*** continued from previous post ***
"What are we going to do?" she asks, but it's not really a question. What she REALLY said was, I can't believe you didn't check this out and now here we are exhausted, wet, cold, and with no place to stay and we've forfeited a bunch of money because you're an idiot and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!
I panic. The ball is squarely in my court. I am, as our illustrious President Bush had said, the decider. I got us into this mess, and it's up to me to get us out. Silly woman trusting me. She should know better than that. I thought that I could use this line of logic to put the blame on her, and then realized there were other things in life I wanted to experience. A Canadian Hospital was not one of them. I was in the pit of despair, then - BOOM - another flash of inspiration!
"Okay, here's what we will do. We've come this far, let's give it a shot." And then, because I haven't made enough mistakes, I add, quite casually the most damning statement that I've ever uttered in my life. "Worse comes to worse, we will just turn around, find a motel, and try to get our money back tomorrow. I'm sure they'll understand if we cannot physically get to the Lodge."
I can see Mom weigh the options in her mind. On one hand, she could go along with this scheme. On the other hand, she could trick me into taking my helmet off and hit me in the head with her friend, the rock, and try to claim that I'd run away. I can see in her eyes that at this point it's a coin toss.
"Fine. You want to try it, we’ll try it. The lady inside gave me directions. She said about 5 miles out of town, beyond the Nordic Centre, is where the gravel starts. I asked her if the road was good, and she said "Well, good for a car. It's hard-packed. I don't know how it would be on a motorcycle and honestly I haven't been up there in years." Her eyes pierce me like an ice-pick in peanut butter. "That was a direct quote."
I become distracted by the ‘Nordic Center’, but shake the thought out of my head. I have more important matters to contemplate.
*** the journey continues ***
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Canada. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Canada. Tampilkan semua postingan
Rabu, 23 Februari 2011
Senin, 21 Februari 2011
In The Mountains of Madness
*** the journey continues ***
I can feel something building in your Mom. Something dark and disquieting. Something powerful and ominous and thoroughly unpleasant.
"Oh for God's sake. This is ridiculous.” She punched me on the shoulder but there was little enthusiasm in the act. “I saw a sign a bit down the highway for an ‘Information and Tourist Centre’. Let's just head over there, I'll go inside and I'll get directions."
This was the best idea that I'd heard all day. "Suz," I say, "you my dear are absolutely brilliant! No wonder I love you so much!"
She looks at me. Or maybe through me. "Sure. Whatever." She casts a weary eye about our surroundings, "Let's just get to the Lodge."
With the optimism that can only be mustered by the seriously mentally ill, we wheel the bike around and in a few minutes are pulling into the parking lot of the Information Centre to get the low-down on all things touristy. I don't even mind that the place is spelled all Frenchy.
"Tell you what," Mom says as she pulls off her helmet, "you stay here with the bike and I'll just pop in. I'll be back in a jiffy."
I think this has less to do with saving time, and more about having a short break from me, but I'm smart enough not to press the issue. "That would be grand sweetie. Thank you."
She heads off towards the building. Slightly shuffling, shoulders hunched. The day has certainly taken its toll. But I'm positive this will soon be just a memory that we can laugh about later.
I'm sure I make a sight, sitting in the parking lot in the pouring rain on a weird shaped bike, arguing with a GPS, but I could not care less. Any modesty had been beaten out of me long, long ago. Just for giggles I plug the PO Box into Sweet Alice. To my surprise, it actually registers on the screen! Although it is obviously wrong, because it shows the location up in the mountains where there are no roads. Yet, I'm encouraged that the Lodge is around here somewhere and not an internet scam as I was beginning to suspect.
The minutes tick by. And tick. Then tock. And eventually they drag on and there is no sign of your mother. I'm actually beginning to get worried. What if my premonitions were right, but I had the wrong Tourist Centre? What, if at the very moment, my loving wife of 28 years was being all molestered by cannibals? Canadian cannibals at that?
Right then and there I began to hate Canada.
*** the journey continues ***
I can feel something building in your Mom. Something dark and disquieting. Something powerful and ominous and thoroughly unpleasant.
"Oh for God's sake. This is ridiculous.” She punched me on the shoulder but there was little enthusiasm in the act. “I saw a sign a bit down the highway for an ‘Information and Tourist Centre’. Let's just head over there, I'll go inside and I'll get directions."
This was the best idea that I'd heard all day. "Suz," I say, "you my dear are absolutely brilliant! No wonder I love you so much!"
She looks at me. Or maybe through me. "Sure. Whatever." She casts a weary eye about our surroundings, "Let's just get to the Lodge."
With the optimism that can only be mustered by the seriously mentally ill, we wheel the bike around and in a few minutes are pulling into the parking lot of the Information Centre to get the low-down on all things touristy. I don't even mind that the place is spelled all Frenchy.
"Tell you what," Mom says as she pulls off her helmet, "you stay here with the bike and I'll just pop in. I'll be back in a jiffy."
I think this has less to do with saving time, and more about having a short break from me, but I'm smart enough not to press the issue. "That would be grand sweetie. Thank you."
She heads off towards the building. Slightly shuffling, shoulders hunched. The day has certainly taken its toll. But I'm positive this will soon be just a memory that we can laugh about later.
I'm sure I make a sight, sitting in the parking lot in the pouring rain on a weird shaped bike, arguing with a GPS, but I could not care less. Any modesty had been beaten out of me long, long ago. Just for giggles I plug the PO Box into Sweet Alice. To my surprise, it actually registers on the screen! Although it is obviously wrong, because it shows the location up in the mountains where there are no roads. Yet, I'm encouraged that the Lodge is around here somewhere and not an internet scam as I was beginning to suspect.
