*** continued from previous post ***
When last we met our daring duo, sleep had descended on the famished pair as they hunkered, like suspicious lab-rats, in a small Canadian tourist town populated by high-strangeness and low expectations. And this, with the first Michelangelo-esque stirrings of the dawn-clad world, is where we pick up their story.
After a sweet night in the arms of Morpheus, (No, not the guy from the 'Matrix', that's just weird. The Greek God Morpheus. You know, the one that. . . aw forget it. I've bored myself), Mom and I awoke simultaneously at 5:00 in the AM. Remember, we'd collapsed about 9 PM the night before - did I mention we were tired? - so this was no surprise. Exhaustion will do that to you - give you the sleep-of-the-dead as a consolation prize for pushing your body far, far beyond its limits. Or, if the nocturnal sojourn is a little lighter, the nap-of-the-quite-seriously-ill. Possibly the doze-of-the-I-think-I'm-coming-down-with-a-bug'. Whatever. We were rested, refreshed, wondrously hungry, and blessedly suffering almost total amnesia concerning most of the unpleasantness of the previous day.
You know, much like the Bush Administration.
However, as charming as things appeared in dawn's early light, we were ready to beat a hasty retreat from "Casa de Whacked", and get back on the road. We, (I need another word for 'blind optimism'. Maybe 'foolhardy cheer'. 'Idiotic hope'. Hmmm . . . I'll figure something out.), anyway, we, in our blithering stupidity, convinced ourselves that what lie up the road had to be better than what lay behind us. So, time to throw our crap back on the bike, shake the mud off our boots, and get the hell out of Dodge.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Told you we should have packed more
*** continued from previous post ***
We escape the Deli with our souls intact. Barely.
Mom communicates all that needs to be said in one word: "Burgers."
I'm relieved, the Drive-in looked a tad old, but not that bad. As we drove closer we noticed. . . AT LEAST 75 FRICKIN' PEOPLE LINED THREE ROWS DEEP AT THE WINDOWS. We drove down - the place was empty. We come back ten minutes later - it's the cast of 'High School Musical' with grips and drivers and demanding stage-mothers all vying for grease and cheese.
It's a sign. We give up. Well played Galway Bay. You've defeated two weary, slightly crazy travelers. From THE STATES. I hope you're happy.
Back in our room, with the door shut, curtains pulled, and air-conditioner blasting, we regain a bit of composure. By this time it's late. It may even be next week for all we know. Time has ceased to exist. I can't let the day end like this. I won't let the day end like this. It is up to me to salvage this vacation.
I struggle to my feet and journey the 10 steps to the motel office. As I walked I remembered our suicidal fly friend from earlier. I now understand. Perhaps Dave would take pity on me and smack me with a rolled up paper as well. No matter, all I need is something to sustain us. I think I saw a pop machine in there somewhere. Or it may have been a heat induced hallucination. I didn't care. Shirtless-old-dude may be my only hope.
I pull open the door to the office and a blast of slightly cooler air rolls over me. There is a woman behind the Formica now. Dave is nowhere to be seen, I don't know where he's gone . . . possibly back to the parallel universe from whence he came.
I am ecstatic to spot an upright glass-door cooler, like you would find in any grocery store, stocked full of muffins and bagels and fruit. Saved! I smile, go to the cooler and start loading my arms with all things fruity and carby.
"Excuse me," the woman says, none too kindly as I ogle an apple, "that's not for sale," and sucks a bit of food from her front tooth." (Yes, tooth. Singular.) It's for the continental breakfast in the morning."
WTF? CONTINENTAL breakfast? In a one-story cinder-block motel in Galway Bay, BC? Really? CONTINENTAL? I'm not ashamed to say that a small "Eeeep!" escaped through my clenched teeth and slid past my lips all Nancy Drew like. "Okay" I sigh, heavily. "How about the bagels and muffins?"
"Same deal.
It is then that I realize I may have to commit a crime. I wonder what the prisons in Canada are like? Probably much like the US, only they're polite when they rape you. I try a different tack. "You know, we're staying here tonight, and leaving very early in the morning. It wouldn't be a stretch to think that if we were staying later in the morning we would certainly be attending your continental breakfast. So . . . could we have our bagel and a muffin now please?"
The woman looks puzzled. "But they're for the breakfast in the morning," she repeats, as if this explains everything.
In my imagination, I'm pounding my fists on the side of my head. Or her head. Whatever. Yet I remain the very epitome of patience and international good will. "Okay. Look. If we were here in the morning, we could have all the bagels and muffins we wanted, is that right?"
"Well, within reason," she says.
I nod in agreement. "We certainly could have ONE bagel and ONE muffin, right? So, can't we pretend," I look at the clock on the wall, "that I'm just really, really early?"
I have hope. That's some sound, sound reasoning right there. I mean seriously, I'm not asking her to empty the till.
She narrows her eyes and says, slowly, as if talking to a complete idiot, "But those are for the continental breakfast in the morning for the motel guests."
Inside I scream and commit a crime of which I'm not proud. Suffice it to say that the Coroner would be quite surprised at what you could fit up a Canadian's wazoo. I could see no matter how persuasive I was there were no bagels or muffins on the dinner menu.
Fine. Forget the food. I try once again. "You know, all we really want is something cold to drink. How about the Cokes and Dr. Pepper?"
"That," she says with a smile, "I can sell you."
This makes no sense to me, but in order not to kill the positive momentum I've got going I say, "Great!", and pull out my wallet.
"Umm . . . All I have is American money, is that okay?"
I can't quite describe the look that passed over her face, but it was much like she had just experienced an ill smell in an elevator and heavily suspected it had originated with me. I'm a proud man, but this was not time for hubris or ego. I beg her to take my useless American money in exchange for three ice-cold cans of pop. (Yes I said pop. Screw soda. I'm from the Northwest. Deal with it.) I'm fixated on those drinks. That's really all I want. Something cold and familiar. After some hesitation, and a fair amount of disgust, she caves to my pleadings and accepts my pathetic American currency.
