even a scratch. You have no idea how wonderful that is. I've seen some expensive bikes fall over in a parking lot and suffer thousands of dollars worth of damage.
That doesn't seem right, does it? I mean, you can drop a baby and do less damage than you would to most motorcycles. Not that I would know that. (If you're feeling your head for dents stop it right now!)

Anyway, I righted the bike using the 'butt-lean-push' method and got her back on the kickstand without too much trouble. Amazing how a little bit of leverage will allow you to pick up something currently weighing more than a great Blue Whale. I stood back and considered my options. Unless I wanted to spend the entire trip leaning heavily to the left to compensate for the balance, I was going to have to do some rearranging.


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Ye cannot change the laws of Physics!

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I looked at the clock on my desk and realized that 2 hours had passed and I had heard nary a peep from your Mother. Where did the time go? I started out checking prices for the Uber Tote, and somehow wound up memorizing the lyrics to "Chocolate Rain" as performed by Chad Vader, Darth's younger brother. Da Netz is a vast resource of obscure knowledge. It is because of things like Chad and "Garfield minus Garfield" and epic fails that I needed to bring the laptop on vacation. What if I fell behind? What if I lost my edge? That was a risk I could not take.

I found your Mom, sitting against the house with her hair hanging in her face, and sweat beading on her forehead like the sheen on the outside of a cool, cool tasty drink on a hot, hot summer's day. Or much like the forehead of our accountant Fred.

"It's not all going to fit," she said, somewhat dejectedly, "and before you even start in we are not getting the Uber monstrosity."

Nicely played fair lady.

She looked so sad, so forlorn that it broke my heart. I walked over and offered my hand to pull her upright. "It's okay sweetie. Let's see what we can do."

As you know, the flip-side to your Mother's little tic was that I had learned to squeeze things into an allotted space that should not be allowed by our current understanding of the space-time continuum. I walked over to the bike, and looked at what she had done. The saddlebags were close to bursting, so I let them be. The trunk, on further inspection, and with some minor rearranging, could take in a bit more before it popped the hinges.

You want to know what love is? Right there in the bottom of the trunk was the laptop. She'd abandoned the Panini press/hairdryer and packed my laptop. Evidence of one of the many, many reasons that your Mom is the love of my life and my best friend. I mean really . . . who else would put up with my crap?

"You know, you've actually done a pretty good job here tiger. I can move some things around a little, and maybe squeeze some more room. What couldn't you fit in that you really, and I mean REALLY, need?"

Mom paused for a moment. It's hard to watch someone's dream die right before your eyes, unless that person is a former member of the Bush Cabinet or a Fox reporter, then it's a hoot. "I guess just these pairs of tennis shoes. I thought it would be nice to get out of our boots at night. I have no idea how to get your cane in there so you can reach it easily.' She looked around, "Most of our clothes are in the bag that we're going to strap to the trunk, so I guess we are good to go there."

"Did you get your books to fit?"

"Yeah. And a couple of magazines. I had to leave the book on birds out though," she snuffled.
"That's okay. If we see an interesting species, we will kill it and identify the body later," I said, pulling her into a hug. I knew right then I would find a place for her bird book even if I had to staple it to my damn chaps. Side note; staples stop hurting after about an hour and then itch like crazy. No, I'm not going to tell you now I know this.

She smiled. It was nice to see that smile. "It's going to be a good trip, isn't it?"

"Babe," I said and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, "it's going to be a wonderful trip. We are about to visit one of the most beautiful areas on the North American continent. We'll get some great riding on an incredible piece of modern technology, then we get to stay at an incredible Lodge and use that as base camp while we explore Banff. This little excursion," I said, meaning every word, "will be magical."

She smiled again, and after all these years I felt my heart skip a beat. That smile of hers is still intoxicating. "Tell you what, I'll finish up packing on the bike. Why don't you start taking some of this stuff back inside."

"Deal," she said and gave my arm a squeeze.


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Waffles: the crux of evil

*** continued from previous post  ***


Okay, now we were making progress. "What about the waffle maker? Do you really think we're going to use that?"