The minutes tick by. And tick. Then tock. And eventually they drag on and there is no sign of your mother. I'm actually beginning to get worried. What if my premonitions were right, but I had the wrong Tourist Centre? What, if at the very moment, my loving wife of 28 years was being all molestered by cannibals? Canadian cannibals at that?
Right then and there I began to hate Canada.
*** the journey continues ***
Selasa, 15 Februari 2011
It's Never Too Early To Suck Up To Our Eventual Robotic Overlords - All Hail Klatu 9!
*** continued from previous post ***
I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."
Uh oh.
Ever so quietly, barely audible, I hear the sultry Aussie voice of the GPS whisper "Your not gonna find it Mate. Take my advice, turn around."
"Shut up," I mutter, now frantically pressing the scroll buttons hoping beyond hope that I had somehow missed the listing.
"Game oveh. Yer screwed. I suggest suicide," purrs my digital Sweet Alice.
I lean close to the screen, "Shut the hell up before I rip you out by your wires and chuck you into the ditch."
"Who are you talking to?", Mom asks.
"Nobody," I reply, a bit more harshly than I intended.
Like syrup being poured from a bottle, the GPS whispers, "Tell you what Mate. How 'bout if'n I direct you to the nearest Hospital 'cause yer gonna need one inna minute."
Mom leans forward. "Are you strangling the GPS?"
I look to my hands. Unconsciously, they've gravitated towards the GPS and are now engaged in some serious squeezing. "Umm . . . no. I think there's a loose wire, I was just trying to fix it."
Even through the rain and the helmets I can hear your Mom sigh.
“Strangling a helpless piece of technology. You've gone round the bend, eh? Toys in the attic and all that? You f'ed it up right good now, ain't ya?", whispers my sweet Aussie princess.
I may have started to weep. I don't know. Suddenly inspiration strikes!
"Suz! We have the confirmation email in the saddle bag. The address and phone number are on there. I'll just plug the address directly into the GPS and whoopsie-doodles, we will be there in a flash!"
Ha Ha! Take that you commie-pinko GPS! Your taunts mean nothing now! I've beaten you at your game for I am an AMERICAN! I am from THE STATES! Our kind created you, and our kind will destroy you at will! Well, until the eventual takeover by our Robotic Overloads. Which we all know is a given. All hail Klatu 9!
*** the journey continues ***
I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."
Uh oh.
Ever so quietly, barely audible, I hear the sultry Aussie voice of the GPS whisper "Your not gonna find it Mate. Take my advice, turn around."
"Shut up," I mutter, now frantically pressing the scroll buttons hoping beyond hope that I had somehow missed the listing.
"Game oveh. Yer screwed. I suggest suicide," purrs my digital Sweet Alice.
I lean close to the screen, "Shut the hell up before I rip you out by your wires and chuck you into the ditch."
"Who are you talking to?", Mom asks.
"Nobody," I reply, a bit more harshly than I intended.
Like syrup being poured from a bottle, the GPS whispers, "Tell you what Mate. How 'bout if'n I direct you to the nearest Hospital 'cause yer gonna need one inna minute."
Mom leans forward. "Are you strangling the GPS?"
I look to my hands. Unconsciously, they've gravitated towards the GPS and are now engaged in some serious squeezing. "Umm . . . no. I think there's a loose wire, I was just trying to fix it."
Even through the rain and the helmets I can hear your Mom sigh.
“Strangling a helpless piece of technology. You've gone round the bend, eh? Toys in the attic and all that? You f'ed it up right good now, ain't ya?", whispers my sweet Aussie princess.
I may have started to weep. I don't know. Suddenly inspiration strikes!
"Suz! We have the confirmation email in the saddle bag. The address and phone number are on there. I'll just plug the address directly into the GPS and whoopsie-doodles, we will be there in a flash!"
Ha Ha! Take that you commie-pinko GPS! Your taunts mean nothing now! I've beaten you at your game for I am an AMERICAN! I am from THE STATES! Our kind created you, and our kind will destroy you at will! Well, until the eventual takeover by our Robotic Overloads. Which we all know is a given. All hail Klatu 9!
*** the journey continues ***
Senin, 14 Februari 2011
There May Be Trouble Brewing On The Home Front
*** continued from previous post ***
We rolled through the city limits of Carnack, (motto: Hey! You just drove through Banff at insane speeds! Well done! Enjoy your stay! Bye!"), and Mom, in her ever inquisitive, and I must admit that at this point in the day, somewhat annoying voice, leans forward on the bike and asks, "Thank God. I'm beat. So, where exactly is this place?"
Hmmmmm . . . that's a really good question. As a man is want to do, I supply an answer, even if it is less than helpful. "It's in Carnack."
She doesn't hesitate, she just pulls back and bitch-slaps the back of my helmet. Hard.
"Oh," I say, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "You mean the address. Well tell you what, we will find a parking lot, I'll consult Sweet Alice, (how I long to hear her sultry Aussie voice!), and I'll have you warm, dry, and dozing peacefully in half an hour. Hour tops."
"Okay," she says, but I can hear the suspicion thick in her voice as she answers, much like the subtext in the voice of a film-noire' gumshoe grilling his prime suspect. And not the hot girlfriend suspect. The ugly thug suspect.
With all haste I find an empty parking lot, shut down the bike, and pray that the oracle of the GPS will save us.
I bring up the map on the touch screen. Sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed. We are in Canada. More importantly, we are in Carnack. I punch the button for "Local Attractions", then "Amenities", then the sub-menu for "Hotels". An alphabetical list of all the wonderful places to stay in this paradise are displayed crisply and precisely on the screen. "Here we go," I say with confidence, "I'll just scroll down and find. . ."
