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 ***

The Ballad of Toad-Splat Curve

*** continued from previous post ***

Where was I?

Oh! The rest stop!

Okay, so we come to the rest stop beside this absolutely GORGEOUS blue-sparkled lake nestled at the base of a particularly spectacular mountain. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, at least I think they are. Canadians like to drive fast. I mean FAST. No, even faster than that! So I can't really hear too much other than an occasional sonic-boom as yet another SUV blows by.

There are two driving speeds in Canada: One; so slow you want to tear your face off, and two; so fast you want to tear their face off. It's like the 'Fast and the Furious' without the 'Furious'. More like the 'Fast and Extremely Cordial'. But I'm from "THE STATES", so, I'm a rebel - an 'Merican. I go any damn speed I want. I shift out of Warp 3, slow, make the turn, and glide down the gently sloping parking lot to the edge of the lake, do a quick "swoosh" of a u-turn, and then point the bike uphill for an easy egress.

There is one other car here, with a young woman that casts furtive and concerned glances in our direction, but relaxes as we de-gear and she hears us talk to each other in loving tones. It would have been great fun if Mom would have jumped off the bike, ripped off her helmet, and back-handed me as she screamed, "Why you stop the bike bitch? Did I TELL you to stop the bike?". But alas, she does not, so we are immediately cast as 'the-cute-older-couple-on-the-motorcycle-that-are-obviously-in-love-and-having-a-great-time-and-will-probably-not-stab-me-in-the-heart'.

I know, it's a curse, but someone has to bear the burden of giving the world hope - might as well be us. The point being, I watched her visibly relax. A little. Although, somehow I had a feeling this girl was in a constant state of flummox.

She is in her twenties. Are all women in Canada in a perpetual state of mid-20s? Probably. Although, on second glance this young lady might have been a bit older. Not more than 35 anyway. Slender, but not with the 'I-just-ate-a-sandwich-and-I'll-be-full-for-a-week-unless-I-throw up' kind of look, but rather a 'I'm-very-active-and-I-like-to-hike-and-listen-to-Dave Mathews-on-my-Ipod-and-I've-had-lattes-named-after-me-in-the-coffee-shop-where-I-play-my-guitar-on-Saturday-afternoons-so-I'm-more-hip-than-you-are' look. More than likely a Vegan. She doesn't have the look of meat about her, if you know what I mean.

Mom and I walk down to the edge of the lake and the girl, with some alarm in her voice, yells, "Watch out for the toads!"



*** the journey continues tomorrow. Those who comment will be eaten. ***

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 ***