*** 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 ***
Tampilkan postingan dengan label satire. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label satire. Tampilkan semua postingan
Senin, 21 Februari 2011
Jumat, 28 Januari 2011
Chapter 5 - THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH CANADIANS
*** continued from previous post ***
September 27, 2008
Dear Amber,
I’m really having a hard time letting go of you being a Pirate.
Is it too late to change your course of study?
Love,
Daddio
PS. You may want to ignore any notes posted to you by your friends on Facebook or in email. I couldn’t sleep last night and I found your password and login, so I posed as you for a bit. Ever notice how sometimes things that seem hilarious at 3 AM, seem a little crude the next day? Ah well.
PPS. Um . . . I may have taken a bit out of your bank account as well. It’s ok. You owe me.
Chapter 5
The Road to Hell is Paved with Canadians
Did I mention it was raining?
As I said before, most of the trip was a blur. Literally. Riding in the dense mist of a rain-soaked road with spray kicked up by thousands of tires - did you ever see the freeway during rush hour with a good rain pounding the pavement? If you're not driving through the thick of the storm it really is an amazing sight. A gray tunnel of dirty spray. But we WERE driving through it, and it took A LOT of concentration just to keep the bike going down the road. We were wet, tired, cold, and, as Mom pointed out, for some reason when she gets tired I get cranky. Luckily our communication was kept to a minimum, for each time I raised the shield to try to say something - surprise! A mouth full of oily Canadian road juice. Yum.
So we droned on and on and on. Through mountain passes. Through small towns. Through the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I don't remember much other than the recurring thought of 'Hey! We’re going to die!', yet there were a couple of interesting moments worth mentioning.
At some point in the trip, I can't tell you exactly when, or exactly where, because I may have had an out of body experience wherein I was having warm tea and crumpets with the Queen, or Bob Dylan - it doesn't matter really except if it was Bob Dylan I should probably get some therapy because roving hands from the Queen is one thing, but from Bob? . . . but I digress. The fact is at some point mom had to pee.
Fine. I'll just whip this baby across three lanes of certain death and find her a bathroom because that's just the kind of guy I am. Far be it from me to point out that she has a bladder the size of a grain of rice. Did I mention I may have been a tad cranky by this point? Did I mention how hard it was raining? Take that and double it. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best and often much less.
*** the journey continues ***
September 27, 2008
Dear Amber,
I’m really having a hard time letting go of you being a Pirate.
Is it too late to change your course of study?
Love,
Daddio
PS. You may want to ignore any notes posted to you by your friends on Facebook or in email. I couldn’t sleep last night and I found your password and login, so I posed as you for a bit. Ever notice how sometimes things that seem hilarious at 3 AM, seem a little crude the next day? Ah well.
PPS. Um . . . I may have taken a bit out of your bank account as well. It’s ok. You owe me.
Chapter 5
The Road to Hell is Paved with Canadians
Did I mention it was raining?
As I said before, most of the trip was a blur. Literally. Riding in the dense mist of a rain-soaked road with spray kicked up by thousands of tires - did you ever see the freeway during rush hour with a good rain pounding the pavement? If you're not driving through the thick of the storm it really is an amazing sight. A gray tunnel of dirty spray. But we WERE driving through it, and it took A LOT of concentration just to keep the bike going down the road. We were wet, tired, cold, and, as Mom pointed out, for some reason when she gets tired I get cranky. Luckily our communication was kept to a minimum, for each time I raised the shield to try to say something - surprise! A mouth full of oily Canadian road juice. Yum.
So we droned on and on and on. Through mountain passes. Through small towns. Through the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I don't remember much other than the recurring thought of 'Hey! We’re going to die!', yet there were a couple of interesting moments worth mentioning.
At some point in the trip, I can't tell you exactly when, or exactly where, because I may have had an out of body experience wherein I was having warm tea and crumpets with the Queen, or Bob Dylan - it doesn't matter really except if it was Bob Dylan I should probably get some therapy because roving hands from the Queen is one thing, but from Bob? . . . but I digress. The fact is at some point mom had to pee.
Fine. I'll just whip this baby across three lanes of certain death and find her a bathroom because that's just the kind of guy I am. Far be it from me to point out that she has a bladder the size of a grain of rice. Did I mention I may have been a tad cranky by this point? Did I mention how hard it was raining? Take that and double it. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best and often much less.
*** the journey continues ***
Rabu, 26 Januari 2011
It Looked Easy Enough On Paper
*** continued from previous post ***
Doing as I am told I get the gear out of the saddlebags and begin to put on the Frogg-Toggs.
These are great. Best investment in rain gear we've ever made. Light weight, breathable, and completely dry. It is a simple two-piece suit, with an extra long coat that fits over the high-rise pants so nothing gets where it shouldn't. The jacket even has a built in hoodie to go under your helmet should you so desire. They are fantastic. Except for one small, tiny little problem: I'm soaked to the bone already. I believe that may defeat their purpose. Like counting the calories in a Triple Burger with Cheese and an Insanely Large Fries after you've scarfed it in your car ducked behind, and slightly below, the steering wheel so no one will see what a horker your are.