"What if we want waffles?"

In your Mother's world, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable question. I was miles ahead of her though, and had already crafted an appropriate response. "What," I said cocking my head and smiling as if I'm pointing out a completely foreign thought, and a rather clever one, "if we don't want waffles?"

That is some fine thinking right there. I was very proud of myself.

She started to rub her temples in slow, circular motions. "Have it your way. The waffle maker stays. Is that it?"

"Well, what about all that food? I mean, we aren't going camping. Can't we just take a couple of things to snack on?"

She looked at me like I had lost what little of my mind I had left. "We need that stuff! You don't know what we're going to run into. What if we are stuck in the middle of nowhere, and it's dark and we get hungry?"

I'm beginning to notice a pattern here. Evidently most of your Mother's reasoning centered around the idea that we were going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere for an extended period of time. At night. This, I'm sorry to say, was part of her delusional state. Poor, poor Mom.

Now before you think that I'm being too hard on her, I'm willing to admit that over the years, there may have been a couple of times when we found ourselves in just such a predicament. You know, you were there for some of them. We've run out of gas a couple of times. Well, maybe more than a couple. Certainly not more than twenty - twenty-five tops. Then there was the time we popped a fan belt, and sat on the side of the road for about 7 hours because I said "We don't need to carry tools. It's a new car." There was the fact that we had been in the ditch a few times, usually in a place that we had no business trying to drive a car. I, on rare occasions, have been known to lock the keys in the vehicle at the most inopportune moments. There were a few incidents with a pesky carburetor on a 1975 Ford Courier. In case you don't know the Ford Courier was the smallest truck ever made that didn't have "Hot Wheels" stamped on the side. It's true we'd been lost - a bunch. We've had to sleep in the car from time to time. And of course there had been the flat tires, the blown engines, the occasional small fires. Pretty typical stuff. You know, no different than anyone else and certainly nothing which I had the slightest bit of control.

"Babe," I said, "trust me. We're not going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. We'll take a couple of snacks and call it good. Why, I bet we won't even use those! You'll see, everything will be fine."

I saw an opportunity here, and I went for it.

"You know - and I'm just sayin' - that if we had the UberBitchin' Tote 9000 we could take everything. Ev - Re - Thing." I drug the word out long and slow then inserted a moment of silence for effect. "Just think about that. If we had the UberBitchin' Tote we could take all you desire . . . all you desire and more!
"
This caused her to pause. I saw the conflicting emotions roll over her face like a cold spring wind in a field of wheat. "You are horrible. Absolutely, positively horrible. Do you know that?"

"Sweetie, I'm just looking out for you."

"I seriously doubt that. Listen and listen close. This is the last time I'm going to say this - we, under no circumstances, are buying that Uber thing."



*** the journey continues tomorrow

If I had a hammer . . .

*** continued from previous post  ***


The poor thing walked out of the house with a wild look in her eye. I say 'eye', not 'eyes' because for some reason one eye was open quite wide, and the other was clenched shut. 'Scrinched' is the proper descriptor. I would have asked why, but it didn't seem appropriate. I knew this was the most stressful time for her.

"What do you want?", she asked, "I'm kind of busy in here."

"Ummm. . .", I stammered, "I took everything out of the bike so we could pack. I think," I said, as calmly as I could, "that we need to be a little more spartan in what we take."

I pointed to the stuff laying on the ground. I've seen yard sales with less inventory.
Mom looked over the driveway filled with debris. She turned to me - or on me - I couldn't tell, and said, "What about it?"

I didn't much care for her challenging tone, but I would let it pass because I'm a coward. "Well, I just think that we need to conserve as much space as possible. Surely we can leave some of this stuff at home?"

To your Mom, them there is fightin' words.

"We need that stuff.", she said as if she were explaining to a small child.

"All of it?"

I swear to God she rolled up her sleeves, clenching and unclenching her fists. Well, maybe not. I might have imagined that part. "You have stuff in there too, it's not just me so don't act like I'm being unreasonable."