Well that's curious. There is no "Hidden Valley Lodge" on the list. I don't panic, because I know it will be listed under "Lodge, Hidden Valley". I chuckle at my mistake and Mom returns a hopeful, yet weary smile. The rain is dripping down the side of her helmet, resembling - although I would never tell her this - a garden fountain gone bad.
I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."
Uh oh.
*** the journey continues ***
We rolled through the city limits of Carnack, (motto: Hey! You just drove through Banff at insane speeds! Well done! Enjoy your stay! Bye!"), and Mom, in her ever inquisitive, and I must admit that at this point in the day, somewhat annoying voice, leans forward on the bike and asks, "Thank God. I'm beat. So, where exactly is this place?"
Hmmmmm . . . that's a really good question. As a man is want to do, I supply an answer, even if it is less than helpful. "It's in Carnack."
She doesn't hesitate, she just pulls back and bitch-slaps the back of my helmet. Hard.
"Oh," I say, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "You mean the address. Well tell you what, we will find a parking lot, I'll consult Sweet Alice, (how I long to hear her sultry Aussie voice!), and I'll have you warm, dry, and dozing peacefully in half an hour. Hour tops."
"Okay," she says, but I can hear the suspicion thick in her voice as she answers, much like the subtext in the voice of a film-noire' gumshoe grilling his prime suspect. And not the hot girlfriend suspect. The ugly thug suspect.
With all haste I find an empty parking lot, shut down the bike, and pray that the oracle of the GPS will save us.
I bring up the map on the touch screen. Sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed. We are in Canada. More importantly, we are in Carnack. I punch the button for "Local Attractions", then "Amenities", then the sub-menu for "Hotels". An alphabetical list of all the wonderful places to stay in this paradise are displayed crisply and precisely on the screen. "Here we go," I say with confidence, "I'll just scroll down and find. . ."
Well that's curious. There is no "Hidden Valley Lodge" on the list. I don't panic, because I know it will be listed under "Lodge, Hidden Valley". I chuckle at my mistake and Mom returns a hopeful, yet weary smile. The rain is dripping down the side of her helmet, resembling - although I would never tell her this - a garden fountain gone bad.
I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."
Uh oh.
*** the journey continues ***
Senin, 07 Februari 2011
A Non-Refundable Deposit Is A Harsh Mistress
*** continued from previous post ***
On reaching the bathroom the pressure of having to pee increased ten-fold because - well because I was near a toilet. See my bladder, in anticipation, was about 6 steps ahead of my body. I tried to explain that I had 57 frickin' layers of clothing on, and that it would take me a few minutes to disrobe, but my bladder was having none of it. So I hurriedly, and I do mean hurriedly, stripped off as many layers as possible while crossing my legs and bouncing up and down in the stall.
I will not go into details, but you can ask any man and he will agree, that one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a much needed pee. I know it's not the same for women. But for men? If you could bottle that feeling or put it in pill you could make millions.
Success! Having accomplished my mission, I struggled for the next 10 minutes trying to re-layer. I may have once again put the top of my Frogg-Toggs on my legs but I don't know. The euphoria of warmth, and dryness, and an empty bladder all blended into one magical blur and before I knew it I was back out in the great hall looking for your Mom.
I finally found her standing outside like the trooper she is, ready to get back on the bike. I was relieved to see that she hadn't been eaten.
"Where," I asked her, "did all those frickin' people come from?"
"Well, I overheard some of the women talking. Evidently there was a tour bus, or maybe three, that dropped them off here and they were waiting for another one to pick them up."
I wondered, was this a habit of the Canadian Tourism Industry to randomly abandon the elderly at Tourist Centers? You couldn't blame them. Old people can be a real pain in the keester with all the "I'm tired" and "I'm hungry" and "Dear God George isn't breathing!" It just never stops.
"Come on," Mom said, "time to hit the trail."
Against all common sense we saddled up and hit the wet, cold, misty road. Again. We were now so far behind schedule that it wasn't even funny. But the lodge beckoned. A non-refundable deposit is a harsh mistress.
*** the journey continues ***
On reaching the bathroom the pressure of having to pee increased ten-fold because - well because I was near a toilet. See my bladder, in anticipation, was about 6 steps ahead of my body. I tried to explain that I had 57 frickin' layers of clothing on, and that it would take me a few minutes to disrobe, but my bladder was having none of it. So I hurriedly, and I do mean hurriedly, stripped off as many layers as possible while crossing my legs and bouncing up and down in the stall.
I will not go into details, but you can ask any man and he will agree, that one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a much needed pee. I know it's not the same for women. But for men? If you could bottle that feeling or put it in pill you could make millions.
Success! Having accomplished my mission, I struggled for the next 10 minutes trying to re-layer. I may have once again put the top of my Frogg-Toggs on my legs but I don't know. The euphoria of warmth, and dryness, and an empty bladder all blended into one magical blur and before I knew it I was back out in the great hall looking for your Mom.
I finally found her standing outside like the trooper she is, ready to get back on the bike. I was relieved to see that she hadn't been eaten.
"Where," I asked her, "did all those frickin' people come from?"
"Well, I overheard some of the women talking. Evidently there was a tour bus, or maybe three, that dropped them off here and they were waiting for another one to pick them up."
I wondered, was this a habit of the Canadian Tourism Industry to randomly abandon the elderly at Tourist Centers? You couldn't blame them. Old people can be a real pain in the keester with all the "I'm tired" and "I'm hungry" and "Dear God George isn't breathing!" It just never stops.