You ever tried to carry three cans of pop, sans bag, with a cane? I shall leave it up to your imagination.
Triumphant, like the mighty hunter returning to his clan, I bring the cold nectar-of-the-Gods back to your Mother. I approach her cautiously, warily. She has that wild look in her eye again, and her head still hasn't sprung back to it's proper shape. I drop to my knees and raise the mighty can of Dr. Pepper over my head. The provider returnith. Victorius. A kill of carbonated beverages as a supplication.
The offering appeases her.
"Okay," I sigh. "What do you want to do about dinner?"
"Well, I noticed some crackers in the bike. But not very many." She takes a long pull from her drink. "You know, usually I have all kinds of snacks. Beef Jerky. Peanut Butter. Candy. Cheese. More candy. Trail Mix. Nuts. A rasher of bacon. But you were the one that insisted on packing light."
I detect a hint of sarcasm and reproach in her voice. I know, hard to believe but it's true. I wonder just how long she's been waiting to make this particular point. Probably since we left the house.
She swirls vindication mixed with cold Dr. Pepper in her mouth and smiles.
The day is lost. I'm defeated.
We get the crackers and each of us take one - just one - for our evening repast. We chew slowly, in silence, and contemplate the day.
At least the bed is comfortable, and I has my Nets.
Tomorrow, I vow, will be different.
I mean really, could this trip get weirder?
--- END OF CHAPTER TWO ---
*** the journey continues tomorrow. Or Monday. I have a busy weekend. Quit complaining. I posted a long one today to hold you over. So . . . yeah. Okay, gotta go. The phones ringing. ***
We escape the Deli with our souls intact. Barely.
Mom communicates all that needs to be said in one word: "Burgers."
I'm relieved, the Drive-in looked a tad old, but not that bad. As we drove closer we noticed. . . AT LEAST 75 FRICKIN' PEOPLE LINED THREE ROWS DEEP AT THE WINDOWS. We drove down - the place was empty. We come back ten minutes later - it's the cast of 'High School Musical' with grips and drivers and demanding stage-mothers all vying for grease and cheese.
It's a sign. We give up. Well played Galway Bay. You've defeated two weary, slightly crazy travelers. From THE STATES. I hope you're happy.
Back in our room, with the door shut, curtains pulled, and air-conditioner blasting, we regain a bit of composure. By this time it's late. It may even be next week for all we know. Time has ceased to exist. I can't let the day end like this. I won't let the day end like this. It is up to me to salvage this vacation.
I struggle to my feet and journey the 10 steps to the motel office. As I walked I remembered our suicidal fly friend from earlier. I now understand. Perhaps Dave would take pity on me and smack me with a rolled up paper as well. No matter, all I need is something to sustain us. I think I saw a pop machine in there somewhere. Or it may have been a heat induced hallucination. I didn't care. Shirtless-old-dude may be my only hope.
I pull open the door to the office and a blast of slightly cooler air rolls over me. There is a woman behind the Formica now. Dave is nowhere to be seen, I don't know where he's gone . . . possibly back to the parallel universe from whence he came.
I am ecstatic to spot an upright glass-door cooler, like you would find in any grocery store, stocked full of muffins and bagels and fruit. Saved! I smile, go to the cooler and start loading my arms with all things fruity and carby.
"Excuse me," the woman says, none too kindly as I ogle an apple, "that's not for sale," and sucks a bit of food from her front tooth." (Yes, tooth. Singular.) It's for the continental breakfast in the morning."
WTF? CONTINENTAL breakfast? In a one-story cinder-block motel in Galway Bay, BC? Really? CONTINENTAL? I'm not ashamed to say that a small "Eeeep!" escaped through my clenched teeth and slid past my lips all Nancy Drew like. "Okay" I sigh, heavily. "How about the bagels and muffins?"
"Same deal.
It is then that I realize I may have to commit a crime. I wonder what the prisons in Canada are like? Probably much like the US, only they're polite when they rape you. I try a different tack. "You know, we're staying here tonight, and leaving very early in the morning. It wouldn't be a stretch to think that if we were staying later in the morning we would certainly be attending your continental breakfast. So . . . could we have our bagel and a muffin now please?"
The woman looks puzzled. "But they're for the breakfast in the morning," she repeats, as if this explains everything.
In my imagination, I'm pounding my fists on the side of my head. Or her head. Whatever. Yet I remain the very epitome of patience and international good will. "Okay. Look. If we were here in the morning, we could have all the bagels and muffins we wanted, is that right?"
"Well, within reason," she says.
I nod in agreement. "We certainly could have ONE bagel and ONE muffin, right? So, can't we pretend," I look at the clock on the wall, "that I'm just really, really early?"
I have hope. That's some sound, sound reasoning right there. I mean seriously, I'm not asking her to empty the till.
She narrows her eyes and says, slowly, as if talking to a complete idiot, "But those are for the continental breakfast in the morning for the motel guests."
Inside I scream and commit a crime of which I'm not proud. Suffice it to say that the Coroner would be quite surprised at what you could fit up a Canadian's wazoo. I could see no matter how persuasive I was there were no bagels or muffins on the dinner menu.
Fine. Forget the food. I try once again. "You know, all we really want is something cold to drink. How about the Cokes and Dr. Pepper?"
"That," she says with a smile, "I can sell you."
This makes no sense to me, but in order not to kill the positive momentum I've got going I say, "Great!", and pull out my wallet.
"Umm . . . All I have is American money, is that okay?"
I can't quite describe the look that passed over her face, but it was much like she had just experienced an ill smell in an elevator and heavily suspected it had originated with me. I'm a proud man, but this was not time for hubris or ego. I beg her to take my useless American money in exchange for three ice-cold cans of pop. (Yes I said pop. Screw soda. I'm from the Northwest. Deal with it.) I'm fixated on those drinks. That's really all I want. Something cold and familiar. After some hesitation, and a fair amount of disgust, she caves to my pleadings and accepts my pathetic American currency.
