They Clone Vikings Don't They?

*** continued from previous post ***


Now I know what I wrote earlier about driving on gravel. I had driven the Vision on gravel in the past, and while it is tricky, it can be done if the gravel is packed hard and there aren't too many pot-holes or soft spots. You don't want to hit a soft patch with the front tire of a bike. It has a tendency to dig in and not want to move. Yet, our friend inertia, and the back of the bike, will have none of that. So best to avoid the situation entirely.

But if all was well you could put the baby at a constant speed of 15 to 40 miles an hour - depending on conditions, easy on the brakes and easy on the throttle, with a very light touch for steering and you should be fine. 'Should be' being the operative words. Yet it's edging towards dark, it's been raining for days, and your Mother, bless her soul, is delusional. Possibly – although I have no proof - possessed.

"What's a Nordic Centre," I ask.

"I have no idea, but it really doesn't matter."

"You think that's where they herd Scandinavians to keep an eye on them?"

"No. I think it probably has something to do with the 1988 Winter Olympics."

I stroke my chin in contemplation. Which is ridiculous, because I'm wearing a helmet so it looks as though I'm trying to get bugs off my face plate in a slow, drunken motion. Suddenly an image of countless tall, blonde people that we’ve encountered since crossing the border fills my mind.

"Could be, could be. But these Canadians are a wily bunch. They may be trying to clone Vikings. How would you like that? Herds of Vikings pouring south across the border, downloading music illegally. Sharing files. Littering."

Mom pounded her gloved fist on the side of her helmet. "They are not cloning Vikings!"

"But," I add, "at least they would be polite Vikings. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to be pillaged and raped, I want to be treated with a little respect."

It's then that I notice that your Mother had developed a nasty - and by no means attractive - eye tic. Perhaps I should leave this line of speculation for another time.

"Come on babe," I say, "let's have a look at that map she drew for you."

Mom held the sheet of paper out to me, and before I could grasp it and take a gander, the ratio of water to paper became too much. It disintegrated like a ball of toilet paper in the tree of a cranky old fart that one day pushed the neighborhood kids too far.

I heard God laugh. I kid you not.

Turns out, it wasn’t God. It was just your mother sobbing.

*** the journey continues ***