Ooopsie goes the bike!

*** continued from previous post  ***


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!

*** continued from previous post  ***


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

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

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

Careful planning is always a plus!

*** continued from previous post  ***

Thus, we found ourselves two days before blastoff scurrying about like a late-arriving band of Orthodox Druids at the summer Solstice.  I was nailing down the route with the aid of Google Maps, playing with the balance of travel times versus scenic routes.  Where we would stay was taken care of and crossed off the check list.  Weeks before I had booked us some fine looking lodging in Carnack, Alberta, breathtakingly close to the true wilderness of the Canadian Rockies.  


I could see it now - us in a postcard like setting, the wind flowing on our faces, the sun shining benevolently on our helmet-clad noggins as we wound our way through paradise.  (I hadn't told your Mom, but If I could find a boat, and a Mountie Uniform, your Mom could look forward to a serenade of "When I'm calling you-ew-ew-ew  ew-ew ew. . . ."  Because really, isn't' that what Canada is all about?  If old movies were any clue, it certainly is, and they haven't let me down thus far.)  


Now I will admit that I may have been a tad optimistic in the distance we were to cover each day, but I knew that the three of us - me, your Mom, and the luxury that is the Victory Vision - could knock down the miles like a two-year old knocks down a canned pea display at the end of a supermarket aisle - that being stupidly fast followed by a lot of tears and possibly a tantrum.  What made it even better when I realized that we weren't talking about miles, we were talking kilometers!  That fact sealed our schedule!  True, my memory of the metric system was a bit hazy, but I was sure that it was something like 80 kilometers to the mile.  Shoot, this was going to be an easy-peesey piece of cake!  And a beautiful, seven-tiered butter-cream frosted Canadian cake at that!  Oh!  And since it's Canada a beer.  Mmmmm. . . cake and warm beer.  The thought makes my teeth itch.

 Your Mom, whilst I was virtually navigating, was gathering the items deemed necessary for our adventure.  I don't have to tell you that this had been going on for days. There was a pile of crap - I mean necessities - in the living room large enough that it threatened to touch the ceiling.  Seriously, we had to split the pile in two in order to make a path to the door.


  I refrained from pointing out the reality that we had VERY limited space on the bike between the saddlebags and the trunk, because. . . well, there was no reason to put a damper on the party this early in the show.  Plenty of time to play the spoiler later.  Besides, while she was busy adding to the pile, it left me time to . . . to . . . well, I have no idea.  Something.  But she was occupied and for now it was enough.  


I know people think I exaggerate but you know I speak gospel when it comes to this particular quirk in your Mom's personality.  Do you remember those car trips we took when you were a wee child where the trunk of the car would be so close to bursting that I would have to sit both you and your sister - sometimes the dog as well - on the lid and push down HARD to get the latch closed?  And the back seat was piled with so many pillows and snack bags and games and sweaters and books and inflatable rafts that at times, not only could you not see out the windows, but for brief periods the entire contents of the backseat would shift, and we would become convinced we had left one of you at a rest stop, pull a U-turn at 80 miles an hour on the freeway, and rush back to your last known location only to hear you whimper quietly from underneath the complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica?  Yeah.  Good times, good times.  So when I speak of your Mom's preparations you know exactly what I'm describing. 

*** the journey continues tomorrow