You ever tried to carry three cans of pop, sans bag, with a cane? I shall leave it up to your imagination.
Triumphant, like the mighty hunter returning to his clan, I bring the cold nectar-of-the-Gods back to your Mother. I approach her cautiously, warily. She has that wild look in her eye again, and her head still hasn't sprung back to it's proper shape. I drop to my knees and raise the mighty can of Dr. Pepper over my head. The provider returnith. Victorius. A kill of carbonated beverages as a supplication.
The offering appeases her.
"Okay," I sigh. "What do you want to do about dinner?"
"Well, I noticed some crackers in the bike. But not very many." She takes a long pull from her drink. "You know, usually I have all kinds of snacks. Beef Jerky. Peanut Butter. Candy. Cheese. More candy. Trail Mix. Nuts. A rasher of bacon. But you were the one that insisted on packing light."
I detect a hint of sarcasm and reproach in her voice. I know, hard to believe but it's true. I wonder just how long she's been waiting to make this particular point. Probably since we left the house.
She swirls vindication mixed with cold Dr. Pepper in her mouth and smiles.
The day is lost. I'm defeated.
We get the crackers and each of us take one - just one - for our evening repast. We chew slowly, in silence, and contemplate the day.
At least the bed is comfortable, and I has my Nets.
Tomorrow, I vow, will be different.
I mean really, could this trip get weirder?
*** the journey continues tomorrow. Or Monday. I have a busy weekend. Quit complaining. I posted a long one today to hold you over. So . . . yeah. Okay, gotta go. The phones ringing. ***
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
*** continued from previous post ***
As you'll remember, the road to Chinook Pass is no cake-walk. In less than an hour you climb from 500 feet above sea level, to 5400 feet all the while winding through dense forest and steep roads, literally clinging to the sides of the mountains. I remind you of this so that the next part of our story makes sense.
For you see I, the man who was adamant about this being summer, and now less than 10 minutes into our voyage, was beginning to get cold. The temperature dropped with every hill, every twist and turn of the road. I should have pulled over and put on some extra layers - and possibly set fire to my chest - but I thought the seat warmers and heated grips would be enough. Plus, there was that little pride thing I had going. No way I was going to admit I'd made a mistake in my choice of gear after the discussion your Mom and I had earlier. I was able to fake it almost all the way to the top of the pass. I'm sure that your Mom thought my shivering was nothing more than a bit of rough road. She may have had her suspicions, as evidenced by the following conversation that took place half-way up the mountain.
Mom leaned forward and said, "Sure glad I wore my heavy gear. Yep I'm warm and toasty back here. In fact, I was thinking about unzipping my jacket a little. Cool off a bit. How you doing?"
I would have replied, but my jaw was locked in a permanent clench. I think I may have bitten my tongue in half. It didn't matter. Hypothermia was sitting in - hard. Less than an hour from home and I was about to die the death of the dinosaurs. Again, it didn't matter. It would all be over soon.
Yet I'm a survivor. I'm scrappy. Somehow I managed to hold on the last few miles where we reached the final ascent to the top of the mountain. I don't know if you remember this, but the stretch of road from the intersection of Hwy 410 and Hwy 123, to the top of Chinook pass - while only 3.5 miles long - climbs almost 750 feet with some MAJOR switchbacks. I mean MAJOR switchbacks. No, even bigger than that! This is usually the 'fun' part of the trip. Usually. But the Universe was getting the game on early because as we rounded a corner it began to rain. Then the rain turned to snow. And the snow began to stick. In August.
Well, as I have said many times in my life - and never in a particularly positive tone - this should be interesting.
And it was. Interesting I mean. A little slippery. A little slidey. A little 'change your undies.' Despite the odds, and I might mention that I was beyond cold at this point, we managed to make it to the top. I pulled into a little rest area just over the summit, cutting a black stripe through the slush to the blacktop below, and coasted into a parking space. I would have wept but my eyelids were frozen.
"Can you believe this?", Mom asked shaking her head in amazement. "It's August for crying out loud."
I tried to say something. I can't remember what. It was probably poignant, beautiful, profound. A statement worthy of being carved in stone. A summation of the human condition that would have birthed insight and peace between nations but was now lost because I couldn't move my lips. Such is the tragedy of man.
Oh wait, I remember! I said, "COLD!"
"Yeah," Mom said, and pulled off her helmet. "It is a little chilly. What does the thermometer on the bike say. Like 38, 39 degrees?"
I managed to tilt my head to look at the digital readout on the instrument cluster. Either I heard ice crack on the back of my helmet or I had shattered another vertebrae in my neck. I hardly noticed. The display was frosted over just a tad. "33", I said. Only it came out "Thhhhhh. . .thhhhhh. . .thhhhh. . ." Sounding much like I was trying to blow up a balloon with a lisp.
"Aw, are you cold babe?" she asked, cocking her head. "Guess you should have worn your heavier coat."
It wasn't so much what she said, although that stung, it was the particular way she giggled as she said it that nailed me. Were it not for my complete inability to speak, or let loose of the handlebars, there may have an altercation.
However, I knew the hard part was behind us. Soon we would descend down into Eastern Washington where the weather was warmer, the roads were less crowded, and granola was not on the menu. We waited at the top of the pass for awhile, watching the light snowfall, allowing the feeling to return to my limbs, and then with a mighty 'Hi Ho Silver! Away!' we set out on the twisty path that would eventually take us to Canada.
Of course, before we could get to our first stop at Galaway Bay, BC we would have to cover 350 miles. As I explained to your Mother, "Piece of cake!"
Darn good thing it was early in the morning. Otherwise, we might have run into trouble.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
As you'll remember, the road to Chinook Pass is no cake-walk. In less than an hour you climb from 500 feet above sea level, to 5400 feet all the while winding through dense forest and steep roads, literally clinging to the sides of the mountains. I remind you of this so that the next part of our story makes sense.
