This Here is Bat Country!

Okay kids, a little longer snippet to keep you occupied over the weekend. Umm . . . this next part . . . well, some things we can't take back. Amirite? I would ask that you don't think ill of me, but hell, if I were in your shoes reading this drivel I certainly would. Anyway, enjoy!


*** continued from previous post ***


While I appreciated all of these fine Canadian meats, the one that I fell in love with was the sage pork sausage. Yum. No, double yum. I polished off the remaining bits of ham, the lone survivor if you will, the General Custer of my breakfast, and stood to brave another round. I knew that I would be sorry yet I cared not. I was an animal. An animal bulking up for a long winter to come.

Mom glanced up from the remains of her Belgian waffle and her eyes said 'Really?'

"Can I get you something while I'm up tiger?"

"No," she said, wiping a glossy strawberry glaze from her lips, "I'm stuffed." She leaned back in the booth with a contented sigh. "Are you really going back?"

"Watch me," I said as I walked back to what I know referred to as 'meat heaven'. It's just like regular heaven, only a tad greasier, and much more delicious.

I walked through the double-doors into the atrium and spotted trouble immediately. There were three men there, probably mid-fifties. What struck me is that all of them were unnaturally tall. One lanky and the other two a bit on the rotund side, all wearing cowboy hats and bolo ties. Ah, so that's the subject of this convention! It obviously was one big dress-up party. I only wish I'd been here on 'Dorothy Gale' day instead of 'Cowboy Bob' day. The skinny dude would have looked stunning in pigtails.

No matter. As much as I would have enjoyed seeing a herd of Canadian cross-dressers, these men were now nothing but an obstacle to my goal of clogged veins. There they stood, blocking access to the delicious, delicious meats. Pattering on about cattle and fences and veterinarian bills and how much they disliked sheep farmers, but agreeing they were preferable to hippies. I was astounded by their attention to detail. These guys took their 'dress up' days quite seriously. Kudos to them. You have to commit to something like that to really carry it off.

I was more than happy to wait patiently as they laughed and joked their way down the table, taking a little here, a little there. Perfectly happy that is until I realized that there were only eight sage sausages left. Eight lonely little sausages. But still, that was okay. Plenty for all.

The small guy passed by these tubes of deliciousness completely. The second guy - oh oh - took two. Panic began to swirl about my carnivorous soul. I had to act quickly lest disaster strike. I maneuvered, quite deftly I thought, to a spot near the sausage. Think man! Think! Time was precious. The guys gave me a cursory glance, but went on with their conversation. I could see the last man eying the sausage. This may call for drastic measures.

Drastic measures indeed.

I did the only thing I could. I'm not terribly proud of what I am going to tell you, but it was sausage after all. You understand.

I began bobbing my head, ducking and weaving my body. "Bat!" I screamed. "Dear God it’s a bat!"

Ha. That brought them up short. Their eyes widened as they scanned the hall and the vegetation therein, half ducking in anticipation of death from a dive-bombing winged rodent.

"There!" I shouted, and pointed at an imaginary spot across the atrium, and fairly high in the air. "Oh Lord, here he comes! It's HUGE!!!"

I put a hand to my mouth and made “thwup-thwup-thwup” noises in a very realistic impression of bat wings.

Whereupon the guys scattered like chickens in a thunderstorm, running behind the table for cover. "Watch out for your hair!" I screamed. "For the love of God, don't let it get in your hair!"

This seemed to be the universal signal for complete panic. As they ran, hither and yon, ducking, bobbing and weaving, I took the opportunity to shove the remaining six sausages in my mouth. So delicious. For added measure I took the two off the guy's plate as well. Don't get that look on your face - I'd earned them.

Adding a final 'Here it comes again!' shouted, semi garbled, through my mouth full of greasy sausage, I then beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of your Mom where she sat in the booth, half wondering, half dreading, whatever, or whomever, was causing all the commotion. I grabbed my coffee, and gulped it dry, washing the spicy, wondrous evidence down my throat. An unexpected and hearty burp passed over my teeth. "Excuse me dear." I patted my bulging stomach. "Ummm . . . Not to alarm you, but it might be a good time to take our leave."

"Oh no David . . . what did you do?"

"You know," I said with a touch of reproach, "some wives don't automatically assume their husbands guilty. Why would you think I had something to do with the b. . .", I caught myself, "with whatever was going on in there?"

"Stop it. I heard you fake-screaming like a little girl. Plus, you had a sausage sticking out of your mouth when you ran inside."

Curse you delicious meats, you have undone me again.

"There may be a small, flying-rodent problem in the atrium. Doesn't matter," I said, slapping enough cash on the table to cover our bill plus a hefty tip. "Come on come on come on! Time to hit the old road!" I tapped my cane on the floor. "Daylight's burning." I glanced at my wrist to an imaginary watch, "Tad behind schedule here."

Mom followed me as I hobble-sprinted (Damn you cane! I should have brought my crutches. I am on Olympic runner with crutches), but there wasn't much enthusiasm in her effort. "I need to use the restroom on the way out," she said.

"Oh, no time dear. We'll stop at the first rest area we come across. We really need to leave." She looked at me blankly. "Trust me," I added. I had no interest in exploring the local jail, branded as a 'sausage thief'. Too many misunderstandings packed into that moniker to be doing time - Canada or not.

As we power-walked through the lobby to the parking lot, I note the staff arming themselves with fishing nets and brooms and what I think might have been a can of insecticide, running full-tilt towards the restaurant. They didn't give us a first glance, let alone a second. HA! Once again my carefully calculated ruses had saved us.

We opened the double glass doors to walk outside, and I noticed a printed white piece of paper hastily taped to the door that brought me up short. In fact, not one but 3 pieces of paper. I was sure the flyers were advertising some local festival or event, but upon closer inspection the paper read:

"WARNING. You are in Bear Country!! Be Bear Aware!" Above the text they had printed a large, clip-art bear paw.

As we passed I point the signs out to Mom. "Well, that's a little odd, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I saw those on the way in. Do you think it's a Bear Festival of some sort? Or a Band?"

"Either that," I say, holding the door open for her, "or something to give the tourists a thrill."

We laughed it off and made our escape. Yet as we drove back to the highway I pondered if the Zombie-vibe I felt earlier was really a bear vibe. Or, worse than that - bear Zombies. You can keep your Bear Calvary, bear Zombies would rule the earth. I decide not to share this tidbit with your Mother as she spooks quite easily and I didn't need her to be sitting on the back contemplating death by bear Zombies for the next few hours.

Back on the highway with full stomachs, full petrol tanks (oh no . . . I had been infected with kanuckadoodle slang), and our head full of dreams of the ride to come, we journeyed henceforth into the complex tapestry that is Canada. A bit greasier to be sure, but anxious for the marvels to come.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a few clouds drifting over the peaks surrounding the town, but don't give them another thought. Nothing is going to spoil this day. Nothing. I smile, drop the hammer, and we rocket into the mountains.

Literally.


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

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