"Come on," Mom said, "time to hit the trail."
Against all common sense we saddled up and hit the wet, cold, misty road. Again. We were now so far behind schedule that it wasn't even funny. But the lodge beckoned. A non-refundable deposit is a harsh mistress.
*** the journey continues ***
Rabu, 02 Februari 2011
For I Am From THE STATES!!!!!
*** continued from previous post ***
It's about this time that I come to my senses, and realize I'm wet. Wet and cold. Wet and cold and confused and not entirely convinced that we are not about to encounter cannibals. Don't let anyone ever tell you that hypothermia can't be fun. I wanted to curl up next to the bike, on the black tarmac of that wet parking lot, and take a nice long nap. Slip sweetly into the river of sleep to ride forever on dream currents of fancy. The only thing that stopped me was that nagging urge to pee. The human body is an amazing thing. All kinds of checks and balances.
So rather than drift into oblivion, I busied myself locking up the bike, getting my collapsible cane from the trunk, and making my own way towards the Centre which, although it is less than 200 yards away - or 7892 grams in Canadianeese - I can barely see through the rain and the fog and the mist. But I steel myself for I am from 'THE STATES' and will never give in, never give up, and never. . . ummm never . . . ummm . . . never go to bed without brushing my teeth.
Did I mention this place is big? Huge. As I approach the massive, wood framed double glass doors I see a family milling about the entry way. Milling is like loitering only with more hand gestures. The family consists of three kids - two adults. Or maybe two adults, two kids and an evil troll - I didn't get a good look. Concern is written on their face like talentless graffiti on a police car window. Have you ever watched a dog trying to cross a busy highway? That was them, trying to make a break for their vehicle between deluges and sprint for the car.
As I do the three-prong shuffle to the door they held each other close, the adults clutching their children's shoulder with the grip of a paranoid hawk. Evidently I was the deciding factor in their little dilemma. Right before I stepped up on the sidewalk they made a dash, flying past me with brochures touting "See Canada's Unspoiled Wilderness", and "Visit Lake Louise in Banff National Park", and "STDs The Canadian Way!" positioned over their heads like cub scout pup-tents.
Before you ask, I have no idea what's the difference between Canadian STDs and regular, good ol' USA STDs. I don't think the family picked them for their content as the publication was large enough to shelter at least two of the trolls.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
It's about this time that I come to my senses, and realize I'm wet. Wet and cold. Wet and cold and confused and not entirely convinced that we are not about to encounter cannibals. Don't let anyone ever tell you that hypothermia can't be fun. I wanted to curl up next to the bike, on the black tarmac of that wet parking lot, and take a nice long nap. Slip sweetly into the river of sleep to ride forever on dream currents of fancy. The only thing that stopped me was that nagging urge to pee. The human body is an amazing thing. All kinds of checks and balances.
So rather than drift into oblivion, I busied myself locking up the bike, getting my collapsible cane from the trunk, and making my own way towards the Centre which, although it is less than 200 yards away - or 7892 grams in Canadianeese - I can barely see through the rain and the fog and the mist. But I steel myself for I am from 'THE STATES' and will never give in, never give up, and never. . . ummm never . . . ummm . . . never go to bed without brushing my teeth.
Did I mention this place is big? Huge. As I approach the massive, wood framed double glass doors I see a family milling about the entry way. Milling is like loitering only with more hand gestures. The family consists of three kids - two adults. Or maybe two adults, two kids and an evil troll - I didn't get a good look. Concern is written on their face like talentless graffiti on a police car window. Have you ever watched a dog trying to cross a busy highway? That was them, trying to make a break for their vehicle between deluges and sprint for the car.
As I do the three-prong shuffle to the door they held each other close, the adults clutching their children's shoulder with the grip of a paranoid hawk. Evidently I was the deciding factor in their little dilemma. Right before I stepped up on the sidewalk they made a dash, flying past me with brochures touting "See Canada's Unspoiled Wilderness", and "Visit Lake Louise in Banff National Park", and "STDs The Canadian Way!" positioned over their heads like cub scout pup-tents.
Before you ask, I have no idea what's the difference between Canadian STDs and regular, good ol' USA STDs. I don't think the family picked them for their content as the publication was large enough to shelter at least two of the trolls.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Selasa, 01 Februari 2011
649 Liters Per Hour in the Rain. Again.
*** continued from previous post ***
So I closed my eyes and change lanes at 649 LPH. LPH. That's Liters Per Hour. Finally, I'm getting the hang of this Satanic measurement system. My eyes are closed because I'm not stupid. I don't want to see death coming. After a few seconds of leaning I figure I'm either in the right lane or on the shoulder about to plummet into a ditch. Either way we are coming to a stop, the question is how fast? You know how much I like surprises.
The gods were favoring us and I maneuvered safely to the right turn lane and gently braked to take the exit to the Centre. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn't realized how tired I was, or how much I needed to use the Loo until we were circling the building, looking for a parking spot.
This wasn't a rest area - no small port-o-potty for this place - it was a huge building with a parking lot that could accommodate more than a few large buses. However, only a few cars populated the stalls nearest the building and we had our choice of where to put the bike. I pulled into a slot a bit away from the other steaming vehicles. Mom hopped off the back the second the bike stopped moving. Evidently she wasn't kidding when she said she her need was urgent.