For you see I, the man who was adamant about this being summer, and now less than 10 minutes into our voyage, was beginning to get cold. The temperature dropped with every hill, every twist and turn of the road. I should have pulled over and put on some extra layers - and possibly set fire to my chest - but I thought the seat warmers and heated grips would be enough. Plus, there was that little pride thing I had going. No way I was going to admit I'd made a mistake in my choice of gear after the discussion your Mom and I had earlier. I was able to fake it almost all the way to the top of the pass. I'm sure that your Mom thought my shivering was nothing more than a bit of rough road. She may have had her suspicions, as evidenced by the following conversation that took place half-way up the mountain.
Mom leaned forward and said, "Sure glad I wore my heavy gear. Yep I'm warm and toasty back here. In fact, I was thinking about unzipping my jacket a little. Cool off a bit. How you doing?"
I would have replied, but my jaw was locked in a permanent clench. I think I may have bitten my tongue in half. It didn't matter. Hypothermia was sitting in - hard. Less than an hour from home and I was about to die the death of the dinosaurs. Again, it didn't matter. It would all be over soon.
Yet I'm a survivor. I'm scrappy. Somehow I managed to hold on the last few miles where we reached the final ascent to the top of the mountain. I don't know if you remember this, but the stretch of road from the intersection of Hwy 410 and Hwy 123, to the top of Chinook pass - while only 3.5 miles long - climbs almost 750 feet with some MAJOR switchbacks. I mean MAJOR switchbacks. No, even bigger than that! This is usually the 'fun' part of the trip. Usually. But the Universe was getting the game on early because as we rounded a corner it began to rain. Then the rain turned to snow. And the snow began to stick. In August.
Well, as I have said many times in my life - and never in a particularly positive tone - this should be interesting.
And it was. Interesting I mean. A little slippery. A little slidey. A little 'change your undies.' Despite the odds, and I might mention that I was beyond cold at this point, we managed to make it to the top. I pulled into a little rest area just over the summit, cutting a black stripe through the slush to the blacktop below, and coasted into a parking space. I would have wept but my eyelids were frozen.
"Can you believe this?", Mom asked shaking her head in amazement. "It's August for crying out loud."
I tried to say something. I can't remember what. It was probably poignant, beautiful, profound. A statement worthy of being carved in stone. A summation of the human condition that would have birthed insight and peace between nations but was now lost because I couldn't move my lips. Such is the tragedy of man.
Oh wait, I remember! I said, "COLD!"
"Yeah," Mom said, and pulled off her helmet. "It is a little chilly. What does the thermometer on the bike say. Like 38, 39 degrees?"
I managed to tilt my head to look at the digital readout on the instrument cluster. Either I heard ice crack on the back of my helmet or I had shattered another vertebrae in my neck. I hardly noticed. The display was frosted over just a tad. "33", I said. Only it came out "Thhhhhh. . .thhhhhh. . .thhhhh. . ." Sounding much like I was trying to blow up a balloon with a lisp.
"Aw, are you cold babe?" she asked, cocking her head. "Guess you should have worn your heavier coat."
It wasn't so much what she said, although that stung, it was the particular way she giggled as she said it that nailed me. Were it not for my complete inability to speak, or let loose of the handlebars, there may have an altercation.
However, I knew the hard part was behind us. Soon we would descend down into Eastern Washington where the weather was warmer, the roads were less crowded, and granola was not on the menu. We waited at the top of the pass for awhile, watching the light snowfall, allowing the feeling to return to my limbs, and then with a mighty 'Hi Ho Silver! Away!' we set out on the twisty path that would eventually take us to Canada.
Of course, before we could get to our first stop at Galaway Bay, BC we would have to cover 350 miles. As I explained to your Mother, "Piece of cake!"
Darn good thing it was early in the morning. Otherwise, we might have run into trouble.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Volcanoes of DOOM
*** continued from previous post ***
Thankfully, that was the last incident before we pointed our metal steed over Chinook pass. Ah, Chinook. We are truly fortunate to reside at the base of the Cascades with their miles of great riding roads and spectacular views. Well, unless you count that whole "You're sitting at the bottom of an active volcano - an ACTIVE volcano for God's sakes!" thingee. Wimps and wusses one and all.
Personally I believe thumbing your nose at nature adds to the excitement of living here. I mean, seriously - how many people have this conversation several times a week?
"Mt. Rainier sure is beautiful today."
"Why yes it is. Absolutely gorgeous. I never grow tired of the view. The sunlight on the glaciers - just stunning!"
"That it is It’s like an old friend that always there to greet you."
* Insert Long pause*
"Of course, you know that it could blow any second, and we would have no chance at escape. It would be certain death from the pyroclastic mud flows raging from the melting glaciers."
"Oh I know! We would be screwed! No chance to run."
"Yep screwed. Dead in minutes. So . . . you going to the Daniel's party this weekend?"
Plus, and you know this because you lived it, how many kids get to put together a 'Volcano Emergency Kit' for school every year? That was always a little creepy. Oh, not the peanut-butter crackers or the juice boxes, those are fine. No, it was the 'sealed note' that we, as parents had to write you every year to place in your bag in the unlikely event that you would, at some point, need comforting. I mean really, what can you say as a future dead person to your living child? We never let you peek, but I guess that now that you're all hoity-toity and Naval I can tell you now what we wrote in those letters. I can't remember exactly, so I'm paraphrasing here, but it was along the lines of, 'Hi! We're dead. Don't forget to brush your teeth.', or something like that.
Good thing you never had to use that, huh? Couldn't have been easy for you though. Remember that one special day in third-grade when they would sit you down and explain to you what a volcano was and what volcanoes did - chock full of useful charts and maps and pictures of Mt. St. Helens and Pompeii - and then walked you over to the window and pointed to this huge time-bomb ticking on our horizon? I always knew when they had reached that point in the academic year. It wasn't hard to discerne. Watching a whole herd of eight-year-olds walk out of the class teary-eyed, shell-shocked, and trembling - well, it was obvious. Either they had just had the 'Volcano Talk' or Jimmy had finally choked to death eating the paste. And we all know how the class felt about Jimmy. Wanker.