I shook my head in the positive, agreeing. "I would never suggest that you were being unreasonable. However, lets look at what you have, and lets see what I have, shall we? You," I said, and swept my arm towards the contents spread on the ground, "have all of this. While I," I said and reached down and picked up a small bag with Allen wrenches, a Phillip's-head screwdriver, a standard screwdriver, needle-nose pliers, 10 zip ties, 3 short bungee cords, a tire gauge, and a roll of duct tape, "have this."

Except for the duct tape it fit quite well in a small bagie.

She looked from me to the disgorged contents of the bike, to the bag I held in my hand, then back to me. "And your point is what?"

"My point is that there is no way we can take all of this AND our clothes AND the extra stuff we're going to need."

"Oh," she said, "you mean like the laptop you want to bring along?"

Gah. She had me there. You know how I get to Jonesin' if I don't have my Interwebs. I had to think quickly. "Well, I'll admit that may seem like a luxury, but we need it to plan routes and look up . . . things."

"And for you to check email, the forums for the bike, Woot, and LOL Cats?"

Damn you LOL Cats! There you are again! You will be my downfall yet!

"Among other things," I answered. "But look, we're getting off the point here. Really, can't we do without some of it? I mean, do we need a hammer?"

She looked like maybe she would like to use the hammer now. Upside my noggin. "Fine. Yes, that we can do without. We can leave the hammer."




*** the journey continues tomorrow

Packing for the trip or Hannibal crossing the Alps - Whatever.

*** continued from previous post  ***

As for packing I wanted to start with a clean slate. I took all of the junk - wait . . . I didn't say junk. I meant to say 'necessities' - out of the saddlebags, out of the trunk, out of the various nooks and crannies and arranged them on the ground next to the bike. When I was done, I stepped back and looked at the array.

Astonishing. It appeared that the bike had suddenly become ill, and regurgitated an eclectic collection of items that had been clogging its gullet. Think of those cartoon images of the inside of a whale after they've swallowed the hapless hero. Much like that minus the rowboat. The sheer volume and range of crap amazed me. I rarely pay attention to what your Mom has in the bags, and most of the time I don't really care. That's her domain. Usually. But we were going to be gone for seven days, it was time to pare back on the 'essentials'. The time had come to show your Mother how a man would pack. (She's not looking over my shoulder, is she? Good.).

So here is a brief run-down of what I found:

A pair of binoculars, a huge bag of rags and various cleaning products, a waffle maker, a first Aid Kit, 7 individual gloves, 2 sweaters, 2 sets balaclava and silkies, a crushed pop can, and 3 maps all full of mildew and in various states of disintegration. 1 gallon bag of over the counter meds, a thermos of congealed something, a panini press/hair dryer (there it is!), 2 broken flashlights, various magazines from 2001, a feather duster, an inflatable pillow, 1 bag with two rolls of flattened toilet paper, a set of helmet-to-helmet intercom systems that we had used once, and 4 pair of sunglasses - two with missing lens. Also, a deck of cards that had 'drawn moister', a cribbage board, a notebook, 35 ink pens - only 2 with caps, a nerf football (although that might have been on the ground before I unpacked), a calculator, a stapler sans staples, a bag of 'feminine products', 2 hair brushes, 2 umbrellas, 12,000 paper napkins stolen from every fast-food joint we had ever visited, a house plant, durable power of attorney, road flares, a hammer, and a flute.

Then there was the bags of food. Bags and bags and bags of nuts and cheeses and jerky and cookies and candy and power-bars and . . . and God knows what else. We could have opened up a convenience mart at any rest stop we visited.

I stood back to examine the cargo. I was mightily impressed. I mean honestly, how could you not be? I had not the slightest clue your mother even played the Flute.

I called to your Mom who was inside the house adding to her 'absolute necessities'. "Hey babe, wanna come out here for a minute?"

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Sedation - It's not just for breakfast anymore!

*** continued from previous post  ***


September 12, 2008

Dear Amber,

Quick note about life on the home-front before we continue the story.