"Sorry. Come and meet me inside," she said, and sprinted in the direction of the door. Although 'sprinted' may be too strong of a word. She hadn't even stopped to take off her helmet. Which was probably a good thing, for now there was no rain - we were simply living in a lake with tiny air spaces between the water. How can I convey how she looked as she semi-bolted towards the rest room? Words fail me but I shall try my best. She looked large, bulbous, and sported a cherry-red helmet-shaped head. Layers of over-sized outerwear. Frogg-Toggs that look like a haz-mat suit, and a strange, strange waddle to her walk that I can't erase from my mind to this day.
I turn away. I can't look anymore. What have I done to the woman I love?
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
So I closed my eyes and change lanes at 649 LPH. LPH. That's Liters Per Hour. Finally, I'm getting the hang of this Satanic measurement system. My eyes are closed because I'm not stupid. I don't want to see death coming. After a few seconds of leaning I figure I'm either in the right lane or on the shoulder about to plummet into a ditch. Either way we are coming to a stop, the question is how fast? You know how much I like surprises.
The gods were favoring us and I maneuvered safely to the right turn lane and gently braked to take the exit to the Centre. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn't realized how tired I was, or how much I needed to use the Loo until we were circling the building, looking for a parking spot.
This wasn't a rest area - no small port-o-potty for this place - it was a huge building with a parking lot that could accommodate more than a few large buses. However, only a few cars populated the stalls nearest the building and we had our choice of where to put the bike. I pulled into a slot a bit away from the other steaming vehicles. Mom hopped off the back the second the bike stopped moving. Evidently she wasn't kidding when she said she her need was urgent.
"Sorry. Come and meet me inside," she said, and sprinted in the direction of the door. Although 'sprinted' may be too strong of a word. She hadn't even stopped to take off her helmet. Which was probably a good thing, for now there was no rain - we were simply living in a lake with tiny air spaces between the water. How can I convey how she looked as she semi-bolted towards the rest room? Words fail me but I shall try my best. She looked large, bulbous, and sported a cherry-red helmet-shaped head. Layers of over-sized outerwear. Frogg-Toggs that look like a haz-mat suit, and a strange, strange waddle to her walk that I can't erase from my mind to this day.
I turn away. I can't look anymore. What have I done to the woman I love?
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Senin, 31 Januari 2011
A Cannibalistic Canadian House of Horrors . . . . Or Not.
*** continued from previous post ***
Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.
Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.
In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.
I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."
I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.
Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.
In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.
I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."
I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Selasa, 11 Januari 2011
God Shuffled His Feet, And Looked Around
*** continued from previous post ***
He turns to the man standing beside him, and points to me with a hitch of his thumb. "This guy knows bikes." To which the crowd nods in agreement.
I would like to look at the scenery as we cross the lake, but my adoring fans will have none of that. I am now THE NICE BIKER FROM THE STATES. I sneak a quick glance here, a look over my shoulder at the far shore there. As the ride progresses there are two things that I DO notice however, and they are:
1. Your Mom is a now a celebrity.
2. Suddenly, it's getting dark. Very, very dark. And the water, which a few minutes before was as flat as a North Dakota ski resort, is now white-capped and slapping the sides of the boat.
Well isn't that curious, I think to myself before I'm dragged back into conversation.
"So tell me," one of my new-found friends asks, "after buying a bike like that, you must have ridden a Molokoi B-30. Right?"
You would think so," I say without missing a beat having not a clue as to what a Molokoi B-30 is, "but regrettably, I never had the chance."
"Really?" he asks, somewhat shocked. "They were all over the place in the late 70s and early 80s. Everybody rode one."
"Well, there you go." Hardly noticing, I brush a few raindrops off of my bald pate' with the sweep of a fingerless glove. "That would have been about the time I was with the crew in El Salvado - - -" I feign a look of utter shock, with an exaggerated motion, I bite my lip. I bow my head, and bang on my brow with my fist. "Whoopsie. Let's pretend I didn't say that, shall we?"
They all nod in agreement. I could have gone all Pirate on their asses and taken over the boat had I wanted, they were mine. You dodged one there, Canadian Maritime Fleet! But alas . . . as you have no doubt noticed, my quick wits and the ability to lie on the fly has painted me, yet again, into a bit of a corner.
I smile. All teeth and charm. I can't wait to hear what I'm going to say next.
Luckily, right at this particular moment, God intervenes. And as God is wont to do, takes a righteous whiz over the whole of creation.
And the rains . . . the rains they came a pouring down.
*** the journey continues on 11/17/2011 ***
He turns to the man standing beside him, and points to me with a hitch of his thumb. "This guy knows bikes." To which the crowd nods in agreement.
I would like to look at the scenery as we cross the lake, but my adoring fans will have none of that. I am now THE NICE BIKER FROM THE STATES. I sneak a quick glance here, a look over my shoulder at the far shore there. As the ride progresses there are two things that I DO notice however, and they are:
1. Your Mom is a now a celebrity.
2. Suddenly, it's getting dark. Very, very dark. And the water, which a few minutes before was as flat as a North Dakota ski resort, is now white-capped and slapping the sides of the boat.
Well isn't that curious, I think to myself before I'm dragged back into conversation.
"So tell me," one of my new-found friends asks, "after buying a bike like that, you must have ridden a Molokoi B-30. Right?"
You would think so," I say without missing a beat having not a clue as to what a Molokoi B-30 is, "but regrettably, I never had the chance."
"Really?" he asks, somewhat shocked. "They were all over the place in the late 70s and early 80s. Everybody rode one."
"Well, there you go." Hardly noticing, I brush a few raindrops off of my bald pate' with the sweep of a fingerless glove. "That would have been about the time I was with the crew in El Salvado - - -" I feign a look of utter shock, with an exaggerated motion, I bite my lip. I bow my head, and bang on my brow with my fist. "Whoopsie. Let's pretend I didn't say that, shall we?"