Anyway, back to our trip.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Thankfully, that was the last incident before we pointed our metal steed over Chinook pass. Ah, Chinook. We are truly fortunate to reside at the base of the Cascades with their miles of great riding roads and spectacular views. Well, unless you count that whole "You're sitting at the bottom of an active volcano - an ACTIVE volcano for God's sakes!" thingee. Wimps and wusses one and all.
Personally I believe thumbing your nose at nature adds to the excitement of living here. I mean, seriously - how many people have this conversation several times a week?
"Mt. Rainier sure is beautiful today."
"Why yes it is. Absolutely gorgeous. I never grow tired of the view. The sunlight on the glaciers - just stunning!"
"That it is It’s like an old friend that always there to greet you."
* Insert Long pause*
"Of course, you know that it could blow any second, and we would have no chance at escape. It would be certain death from the pyroclastic mud flows raging from the melting glaciers."
"Oh I know! We would be screwed! No chance to run."
"Yep screwed. Dead in minutes. So . . . you going to the Daniel's party this weekend?"
Plus, and you know this because you lived it, how many kids get to put together a 'Volcano Emergency Kit' for school every year? That was always a little creepy. Oh, not the peanut-butter crackers or the juice boxes, those are fine. No, it was the 'sealed note' that we, as parents had to write you every year to place in your bag in the unlikely event that you would, at some point, need comforting. I mean really, what can you say as a future dead person to your living child? We never let you peek, but I guess that now that you're all hoity-toity and Naval I can tell you now what we wrote in those letters. I can't remember exactly, so I'm paraphrasing here, but it was along the lines of, 'Hi! We're dead. Don't forget to brush your teeth.', or something like that.
Good thing you never had to use that, huh? Couldn't have been easy for you though. Remember that one special day in third-grade when they would sit you down and explain to you what a volcano was and what volcanoes did - chock full of useful charts and maps and pictures of Mt. St. Helens and Pompeii - and then walked you over to the window and pointed to this huge time-bomb ticking on our horizon? I always knew when they had reached that point in the academic year. It wasn't hard to discerne. Watching a whole herd of eight-year-olds walk out of the class teary-eyed, shell-shocked, and trembling - well, it was obvious. Either they had just had the 'Volcano Talk' or Jimmy had finally choked to death eating the paste. And we all know how the class felt about Jimmy. Wanker.
Anyway, back to our trip.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Monday, October 11, 2010
I'm not promoting drinking, BUT . . .
*** continued from previous post ***
Mom immediately wanted to pull over and kill the nice young lady. I felt it was too early in the trip for assault, plenty of time for that later. So I hit the throttle. The truck behind us followed suit. We were now cruising a good 10 mph over the posted speed limit. (Shhhh. . .don't tell the boys in blue.) Then it hit me; it was then I realized the girl behind us was an "obstacle driver". What is that you may ask? Why an 'obstacle driver' is a person that gets on the road, and drives until they encounter another car. That car then becomes an "obstacle" for them. You are in their way. If you pull over, or wave them around you, they will drive up and tailgate the next car in line. We are all just window dressing to their lives. We are all obstacles to their goals.
Which didn't matter to me - I couldn't care less about her day-to-day habits. Right now she was tailgating and putting our lives at risk. Mom was twisting in her seat, turning around and giving her the 'stink eye'. Your Mother's 'stink-eye' normally causes strong men to crumble like greasy street-punks on the witness stand. There was a problem here though, the girl would have had to been paying attention to SEE the stink-eye.
Mom leaned forward and shouted, "I'm going to throw pennies at her windshield in about 2 seconds!"
You know your Mom. She would do it. I suppose I should have found some joy in that she wanted to throw pennies instead of spark plugs. Or a chair. But I didn't. It's a wonder I've kept her out of prison as long as I have.
"No you're not," I said, with what I hoped was an appropriate amount of authority in my voice.
"She's going to run into the back of us! She can't be more than 3 feet away!"
I looked for a place to pull over, but the Washington State Department of Transportation, in their far-sighted wisdom, had decided that the shoulders of the road were terribly, terribly passe', and replaced them with a bare six inches of tarmac and huge guard rails. Really huge. Really huge and really shiny guard rails that screamed 'Don't touch me our I will fudge you up!'. So I couldn't have pulled over had I wanted. And, as the hip-cats on the Netz say, do want! There was simply no where to go even if I found that we had spontaneously combusted and figured it was a fine time for a wienie roast.
I was fast running out of options. Speeding up hadn't helped. There were no side roads on this stretch of highway, nothing but aforementioned wavy strips of aluminum death.
What to do? Well, I did the only thing I could do - I became drunk.
I've hinted at the maneuverability of the Vision, buy you have no idea. You can swerve and swoop the beast like a fighter jet, and snap her back in a straight line before you can say . . . you can say. . . well, something very short and very witty. So that's what I did. I sped up, and began to weave my baby around in the lane, then slowed, sped up, weaved. Sort of like the directions on a bottle of shampoo. Weave. Speed. Repeat. It wasn't dangerous, but it LOOKED dangerous and that was the point. Oddly enough, the girl backed off. Way off. Mission accomplished. No doubt she was now dialing 911, reporting the 'dangerous maniac' on the bike. I hoped so. Those field tests on a cane are a hoot.
"Thank you," Mom said as she leaned forward with her face-shield raised.