When your Mom gets back from the bathroom I have managed to put on my rain gear.
Now, usually, this wouldn't be a huge accomplishment. In my defense it was the first time I had actually put on the Frogg-Toggs. And it had been raining. And I was cold. And we were in a foreign land, with foreign customs, and everything was all "kilometer this", and "liter that", and "no it's not play money just because it's a different color and no that's not Bob Dylan's head it's the Queen for Christ's sake so stop giggling and fork it over." So when I tell you that I struggled for a bit, and through sheer determination and perseverance, managed to put the jacket on my legs, over my boots, and had a hoodie hanging from my crotch, (I thought it was just to make it easier to pee with the chaps), you'll understand and not think less of me as a rider.
To my credit I discovered my blunder rather quickly. It may have been the howls of laughter coming from the cars passing me on the road. It may have been that when I tried to put the pants on my upper torso, I looked like a giant "V" and lunged hither-and-yon for a few minutes until I hit a light pole and realized something was amiss. But what it came down to was I just didn't feel comfortable with no hole for my head or slot to peek out through and the whole hoodie-in-the-crotch thing, the more I thought, was a dead giveaway. Typical 'Merican technology. You'd think something as complicated as this would have come with instructions.
It took your Mom like 2 seconds to get the things on. She is such a show off.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Doing as I am told I get the gear out of the saddlebags and begin to put on the Frogg-Toggs.
These are great. Best investment in rain gear we've ever made. Light weight, breathable, and completely dry. It is a simple two-piece suit, with an extra long coat that fits over the high-rise pants so nothing gets where it shouldn't. The jacket even has a built in hoodie to go under your helmet should you so desire. They are fantastic. Except for one small, tiny little problem: I'm soaked to the bone already. I believe that may defeat their purpose. Like counting the calories in a Triple Burger with Cheese and an Insanely Large Fries after you've scarfed it in your car ducked behind, and slightly below, the steering wheel so no one will see what a horker your are.
When your Mom gets back from the bathroom I have managed to put on my rain gear.
Now, usually, this wouldn't be a huge accomplishment. In my defense it was the first time I had actually put on the Frogg-Toggs. And it had been raining. And I was cold. And we were in a foreign land, with foreign customs, and everything was all "kilometer this", and "liter that", and "no it's not play money just because it's a different color and no that's not Bob Dylan's head it's the Queen for Christ's sake so stop giggling and fork it over." So when I tell you that I struggled for a bit, and through sheer determination and perseverance, managed to put the jacket on my legs, over my boots, and had a hoodie hanging from my crotch, (I thought it was just to make it easier to pee with the chaps), you'll understand and not think less of me as a rider.
To my credit I discovered my blunder rather quickly. It may have been the howls of laughter coming from the cars passing me on the road. It may have been that when I tried to put the pants on my upper torso, I looked like a giant "V" and lunged hither-and-yon for a few minutes until I hit a light pole and realized something was amiss. But what it came down to was I just didn't feel comfortable with no hole for my head or slot to peek out through and the whole hoodie-in-the-crotch thing, the more I thought, was a dead giveaway. Typical 'Merican technology. You'd think something as complicated as this would have come with instructions.
It took your Mom like 2 seconds to get the things on. She is such a show off.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Senin, 24 Januari 2011
It Was A Dark And Stormy Ferry Ride
*** continued from previous post ***
After the mandatory, "Well, good luck with all that, eh?", I can finally turn my attention to your mother. Her group has scattered like a bag of dropped marbles, and all that is left of her entourage is her and motorcycle girl. The time has not been kind. Mom - how can I put this gently - no matter how you slice it, she's not a pretty sight. Her hair is wet and matted and clumped to the side of her head like day-old oatmeal. Her mascara is running down her face giving the appearance that her eye may be leaking ink. Or dark, dark tears. I vote for the tears. We make eye-contact, and a silent thought passes between us. A shared observation between long-term companions that is understood immediately - there is no need to give it voice.
Although, had we chosen to speak, our communication would have been a simple "FUCKIN' A!!!".
Yes, that sums it up rather nicely.
I feel bad for the poor girl on the bike. With the enthusiasm of youth beaten out of her, she looks like the family dog that's been caught chewing on the baby one too many times.
I approach your Mom cautiously. Tentatively. Careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hey babe, how you doing? Have I told you today how beautiful you look?"
To your mother's credit, she didn't punch me in the throat. I love vacations!
"Little wet, little wet," she says, in a voice that is the einsiest, tiniest, itsy-bittiest four or five octaves too high.
"Yep," I reply. It seems like I should add something else, but, as I said before, I got nuthin'.
The ferry picks this moment to blast its horn. I look around, dumbstruck, forgetting where I am for the moment. Then it comes back to me in a flash. I'm in Hell. And not a regular Hell, but a maple syrup swilling north-of-the-border-down-the-rabbit-hole Canadian Hell. I expect Gordon Lightfoot songs over the ferry's speakers system at any moment.
"Looks like we've made it to the other side," Mom says. "Do you want to dig out our rain gear, or should we wait to get off the boat and then pull over?"