They all nod in agreement. I could have gone all Pirate on their asses and taken over the boat had I wanted, they were mine. You dodged one there, Canadian Maritime Fleet! But alas . . . as you have no doubt noticed, my quick wits and the ability to lie on the fly has painted me, yet again, into a bit of a corner.
I smile. All teeth and charm. I can't wait to hear what I'm going to say next.
Luckily, right at this particular moment, God intervenes. And as God is wont to do, takes a righteous whiz over the whole of creation.
And the rains . . . the rains they came a pouring down.
*** the journey continues on 11/17/2011 ***
Jumat, 07 Januari 2011
With Enough Speed I Could Make It
*** continued from previous post ***
Finally the line to board the boat begins to move. Slowly. Very slowly. So slow in fact that it made me contemplate if driving a 900,000 pound bike down an incredibly steep slope with Canadians fore and aft was really such a good idea. The brakes on the Vision are great . . . but man, did my legs wear out. I had to paddle that puppy most of the way.
Of course, the insanely steep hill bottoms out and then climbs up an INSANELY steep ramp up to the level of the boat. For a moment I want traffic ahead of me to clear so I can gun this baby. Catch some air. I think if I did it right, hit the angle of the ramp at just the right speed I could probably not kill us.
Probably.
We wait our turn and the Ferry-folk point us to where we should park the bike. The space they have allotted us is maddingly small, and they want me to pull so far ahead that the tire is almost touching the bulkhead. It is then that I notice something is amiss. Something is very, very wrong. The staff manning the Ferry are . . . well . . . there's no other way to put it - they're smiling. Smiling and friendly. Instantly my spidey-sense tingles. It's a trap of some sort, of that I'm sure. I've ridden enough ferries in my day to come to understand how ferry staff should behave. They do not smile. They do not make eye contact. They sigh a lot. They're armed. They have all the personality of a pit-bull PMSing. I tense - just exactly what is your game, Canada? What diabolical schemes do you have for the people from THE STATES? Will they eat us? Are we the 'afternoon tea' for this boatload of maple-leaf worshiping hockey sacks?
Turns out my fears were unfounded. They were just nice. I'm not used to that kind of crap. I find it unsettling.
So we park and mom debikes. Or disbikes. Or crawls off the frickin' thing. Take your pick.
Another motorcycle pulls up behind us. It's a Suzuki S-50. They used to call them 'Marauders', I think. It's quite a bit smaller than an 800cc Suzuki C-50 that you ride - a bullet-proof cruiser if ever there was one - but it is still a good solid bike none-the-less. The person riding it is a young woman, and we find that she is very sweet and very shy. We strike up a friendly conversation, and I can't stop thinking of how much she reminds me of you and how much I wish your sister and you were here with us.
*** the journey continues - stay tuned ***
Finally the line to board the boat begins to move. Slowly. Very slowly. So slow in fact that it made me contemplate if driving a 900,000 pound bike down an incredibly steep slope with Canadians fore and aft was really such a good idea. The brakes on the Vision are great . . . but man, did my legs wear out. I had to paddle that puppy most of the way.
Of course, the insanely steep hill bottoms out and then climbs up an INSANELY steep ramp up to the level of the boat. For a moment I want traffic ahead of me to clear so I can gun this baby. Catch some air. I think if I did it right, hit the angle of the ramp at just the right speed I could probably not kill us.
Probably.
We wait our turn and the Ferry-folk point us to where we should park the bike. The space they have allotted us is maddingly small, and they want me to pull so far ahead that the tire is almost touching the bulkhead. It is then that I notice something is amiss. Something is very, very wrong. The staff manning the Ferry are . . . well . . . there's no other way to put it - they're smiling. Smiling and friendly. Instantly my spidey-sense tingles. It's a trap of some sort, of that I'm sure. I've ridden enough ferries in my day to come to understand how ferry staff should behave. They do not smile. They do not make eye contact. They sigh a lot. They're armed. They have all the personality of a pit-bull PMSing. I tense - just exactly what is your game, Canada? What diabolical schemes do you have for the people from THE STATES? Will they eat us? Are we the 'afternoon tea' for this boatload of maple-leaf worshiping hockey sacks?
Turns out my fears were unfounded. They were just nice. I'm not used to that kind of crap. I find it unsettling.
So we park and mom debikes. Or disbikes. Or crawls off the frickin' thing. Take your pick.
Another motorcycle pulls up behind us. It's a Suzuki S-50. They used to call them 'Marauders', I think. It's quite a bit smaller than an 800cc Suzuki C-50 that you ride - a bullet-proof cruiser if ever there was one - but it is still a good solid bike none-the-less. The person riding it is a young woman, and we find that she is very sweet and very shy. We strike up a friendly conversation, and I can't stop thinking of how much she reminds me of you and how much I wish your sister and you were here with us.
*** the journey continues - stay tuned ***
Kamis, 06 Januari 2011
A Bevy of Beavers
*** continued from previous post ***
"The boat runs every half-hour. Or every hour." She pauses. "Or maybe hour-and-a-half." She shrugs. "It'll get here when it gets here." She looks at the long line of cars in front of us, and looks and the semi's backing up behind us. "Hope we all fit. It isn't a very big boat."
In my mind's eye I picture a smallish canoe with a Canadian Mountie in the bow, decked to the nines in his traditional uniform. The canoe powered by tame beavers. Now there's a thought: can you tame a beaver? That would ROCK! I would lash like six tame beavers to a rowboat and have them pull me around. Ah someday . . . the good life. What would you call a group of beavers? I think a bevy. A bevy of beavers. A bevy of beavers at my beck and call.