"No problem sweetie," I replied craning my neck but keeping my eyes on the road.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Mom immediately wanted to pull over and kill the nice young lady. I felt it was too early in the trip for assault, plenty of time for that later. So I hit the throttle. The truck behind us followed suit. We were now cruising a good 10 mph over the posted speed limit. (Shhhh. . .don't tell the boys in blue.) Then it hit me; it was then I realized the girl behind us was an "obstacle driver". What is that you may ask? Why an 'obstacle driver' is a person that gets on the road, and drives until they encounter another car. That car then becomes an "obstacle" for them. You are in their way. If you pull over, or wave them around you, they will drive up and tailgate the next car in line. We are all just window dressing to their lives. We are all obstacles to their goals.
Which didn't matter to me - I couldn't care less about her day-to-day habits. Right now she was tailgating and putting our lives at risk. Mom was twisting in her seat, turning around and giving her the 'stink eye'. Your Mother's 'stink-eye' normally causes strong men to crumble like greasy street-punks on the witness stand. There was a problem here though, the girl would have had to been paying attention to SEE the stink-eye.
Mom leaned forward and shouted, "I'm going to throw pennies at her windshield in about 2 seconds!"
You know your Mom. She would do it. I suppose I should have found some joy in that she wanted to throw pennies instead of spark plugs. Or a chair. But I didn't. It's a wonder I've kept her out of prison as long as I have.
"No you're not," I said, with what I hoped was an appropriate amount of authority in my voice.
"She's going to run into the back of us! She can't be more than 3 feet away!"
I looked for a place to pull over, but the Washington State Department of Transportation, in their far-sighted wisdom, had decided that the shoulders of the road were terribly, terribly passe', and replaced them with a bare six inches of tarmac and huge guard rails. Really huge. Really huge and really shiny guard rails that screamed 'Don't touch me our I will fudge you up!'. So I couldn't have pulled over had I wanted. And, as the hip-cats on the Netz say, do want! There was simply no where to go even if I found that we had spontaneously combusted and figured it was a fine time for a wienie roast.
I was fast running out of options. Speeding up hadn't helped. There were no side roads on this stretch of highway, nothing but aforementioned wavy strips of aluminum death.
What to do? Well, I did the only thing I could do - I became drunk.
I've hinted at the maneuverability of the Vision, buy you have no idea. You can swerve and swoop the beast like a fighter jet, and snap her back in a straight line before you can say . . . you can say. . . well, something very short and very witty. So that's what I did. I sped up, and began to weave my baby around in the lane, then slowed, sped up, weaved. Sort of like the directions on a bottle of shampoo. Weave. Speed. Repeat. It wasn't dangerous, but it LOOKED dangerous and that was the point. Oddly enough, the girl backed off. Way off. Mission accomplished. No doubt she was now dialing 911, reporting the 'dangerous maniac' on the bike. I hoped so. Those field tests on a cane are a hoot.
"Thank you," Mom said as she leaned forward with her face-shield raised.
"No problem sweetie," I replied craning my neck but keeping my eyes on the road.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Colder than . . . something.
*** continued from previous post ***
It was then that I noticed that the nylon bag I had strapped down so well had slipped sideways and was now, to put it delicately, dribbling off the side of the trunk. It was a pathetic sight.
As you know, I am nothing if not tenacious, so after a couple of hours, some blood, some cursing, and a promise to the Elder Gods to finally complete my application to Miskatonic University, (Cthulhu makes a bitchin' mascot! Take that Jersey Devils!), I had managed to put everything in order. Mostly. Which was good, because I was exhausted and our departure tomorrow would dawn bright and early. It was time to get some rest.
In our attention to detail I thought we were prepared for any contingency. HA! The Fates, God, The Universe . . . whomever is pulling the strings on this sideshow we call life just loves that kind of crap. Gives them a target. Bastards. But I'm not bitter. Well . . . yes I am, but it has nothing to do with this trip.
Mostly.
* * *
After a good night's sleep and a hearty pot of coffee, Mom and I, chipper as a cheer-leading squad on ecstasy, stepped out to greet the day and embark on our grand adventure. Oh the excitement! Is there anything more wonderful than starting out on a journey that you've been planning for months and months and months? There probably is, but I'm not going to ruin the moment by speculation. We were giddy, let's leave it at that.
Now as we stepped out the door the first thing we noticed was that it was cold. I mean really cold. Not just 'cold in relation to August', but cold as in . . . well, just cold. It was 51 degrees. Cloudy. Misting. Bone-chilling. Welcome to summer in the Pacific Northwest! As any true native Puget Sounder can tell you, summer begins on July 5th and ends the 8th of August. Then boom! Back again after Labor Day for 2 weeks. I think that those two weeks are strictly to mess with the minds of the kids who've had to go back to school. I remember, as a child, going to class on the first day of the fall semester, wearing my new coat and winter clothes because, "school starts in the fall', and immediately dieing because it was 80 flippin' degrees. Each year I vowed that next year I would do it differently. But, that first day of school would find me once again sporting a parka with sweat stains in the pits and suffering from heat exhaustion. Who needs kidneys anyway? Internal organs, in my opinion, are completely over-rated. Ah, good times . . . good times.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
It was then that I noticed that the nylon bag I had strapped down so well had slipped sideways and was now, to put it delicately, dribbling off the side of the trunk. It was a pathetic sight.
As you know, I am nothing if not tenacious, so after a couple of hours, some blood, some cursing, and a promise to the Elder Gods to finally complete my application to Miskatonic University, (Cthulhu makes a bitchin' mascot! Take that Jersey Devils!), I had managed to put everything in order. Mostly. Which was good, because I was exhausted and our departure tomorrow would dawn bright and early. It was time to get some rest.
In our attention to detail I thought we were prepared for any contingency. HA! The Fates, God, The Universe . . . whomever is pulling the strings on this sideshow we call life just loves that kind of crap. Gives them a target. Bastards. But I'm not bitter. Well . . . yes I am, but it has nothing to do with this trip.
Mostly.
* * *
After a good night's sleep and a hearty pot of coffee, Mom and I, chipper as a cheer-leading squad on ecstasy, stepped out to greet the day and embark on our grand adventure. Oh the excitement! Is there anything more wonderful than starting out on a journey that you've been planning for months and months and months? There probably is, but I'm not going to ruin the moment by speculation. We were giddy, let's leave it at that.