What's been happening since our return . . . not much. Couple of small fires. A trip or two to the emergency room. Scrambling to come up with bail money for cousin Molly. Same old, same old. As you can see our routine hasn't changed much since you've forsaken us to become a Navy Pirate.

L8R G8R!

Love you,
Daddio

P.S. Almost forgot . . . your cat died and we really did rent out your room to transients.
Hope you're having a great day Princess!

Twent - twenty - twenty -twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated

--- The Ramones

Yes, it was now 24 hours 'till blast-off. The excitement level in the household had reached a fevered pitch. It was Christmas Eve. It was Carnival in Rio. It was the night before a root canal sans novocaine.

Let me just state for the record that I was a cucumber. In a bowl of ice. Sitting in the refrigerator. Meditating. It was your Mother, pour soul, that had lost it and had become - well, there's no other way to put it - a complete whack-job.

As you know I have certain responsibilities pre-trip. I know what most of them are and Mom tells me the others. I check the bike over quite thoroughly. I change the oil. I make sure the tires are good and full to the proper pressure. Nothing quite like an under inflated tire on a bike. You may be able to get away with it on a car, but on a bike each tire constitutes 50% of your contact with the road. Since I like to be able to steer - I know, picky me - proper inflation is imperative. I check the lights, the turn signals, the exhaust. I wash the beast, and make her shiny. Probably until the next trip - aren't dead bugs considered decoration in some cultures? A badge of honor? Well, they should be. What? Not so much in certain Hindu sects? Oops. My bad. There goes the bike trip through India. Anyway, I look for loose hoses, cables, nuts, bolts and check all things dangley. I fill her with premium fuel. I confirm that the gauges, gizmos, and doo-dads are in proper working order.

Which is a polite way to say I try to keep busy and stay the hell out of your Mom's way while her psychosis runs its course.

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Leather is not Ookie

*** continued from previous post  ***

"I don't think that we can put a piece of luggage on the bike that comes from a sporting goods store. It's not that I mind, you understand, but I believe it's a law. And not a State law, but a Federal law with long prison terms and vicious consequences. And at the end of the day a guy named "Bubba", if you know what I mean."

"Yeah. I'm not buying that. I'm sure we can find a duffel bag, or nylon sack of some kind."

"But. . .", I stammer, "that will look . . ."

"Yes?" she asks.

"Well, it would look . . . ookie."

"Really?", she says and places one hand firmly on her hip. "This from the man that put neon green light-up valve stem caps on the bike tires because, and I quote, "It looked real purty at night?"

Your Mother is a worthy adversary. Touche' woman, touche'.

Time to change tack. Brimming with confidence that we would find nothing suitable at the Sporting goods store, I offered the enthusiasm of someone convinced that the other is completely, and totally wrong, but more than willing to let them find out on their own and still look good for my steadfast unconditional support. "You have a point. I'm sure we can find something that will work. You ready to go now?"

Mom looks about the room. I know what she's up to - she's looking to make sure she has everything she needs. I would like to assure her that third-world armies are less well supplied but I refrain because I really would like this to be a good vacation. Besides, the real battle will come later when we actually pack the bike. "Seems like I'm forgetting something. . ." She studies the piles and hesitantly prods the mountain of items closest to her with a tentative toe, much like one would do should they stumble across a body in the woods and a pointy stick is nary to be found. "Well, whatever it is I'm sure it will come to me. Yeah, let's go."

So, it's a jump in the truck and off to the Sporting Goods store we go! This will be fun! I love field trips!

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Oh look! Shiny!

*** continued from previous post  ***

I tried to focus on the map again, just to make sure I hadn't made a mistake, but I hit the wrong button and became distracted by a new series of LOL Cats. Damn you barely literate felines! Must your antics amuse me so? Must your inability to conjugate a verb, or construct the correct tense send me into hysterics? Must you tickle the absurdity gene that seems to be prominent in my brain? I don't even try to squelch this passion anymore. All praise Ceiling Cat kthxbi! I make a mental note to donate a wad of cash to the 'Cheeseburgers 4 Kittehs Fund'. I think you'll agree in a nation as rich as ours, no LOL Cat should ever be without.