Damn I crack me up.
Mom and I prepare ourselves for a long, long delay. We hadn't figured this little escapade into our schedule, and although it is still early in the day I'm beginning to get a bit concerned about exactly what time we are going to arrive in Carnack, Alberta. We have Glacier and part of Banff National Parks to drive through, and although we will be on the Trans-Canada highway most of the time, I really, REALLY, want to get there before nightfall. For various reasons. Not the least of which is I promised your Mom.
Suddenly the girls let out a squeal. "Oh . . . there's the Ferry Grandma! It's coming!"
I look out into the brilliant blue water and am greeted with a pleasant surprise: There, skimming across the lake, gliding like a back-handed pimp-slap on a sweaty thug's face, is a ferry that looks like it will hold about 50 cars. Plenty of room. It's a one-deck, flat-bottomed craft with an elevated wheel-house off to the right side. Very old school, yet it looks fairly new. I notice it's hauling some serious ass in the water. It is, after all, staffed by the same speed-crazed maniacs that drive the roads around in these parts.
The Ferry is moving faster than even I had realized, and before you know it everyone has bidden adieu to their "line friends", crawled back into their vehicle, and started their engines. Mom and I hurriedly gear up, climb on the bike, and wait for the next phase of our adventure. But you know that odd feeling you get when you've been in line with someone and the conversation has run its course and then you realize that YOU'RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE SO YOU ARE GOING TO BE WITH THEM FOR A WHILE YET ONLY NOW IT'S AWKWARD BECAUSE YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY?
Yeah. That's how people were looking at us. Like they might just sit in their cars, pretending to be engrossed in what has become the most fascinating steering wheel they have ever seen, in order not to have to notice us standing outside their window. The Ferry, in all its glory, has no seating - no room at all really except for the deck which is now lousy with Canadians.
It takes a bit for the Ferry to unload. There are 18-wheelers. Campers. SUVs. Cars and delivery vans and trucks galore. We even get to see a small rear-end accident between a camper/trailer and a rental car as they exit the boat, so that's a bit of a spectacle. Really - you can't buy entertainment like that. We all slow and gawk as we board. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have giggled like a maniac at the people exchanging insurance information, but what's done is done. You can't put the cat back in the box. It does no good to close the barn door after the horse has run away. Unless you want to spite the horse in case it wanders back. But if you do that, you also need to reinforce that you are spiting the horse, because as you well know, subtlety is usually lost on an equine. It would probably be best to tape a sign to the barn door that reads "I'M LOCKING THE BARN DOOR SO YOU CAN'T GET BACK IN. SO --- FUCK OFF HORSE!".
Seriously, you can't be too blunt with a horse.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
"The boat runs every half-hour. Or every hour." She pauses. "Or maybe hour-and-a-half." She shrugs. "It'll get here when it gets here." She looks at the long line of cars in front of us, and looks and the semi's backing up behind us. "Hope we all fit. It isn't a very big boat."
In my mind's eye I picture a smallish canoe with a Canadian Mountie in the bow, decked to the nines in his traditional uniform. The canoe powered by tame beavers. Now there's a thought: can you tame a beaver? That would ROCK! I would lash like six tame beavers to a rowboat and have them pull me around. Ah someday . . . the good life. What would you call a group of beavers? I think a bevy. A bevy of beavers. A bevy of beavers at my beck and call.
Damn I crack me up.
Mom and I prepare ourselves for a long, long delay. We hadn't figured this little escapade into our schedule, and although it is still early in the day I'm beginning to get a bit concerned about exactly what time we are going to arrive in Carnack, Alberta. We have Glacier and part of Banff National Parks to drive through, and although we will be on the Trans-Canada highway most of the time, I really, REALLY, want to get there before nightfall. For various reasons. Not the least of which is I promised your Mom.
Suddenly the girls let out a squeal. "Oh . . . there's the Ferry Grandma! It's coming!"
I look out into the brilliant blue water and am greeted with a pleasant surprise: There, skimming across the lake, gliding like a back-handed pimp-slap on a sweaty thug's face, is a ferry that looks like it will hold about 50 cars. Plenty of room. It's a one-deck, flat-bottomed craft with an elevated wheel-house off to the right side. Very old school, yet it looks fairly new. I notice it's hauling some serious ass in the water. It is, after all, staffed by the same speed-crazed maniacs that drive the roads around in these parts.
The Ferry is moving faster than even I had realized, and before you know it everyone has bidden adieu to their "line friends", crawled back into their vehicle, and started their engines. Mom and I hurriedly gear up, climb on the bike, and wait for the next phase of our adventure. But you know that odd feeling you get when you've been in line with someone and the conversation has run its course and then you realize that YOU'RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE SO YOU ARE GOING TO BE WITH THEM FOR A WHILE YET ONLY NOW IT'S AWKWARD BECAUSE YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY?
Yeah. That's how people were looking at us. Like they might just sit in their cars, pretending to be engrossed in what has become the most fascinating steering wheel they have ever seen, in order not to have to notice us standing outside their window. The Ferry, in all its glory, has no seating - no room at all really except for the deck which is now lousy with Canadians.
It takes a bit for the Ferry to unload. There are 18-wheelers. Campers. SUVs. Cars and delivery vans and trucks galore. We even get to see a small rear-end accident between a camper/trailer and a rental car as they exit the boat, so that's a bit of a spectacle. Really - you can't buy entertainment like that. We all slow and gawk as we board. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have giggled like a maniac at the people exchanging insurance information, but what's done is done. You can't put the cat back in the box. It does no good to close the barn door after the horse has run away. Unless you want to spite the horse in case it wanders back. But if you do that, you also need to reinforce that you are spiting the horse, because as you well know, subtlety is usually lost on an equine. It would probably be best to tape a sign to the barn door that reads "I'M LOCKING THE BARN DOOR SO YOU CAN'T GET BACK IN. SO --- FUCK OFF HORSE!".
