Free-Range Sherpas - I Would Expect Nothing Less

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In the end - and this had nothing to do with the fact that your mom was chewing on her lower lip so hard that blood was squirting willy-nilly about the room - I choose the path that will, in most situations, deflect animosity. SDH. Self Deprecating Humor. It's the magic wand of social interaction. It's the salve of awkward situations. The 'special sauce' on the burger of cringe that smothers everything and makes you forget that what you're eating is 90% cardboard.

"Idiots on the motorcycle is more like it," I said, bobbing my head. I looked from one Canadastanie to the other giving each of them the grin of the dangerously stupid.

No response. Alpha Canuck narrowed his eyes. I could see the wheels turning. 'What is your game, stupid American? How dare you challenge my expectations?'

Martha, much to the consternation of the rest of the table, giggled. I immediately felt a twinge of fondness for this lady.

Leeza chose that moment, bless her free-spirited soul, to arrive with our coffee and tea. "Here you go folks. I hope you like the tea. It's one of our special blends."

"Thank you," Mom said for the both of us. I was afraid to break eye contact with the alpha male lest he take advantage of the situation and go for my throat with his foon. Or spork. Or runcible spoon. Whatever.

"Be right back with some wonderful oatmeal. And I do mean wonderful! It's handpicked pesticide-free organic oats lightly soaked in spring water gathered from the local mountain peaks above the 3 kilometer mark by imported Sherpas using thatch-baskets woven by First Nation people. It is grand cereal if I do say so." Leeza turned to walk away then stopped abruptly, turned to us with a narrowed brow and added, "Free-range Sherpas, of course."

Well of course they were. I would expect nothing less. I hadn't tasted it yet, but somehow I felt intimidated by a mound of steaming, gummy lumps. Oat anxiety. Although, if you were to look that up in the DSM, (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - no, you don't need to know how I know that.), my apprehension may have more to do with white-haired men in buckle shoes, lace, and 17th century hats.

Gah! I just gave myself the creeps! Curse you Quaker Oats!

*** the journey continues ***

With Apologies To The Bees

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As Leeza puts the plates in front of us, she says,"The Honey-Raspberry Vinaigrette is one of our trademarks. The honey is collected in the wild, where IOUs and apologies are issued to the bees. We also set them up with a Health Care Plan. The greens are supplemented with native foliage gathered daily from our forests and meadows. Mostly native grasses and root shavings. We harvest our own apples from a Heritage Orchard in Carnack, and process them into the vinegar you are about to taste, as well as some delicious apple cider. The wheat for the bread, unbleached of course, comes from eco-friendly ranching cooperatives on the plains of Alberta."

Leeza nods her head as she speaks, plainly proud of their food, and rightfully so.

"The hazelnuts," and here she pauses, clearly bracing for an admission that will blow our socks off, "are from . . . the Costco in Calgary."

She dips her head slightly as if embarrassed. I want to tell her that like her hazelnuts, my underwear and socks are 'Kirkland branded' as well, but in a moment of clarity I realize she may not care to hear about my skivvies.

"Enjoy!", she says with a smile. "I'll be back in a few minutes with your main course."

I feel slightly saddened that in my state I am unable to appreciate the nuances of the food set before us. You could have popped a can of cat food, (and not the good kind either - the cheap stuff from China that may or may not be made with political dissidents and a dash of cyanide), and I would have devoured the pasty goo without pausing to taste. However, as anyone knows the ultimate insult to a cook - well, non-verbal anyway - is to scarf your food like a hyena, never giving it a chance to register on your taste buds. I was sure we were being watched by the cooks, and as I wanted a mucus-free dining experience I fought my nature and ate at a respectful pace.

*** the journey continues ***

The Road to Hernias are Paved with Good Intentions

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We were starving, but sure we would find a charming restaurant just up the road.

But first, we had to make our escape. Like Ninjas. Sneaky Canadian Ninjas. Lest we forget ourselves and wake in a week or two sitting in the Pub with 'Zombie-Dude' pouring drinks for those only he can see. Quiet was the order of the day.

Eager to avoid a scene, we decided that we would PUSH the Vision far, far from the Motel so as not to wake nor rouse the Local Pitchfork Mob with the rumblings of our mighty exhaust. You know us, deep down beneath the leather and the helmets and the tattoos on our foreheads that say 'KILLER', we try to be considerate people. Mostly. The operative word being 'try'

Now, I don't know if you're aware of exactly how much the Vision weighs. The dry weight - and what the hell does that mean? What if you live somewhere it's raining all the time? Dry weight will do you no good. What you need is wet weight for a really informed decision. Or, at the very least, slightly moist weight - anyway, the dry weight of the Victory Vision is 849 pounds, give or take an ounce. The saddlebags were stuffed with easily another 45 pounds or so, the trunk was crammed with another 40 pounds and then you had that diabolical "100% FRICKIN' GUARANTEED WATERPROOF" bag and you can tack on another 25 pounds. I go 200. Your Mom is 105. The gear we were wearing, combined between us was at least 20 pounds with the armored mesh and helmets and Mom's security rock. A full tank of gas, (6 gallons), adds another 50 pounds rounded up. As you can see, if you've been doing the math, I was going to attempt to push well over 9000 pounds around with no reverse gear, no motor to help, and every inch uphill - and backwards. And why in God's name someone had coated the driveway with butter I'll never know. Perhaps it is some quaint Canadian custom of which I am unawares. Much like the Canadian propensity for human sacrifice around harvest time. Oh, those silly Canadian farmers and their festivals hearkening back to simpler days. I envy their simplicity. Any-who, I pop a hernia just thinking about it. Sherpa-ing an epileptic baby elephant - on crack - up the side of Mt. Everest wearing roller blades would be easier than rolling our beast backwards and uphill.

I pull up the kickstand and we promptly fall over.

HA! Gotcha! No, I pull up the kickstand, take a deep breath and push backwards with my legs.

And . . . nothing. Not even a budge. I try several more times without success.

"What are we going to do?" Mom asked.

"Hmmmm . . . " I pondered, "set fire to the bike and claim the insurance?"

"That would be fine, but we would be stuck in Galway Bay," she said and cast a nervous glance about, "possibly forever."

I saw her point. So through super-human strength, and a promise to the Elder Gods, (Cthulu, are you listening?), to give them my first-born son, (Jokes on them! I done been all fixapated! No more genetic wealth from this guy!), I finally got the bike rolling and managed to wrestle it far enough away from the motel that we believed we could make our escape without alerting the authorities. Which, thankfully, we did and trundled off down the highway with flowers and puppies in our hearts and a slight headache from exertion. Oh, and a major leg cramp. I was pushing 9000 pounds after all.



*** the journey continues tomorrow and comments are always welcome ***