Now as we stepped out the door the first thing we noticed was that it was cold. I mean really cold. Not just 'cold in relation to August', but cold as in . . . well, just cold. It was 51 degrees. Cloudy. Misting. Bone-chilling. Welcome to summer in the Pacific Northwest! As any true native Puget Sounder can tell you, summer begins on July 5th and ends the 8th of August. Then boom! Back again after Labor Day for 2 weeks. I think that those two weeks are strictly to mess with the minds of the kids who've had to go back to school. I remember, as a child, going to class on the first day of the fall semester, wearing my new coat and winter clothes because, "school starts in the fall', and immediately dieing because it was 80 flippin' degrees. Each year I vowed that next year I would do it differently. But, that first day of school would find me once again sporting a parka with sweat stains in the pits and suffering from heat exhaustion. Who needs kidneys anyway? Internal organs, in my opinion, are completely over-rated. Ah, good times . . . good times.
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
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
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
Monday, October 4, 2010
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
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
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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
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
Friday, September 24, 2010
Leather is not Ookie
*** continued from previous post ***
"I don't think that we can put a piece of luggage on the bike that comes from a sporting goods store. It's not that I mind, you understand, but I believe it's a law. And not a State law, but a Federal law with long prison terms and vicious consequences. And at the end of the day a guy named "Bubba", if you know what I mean."
"Yeah. I'm not buying that. I'm sure we can find a duffel bag, or nylon sack of some kind."
"But. . .", I stammer, "that will look . . ."
"Yes?" she asks.
"Well, it would look . . . ookie."
"Really?", she says and places one hand firmly on her hip. "This from the man that put neon green light-up valve stem caps on the bike tires because, and I quote, "It looked real purty at night?"
Your Mother is a worthy adversary. Touche' woman, touche'.
Time to change tack. Brimming with confidence that we would find nothing suitable at the Sporting goods store, I offered the enthusiasm of someone convinced that the other is completely, and totally wrong, but more than willing to let them find out on their own and still look good for my steadfast unconditional support. "You have a point. I'm sure we can find something that will work. You ready to go now?"
Mom looks about the room. I know what she's up to - she's looking to make sure she has everything she needs. I would like to assure her that third-world armies are less well supplied but I refrain because I really would like this to be a good vacation. Besides, the real battle will come later when we actually pack the bike. "Seems like I'm forgetting something. . ." She studies the piles and hesitantly prods the mountain of items closest to her with a tentative toe, much like one would do should they stumble across a body in the woods and a pointy stick is nary to be found. "Well, whatever it is I'm sure it will come to me. Yeah, let's go."
So, it's a jump in the truck and off to the Sporting Goods store we go! This will be fun! I love field trips!
*** the journey continues tomorrow
"I don't think that we can put a piece of luggage on the bike that comes from a sporting goods store. It's not that I mind, you understand, but I believe it's a law. And not a State law, but a Federal law with long prison terms and vicious consequences. And at the end of the day a guy named "Bubba", if you know what I mean."
"Yeah. I'm not buying that. I'm sure we can find a duffel bag, or nylon sack of some kind."
"But. . .", I stammer, "that will look . . ."
"Yes?" she asks.
"Well, it would look . . . ookie."
"Really?", she says and places one hand firmly on her hip. "This from the man that put neon green light-up valve stem caps on the bike tires because, and I quote, "It looked real purty at night?"
Your Mother is a worthy adversary. Touche' woman, touche'.
Time to change tack. Brimming with confidence that we would find nothing suitable at the Sporting goods store, I offered the enthusiasm of someone convinced that the other is completely, and totally wrong, but more than willing to let them find out on their own and still look good for my steadfast unconditional support. "You have a point. I'm sure we can find something that will work. You ready to go now?"
Mom looks about the room. I know what she's up to - she's looking to make sure she has everything she needs. I would like to assure her that third-world armies are less well supplied but I refrain because I really would like this to be a good vacation. Besides, the real battle will come later when we actually pack the bike. "Seems like I'm forgetting something. . ." She studies the piles and hesitantly prods the mountain of items closest to her with a tentative toe, much like one would do should they stumble across a body in the woods and a pointy stick is nary to be found. "Well, whatever it is I'm sure it will come to me. Yeah, let's go."
So, it's a jump in the truck and off to the Sporting Goods store we go! This will be fun! I love field trips!
*** the journey continues tomorrow
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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.
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
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
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Chapter 1
The Journey Begins . . . Sort of
Since you've forsaken us and left us to wander alone in our twilight years while you're off getting all Navy-a-pated - we did what most 'recently elderly' people do and bought a new motorcycle. She's a 2008 Victory Vision. This beauty is like nothing you've ever seen. I tell you the styling on this bike is revolutionary. She is an ode to art deco. She is a sonnet of line and form and function with a bass note of devil-may-care intensity. Cherry Red. 106 cc's and 96 hp. Cruise control. Stereo. GPS. Heated seats. Heated hand-grips. Electric adjustable windshield. Enough computer chips to build a robot.
I admit, I'm smitten. I may, if pressed, leave your Mother for this bike - she's just that hot. Not that your Mother isn't hot - she is. But Mom doesn't cruise from 0 to 60 in 4.5 seconds unless she's mistaken the caffeine pills for breath-mints again. How best to sum up the Vision? She's a big-ass Buck Rodger's lookin' rocket-ship that raises more eyebrows than a beauty-pageant contestant explaining the nuances of quantum physics. Yeah, that about covers it. Needless to say, the brand-lemming bar-hopping motorcycle fashion crowd gives us a wide berth. Evidently, and unbeknownst to us, it's entirely possible the Vision is a virus that may infect chrome. But you know us. You know how we are when it comes to other people's opinions . . . we could not care less. Oh yeah - we're rebels. We're trend-setters. We just roll like that. Plus, we're tired of sore butts and cold hands. And cold butts. And sore hands. Our new baby is a plush recliner on wheels that corners so well and accelerates so quickly it should come equipped with an extra pair of undies and an insurance policy as standard equipment. Zoooommmmmm!!!!!