Right before I become completely immersed and stumble off into the dark reaches of the Interwebs, (By the by. . . did you know the Interwebs is a series of tubes? Who knew? Thank you Senator Ted Stevens for that bit of insight), Mom summons me downstairs. This can only mean trouble, and I think of hiding under my desk for a minute but I know that's just delaying the inevitable. Plus, there might be spiders under there. Ugh. So, like the good soldier I am, I trudge downstairs where your Mom, with furrowed brow, is surveying her collection.

"I think," she says glancing about the room, "that we may need to get an extra bag to tie onto the trunk. I don't see how we are possibly going to fit everything in unless we do."

I want to tell her that everything she has assembled to take on the trip would overfill a 3/4 ton truck, but I hold my tongue. Why? Well, I smell an opportunity to go buy another piece of gear for the bike. As you are well aware, no REAL rider ever turns down the opportunity to add to their bike-related accessories. The paraphernalia of the motorcycling world is vast and varied, but it all shares one thing in common - that crap ain't cheap. Yet the mantra of a good rider is 'more is never enough'. Unless you're talking about road-rash. Or rain. Or insurance premiums.

"Oh goody!" I squeal, "let's go buy things! Shiny, shiny things! We can go to the bike dealer, then down to Tacoma to that place with all the gear, then ---"

You Mom cuts me off mid-sentence. "Not so fast cowboy. I was thinking something cheap. And non-leather. Let's just go to the sporting goods store in town. I'll bet we can find something there."

Non leather? What heresy is this? I study her for any hints of all things PETA-y. Had she gone vegan on me when I was occupied? Later I would have to tempt her with bacon just to make sure. For now I had a different agenda.

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Fuzzy Metrics

*** continued from previous post  ***


Mom walked up with a badminton set in her arms. She looked over my shoulder, studying the screen and the blue, highlighted path I had plotted. Our course blazed straight and true east-west across the map of Washington State before breaking into a squiggle as it snaked north across the border into the dark, dark heart of Canada.

Oh cool! So, that's the route we're taking?"

"Yes," I replied, full of pride regarding my excellent navigational skills, "I think that this will be the prettiest route we can take that will still give us a taste of the region, and afford us ample time to reach the Lodge on schedule." I smiled, convinced that she would admire the brilliance of my planning and relish the fact that she bore my children.
She leaned close to the screen and studied the way-points and miles, (Whoops! Kilometers!), and estimated arrival times. "Day number two looks like a long one."

"Yeah, but you have to remember that the numbers are in kilometers. Not miles."

"Hmmmm. . . still, that's a long day. 628 Kilometers. Do you think we can do that? Isn't that pushing it a bit?"

I gave her my best reassuring smile, and hoped it didn't look too patronizing. "Honey, please. Do I tell you how to pack? Trust me, I've got this covered."

Standing she said, "Actually, you tell me how to pack all the time."

This is true. "Well, maybe. But you have to admit you do have a tendency to go a bit over-board on the 'necessities'." Here, I actually put in air quotes with my fingers. I immediately wished I could have taken it back, but the horse was out of the barn. The plane was down the runway. The fuse, so to speak, was definitely and irrevocably lit.

"Did you just air quote me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

I froze. Luckily, I was on top of my game that day, and an answer, one that I hoped would avoid disaster, sprang from my mouth like a bus load of little leaguers at free beer and pizza night. "No. I wouldn't do that. Not air quotes." I jerked my hands around willy-nilly in the air. "Minor seizure. Nothing with which to concern yourself."

She stared at me for a moment, sighed, and with a shake of her head went back to looking for that combination panini-press and hair dryer for which she'd been searching these last two hours. After all, you never know when a nice hot sandwich is going to save your life. And as any sane person would readily admit, if that occasion should arise you want your hair to look its best.

*** the journey continues tomorrow