Seriously, you can't be too blunt with a horse.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Rabu, 05 Januari 2011
Motorcycles, Spontaneous Combustion and the 'Pfffftttt' Years
*** continued from previous post ***
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
Of course, as is normal, she then proceeds to tell us every horror story in her repertoire associated with a motorcycle. It's mandatory you know. When people do this, all I hear is the line from 'Christmas Story', "You'll put your eye out with that!" Evidently, she had known many a good man that had, through no fault of their own, spontaneously combusted while riding a motorcycle. But not before their legs were ripped off by vicious moles. And their arms, well, they simply fell off. Fell like over-ripe plums in a summer breeze. Not really a reason for the arm thing other than they were on a bike. She never came out and said it, but strongly implied that what else could one expect from such a lifestyle?
Once she finishes with her itemization of accidents, deaths, severed limbs, halitosis and chronic constipation, we strike up a proper conversation. She's Native American. Although in Canada, "Indians", as they are sometimes referred to by the less educated, are called "Carl". No wait . . . that's not right. They are referred to as "First Nation People". Although she calls herself an Indian. And maybe Carl. The sociological structure of Canada is highly confusing to me.
She looks at our license plates. "Oh, you're from THE STATES!"
Yes. Yes we are. And we are not armed. Probably. Mostly.
We continue talking. We learn that she and her granddaughters, who are now running back up the hill - at a pace that makes me want to sweat or puke, I can't decide - have been camping for the last week with their extended family at an annual reunion. I think she said there were 60 or 70 people at this particular gathering. I'm impressed. I could barely manage the 11 of us in Winthrop. For three days. I give her a silent, "Well done good lady, well done."
The girls have now joined us. Sweeties. Probably 10 and 12 or 13, but not in that stage of what I fondly refer to as the "Pfffffttttttt" years. As in, whenever you ask a question of a child in this stage of development, you get the same answer. "How was school today?" Answer: "Pfffffftttttttt." "Would you like some toast?" "Pffffffffttttttttt." "Shall I kill you with a brick, or would you prefer to be dumped by the side of the road to be ravaged by a homicidal UPS driver with a speech impediment?" "Pffffffttttttt."
We chatter away. Time passes. Seasons change.
I ask Carl how often the boat runs, and how much it costs.
"Oh, it doesn't cost anything. There's no roads up here you see. No way to get across the lake. So the government has to provide some way across, and there's no way they could charge for that." She then chuckles.
I don't say anything out loud, but I beg to differ. In THE STATES they would have found a way to charge you, tax you, and made you feel guilty for even driving up here in God-knows-where in the first place.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
Of course, as is normal, she then proceeds to tell us every horror story in her repertoire associated with a motorcycle. It's mandatory you know. When people do this, all I hear is the line from 'Christmas Story', "You'll put your eye out with that!" Evidently, she had known many a good man that had, through no fault of their own, spontaneously combusted while riding a motorcycle. But not before their legs were ripped off by vicious moles. And their arms, well, they simply fell off. Fell like over-ripe plums in a summer breeze. Not really a reason for the arm thing other than they were on a bike. She never came out and said it, but strongly implied that what else could one expect from such a lifestyle?
Once she finishes with her itemization of accidents, deaths, severed limbs, halitosis and chronic constipation, we strike up a proper conversation. She's Native American. Although in Canada, "Indians", as they are sometimes referred to by the less educated, are called "Carl". No wait . . . that's not right. They are referred to as "First Nation People". Although she calls herself an Indian. And maybe Carl. The sociological structure of Canada is highly confusing to me.
She looks at our license plates. "Oh, you're from THE STATES!"
Yes. Yes we are. And we are not armed. Probably. Mostly.
We continue talking. We learn that she and her granddaughters, who are now running back up the hill - at a pace that makes me want to sweat or puke, I can't decide - have been camping for the last week with their extended family at an annual reunion. I think she said there were 60 or 70 people at this particular gathering. I'm impressed. I could barely manage the 11 of us in Winthrop. For three days. I give her a silent, "Well done good lady, well done."
The girls have now joined us. Sweeties. Probably 10 and 12 or 13, but not in that stage of what I fondly refer to as the "Pfffffttttttt" years. As in, whenever you ask a question of a child in this stage of development, you get the same answer. "How was school today?" Answer: "Pfffffftttttttt." "Would you like some toast?" "Pffffffffttttttttt." "Shall I kill you with a brick, or would you prefer to be dumped by the side of the road to be ravaged by a homicidal UPS driver with a speech impediment?" "Pffffffttttttt."
We chatter away. Time passes. Seasons change.
I ask Carl how often the boat runs, and how much it costs.
"Oh, it doesn't cost anything. There's no roads up here you see. No way to get across the lake. So the government has to provide some way across, and there's no way they could charge for that." She then chuckles.
I don't say anything out loud, but I beg to differ. In THE STATES they would have found a way to charge you, tax you, and made you feel guilty for even driving up here in God-knows-where in the first place.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Selasa, 04 Januari 2011
Chapter 4 - FERRY OF THE DAMNED
* * * after a short mid-winter break, we return to our story with Chapter 4 of the ongoing saga * * *
A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.
We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.
Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?
"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."
Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.
"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.
We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.
Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?
"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."
Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.
"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
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