So, what do you do when you have a big honkin' bike? Isn't it obvious? You take a big honkin' trip. And that's exactly what we intended to do. Go bust some blacktop, you know? Shred some twisties. Run afoul of the law if possible. Oh, the wild yonder called to us, begging us to explore, to investigate, to conquer its mysteries. You don't keep a thoroughbred locked in the barn, do you? Same with the Victory Vision. She may look like a cover-girl model but our baby is no 'garage queen'. She's a debutante born to tour the world. The open road is her life-blood. She is an artist of speed and g-force with the countryside her canvas.
Did I mention I love this bike? But where to go? That was the real question. A relaxed weekend on the coast? A nice day-long drive through the Cascades? An over-nighter down on the Columbia River Gorge?
Silly, silly Amber. This is us - these are your parental units of which we speak. Short trips are for the weak and feeble. Anything less than 300 miles a day is for sissies. We had the time. We had the equipment. We lacked common sense. All the cards were falling into place. This was our chance to really test the legs of the bike as well as our endurance. Possibly our marriage of thirty years, but that would come later. So, in the fevered optimism that is our 'reason d'etre', we decided that a 2500 mile, week long motorcycle excursion to the Canadian Rockies, and Banff National Park in particular, on a big-ass spaceship-styled road-eating motorcycle seemed like a good idea.
No, that's not quite right. This trip seemed like a GREAT idea.
Protip: Pay particular attention to the word "seemed". Funny word that. All kinds of interesting connotations.
No, that's not quite right. This trip seemed like a GREAT idea.
Protip: Pay particular attention to the word "seemed". Funny word that. All kinds of interesting connotations.
*** continued tomorrow
Monday, March 16, 2009
Finally after all this time, the puzzle is complete!
Back on April 29th, 2008, I did a post called Motorcycle Puzzle has whole family puzzled.
Motorcycle Scramble Squares not in order
My 13 year old daughter had a friend over this last weekend for a sleep over, and one of the things they accomplished was completing this puzzle that no one has done until now. We've had it for over two years.
I just had to post it for the record.
Motorcycle Scramble Squares in order!
Motorcycle Scramble Squares not in order
My 13 year old daughter had a friend over this last weekend for a sleep over, and one of the things they accomplished was completing this puzzle that no one has done until now. We've had it for over two years.
I just had to post it for the record.
Motorcycle Scramble Squares in order!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Been gone for awhile
Sorry about my absenteism on my comments last week, but I was on the North Shore on a camping trip with the wife and kids, and no computer service up there.
I brought back some pictures to share.
Cool lighthouse
Split Rock Lighthouse
Gooseberry Falls running with high fast water
More Gooseberry Falls
North Shore in the Gun Flint
North Shore in the Gun Flint
I collect knives, So I had to bring home this souveneir!
I checked my google reader. Over 100 and some blog posts unread!
I'll never get caught up!
Nice to be back.
I brought back some pictures to share.
Cool lighthouse
Split Rock Lighthouse
Gooseberry Falls running with high fast water
More Gooseberry Falls
North Shore in the Gun Flint
North Shore in the Gun Flint
I collect knives, So I had to bring home this souveneir!
I checked my google reader. Over 100 and some blog posts unread!
I'll never get caught up!
Nice to be back.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Motorcycle Puzzle has whole family puzzled.
When My family and I went to Glacier National Park for a family vacation, I was really bummed out that I did not have my motorcycle with me, as it would have been a beautifull ride. That is another post all together.
We did get a souvineer called scramble squares. It consists of 9 square cardboard puzzle pieces that make a perfect square when assembled together. All 9 pieces are the exact same square shape, just the picture is different. The object is to line up all nine pieces so the pictures all match up. It comes with no photo of it completed, so it is truly mind boggling.
I know it can be done, because we saw it put together at the gift shop. That was the only time it has been together. We've all tried but to no avail.
Of course the puzzle I bought was of motorcycles.
I took a picture below.
It is not together properly in my photo of course.
Everytime we think we got it together, we realize we are off a piece or two.
Gaaah!
P.S.
Anyone interested, should click on the picture to expand it to full size, copy and paste it, and print it out, and cut out the pieces to make your own puzzle. Then try to solve the puzzle. Be prepared to waste some serious time trying, as the hardest most frustrating part is you have no idea where the correct starting pieces are, etc.
If any one does solve the puzzle, PLEASE take a picture, and e-mail it to me. I want proof, and I'll post it on my site. Also I want it for myself so I can cheat and put my own puzzle together.
Good luck!
Mr. Motorcycle
We did get a souvineer called scramble squares. It consists of 9 square cardboard puzzle pieces that make a perfect square when assembled together. All 9 pieces are the exact same square shape, just the picture is different. The object is to line up all nine pieces so the pictures all match up. It comes with no photo of it completed, so it is truly mind boggling.
I know it can be done, because we saw it put together at the gift shop. That was the only time it has been together. We've all tried but to no avail.
Of course the puzzle I bought was of motorcycles.
I took a picture below.
It is not together properly in my photo of course.
Everytime we think we got it together, we realize we are off a piece or two.
Gaaah!
P.S.
Anyone interested, should click on the picture to expand it to full size, copy and paste it, and print it out, and cut out the pieces to make your own puzzle. Then try to solve the puzzle. Be prepared to waste some serious time trying, as the hardest most frustrating part is you have no idea where the correct starting pieces are, etc.
If any one does solve the puzzle, PLEASE take a picture, and e-mail it to me. I want proof, and I'll post it on my site. Also I want it for myself so I can cheat and put my own puzzle together.
Good luck!
Mr. Motorcycle
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