Chapter 5 - THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH CANADIANS

*** continued from previous post ***

September 27, 2008

Dear Amber,

I’m really having a hard time letting go of you being a Pirate.
Is it too late to change your course of study?

Love,
Daddio

PS. You may want to ignore any notes posted to you by your friends on Facebook or in email. I couldn’t sleep last night and I found your password and login, so I posed as you for a bit. Ever notice how sometimes things that seem hilarious at 3 AM, seem a little crude the next day? Ah well.

PPS. Um . . . I may have taken a bit out of your bank account as well. It’s ok. You owe me.



Chapter 5


The Road to Hell is Paved with Canadians



Did I mention it was raining?

As I said before, most of the trip was a blur. Literally. Riding in the dense mist of a rain-soaked road with spray kicked up by thousands of tires - did you ever see the freeway during rush hour with a good rain pounding the pavement? If you're not driving through the thick of the storm it really is an amazing sight. A gray tunnel of dirty spray. But we WERE driving through it, and it took A LOT of concentration just to keep the bike going down the road. We were wet, tired, cold, and, as Mom pointed out, for some reason when she gets tired I get cranky. Luckily our communication was kept to a minimum, for each time I raised the shield to try to say something - surprise! A mouth full of oily Canadian road juice. Yum.

So we droned on and on and on. Through mountain passes. Through small towns. Through the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I don't remember much other than the recurring thought of 'Hey! We’re going to die!', yet there were a couple of interesting moments worth mentioning.

At some point in the trip, I can't tell you exactly when, or exactly where, because I may have had an out of body experience wherein I was having warm tea and crumpets with the Queen, or Bob Dylan - it doesn't matter really except if it was Bob Dylan I should probably get some therapy because roving hands from the Queen is one thing, but from Bob? . . . but I digress. The fact is at some point mom had to pee.

Fine. I'll just whip this baby across three lanes of certain death and find her a bathroom because that's just the kind of guy I am. Far be it from me to point out that she has a bladder the size of a grain of rice. Did I mention I may have been a tad cranky by this point? Did I mention how hard it was raining? Take that and double it. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best and often much less.

*** the journey continues ***

No Rest for the Wicket

*** continued from previous post ***


You ever notice how things look closer on a map?

Again we are sailing along a chain of lakes, drinking in the scenery like . . . like someone thirsty for scenery. No traffic, just miles of winding roads, forests and mountains. Picture perfect. It is a repeat of our early morning minus the primal hunger. The bike is running like a dream, Mom is relaxed on the back, and I'm shredding the corners. Life is good.

This is the vacation we sought. True, I'm a tad sleepy as my stomach tries to decide whether to digest my breakfast, or to shoot it straight out of my mouth, but all is well. I vowed to keep my ill-gotten sausage down. Not to brag, but I can handle my meats.

I notice a sign for a rest stop - thank you Ceiling Cat! - just as I had promised your Mom.

Did I tell you Canada is lousy with rest stops? All very nice, and very clean, and usually centered around some geographic or historic curiosity. Although I wonder if this is less a community service than an attempt to mask the notoriously weak Canadian bladder. It might be a government mandate. Are Canadians, by law, forced to urinate every 50 miles? Is there a compulsory hydration program of which we are unaware? Will I be questioned about my bathroom habits when I cross back into the US? ("Okay Mr. Moore, says here that you consumed 50 liters of beverages on your vacation, but we were only able to account for 42 liters. You'll have to park over there until Canada gets all of her moisture back.") How did they manage to make everything so convenient? Did someone get a grant? Was there an elected official with a potty obsession? Just what are the oversights of these bureaucrats? These things keep me up at night.

Where was I? I'm old and my mind tends to wander. And suddenly I have to pee.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***