I notice that we are HAULING ASS into the dock. It looks like we are about half-a-mile away, but everyone on board has started their engines. I trust they know what they are doing. But it may be that they just want to turn on their heaters. The temperature has dropped from a pleasant 77 degrees, (that's Fahrenheit - in Celsius it would be like 10 kilometers), to a chilly 60. Sometimes I really regret having a thermometer on the Vision's instrument panel. I KNOW I'm cold, I don't need it quantified. And lucky us, the skies are looking angrier and more foreboding with each passing minute.
"Guess we should put on the rain gear but I don't think we have time. Looks like we will be at shore in a couple of minutes. I'll pull over once we get off, and we can put the Frogg-Toggs on then."
Mom nods approval.
*** the journey continues ***
After the mandatory, "Well, good luck with all that, eh?", I can finally turn my attention to your mother. Her group has scattered like a bag of dropped marbles, and all that is left of her entourage is her and motorcycle girl. The time has not been kind. Mom - how can I put this gently - no matter how you slice it, she's not a pretty sight. Her hair is wet and matted and clumped to the side of her head like day-old oatmeal. Her mascara is running down her face giving the appearance that her eye may be leaking ink. Or dark, dark tears. I vote for the tears. We make eye-contact, and a silent thought passes between us. A shared observation between long-term companions that is understood immediately - there is no need to give it voice.
Although, had we chosen to speak, our communication would have been a simple "FUCKIN' A!!!".
Yes, that sums it up rather nicely.
I feel bad for the poor girl on the bike. With the enthusiasm of youth beaten out of her, she looks like the family dog that's been caught chewing on the baby one too many times.
I approach your Mom cautiously. Tentatively. Careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hey babe, how you doing? Have I told you today how beautiful you look?"
To your mother's credit, she didn't punch me in the throat. I love vacations!
"Little wet, little wet," she says, in a voice that is the einsiest, tiniest, itsy-bittiest four or five octaves too high.
"Yep," I reply. It seems like I should add something else, but, as I said before, I got nuthin'.
The ferry picks this moment to blast its horn. I look around, dumbstruck, forgetting where I am for the moment. Then it comes back to me in a flash. I'm in Hell. And not a regular Hell, but a maple syrup swilling north-of-the-border-down-the-rabbit-hole Canadian Hell. I expect Gordon Lightfoot songs over the ferry's speakers system at any moment.
"Looks like we've made it to the other side," Mom says. "Do you want to dig out our rain gear, or should we wait to get off the boat and then pull over?"
I notice that we are HAULING ASS into the dock. It looks like we are about half-a-mile away, but everyone on board has started their engines. I trust they know what they are doing. But it may be that they just want to turn on their heaters. The temperature has dropped from a pleasant 77 degrees, (that's Fahrenheit - in Celsius it would be like 10 kilometers), to a chilly 60. Sometimes I really regret having a thermometer on the Vision's instrument panel. I KNOW I'm cold, I don't need it quantified. And lucky us, the skies are looking angrier and more foreboding with each passing minute.
"Guess we should put on the rain gear but I don't think we have time. Looks like we will be at shore in a couple of minutes. I'll pull over once we get off, and we can put the Frogg-Toggs on then."
Mom nods approval.
*** the journey continues ***
Jumat, 21 Januari 2011
It's NEVER Lupus!
*** continued from previous post ***
"Oh yeah, we get some heavy weather here in dese here mountains. Weather report said it was gonna rain this afternoon. In fact, they said it was gonna rain all week." He looked at me as I began to shiver. "Bummer that, you being on the bike and all."
Show no fear . . . show no fear, I chant in my head.
"Pfffffttttt. We never let a little bad weather stop us," I managed to say through chattering teeth. "You know the saying."
He looked puzzled for a minute, glancing around at his fellow Canucks to see if anyone would volunteer the answer. None did. Now I was going to have to make something up.
"Well, they say. . . ."
Everyone leaned a bit closer.
"They say. . . ." I falter. I need an ending - something dynamite. Several things go through my head. What do they say? 'Take your vitamins.' But I don't really see how that applies. 'Wear a condom.' Sage advice, but not appropriate for the circumstances. 'If life gives you lemons, take the frickin' things back and demand a refund, or at least an in-store credit.' That one is a possibility. 'There are two things in this world you should never trust - Carney Folk and mobile Dentists.' Solid wisdom right there, but again lacking that certain spark. 'If it's too good to be true you're probably hallucinating." Well, you can't argue with that. But. . . but. . . suddenly, inspiration strikes!
"It's NEVER Lupus,” I say with a satisfied smile.
Ha Ha! Hoisted on your own petard! Refute that logic silly Canadians!
I would like to take a moment and ask you if you have ever experienced a blank stare? A truly 'cogs-turning-in-the-machinery-but-nobody-to-push-the-start-button' stare? Time slowed. Sound and motion stopped. I could feel the mood turning.
Did I really just say that? What the hell? Lupus? I realize that I may be suffering from hypothermia. Curse you Gregory House! Begone demon doctor of the airwaves!
"I mean," I stumble, "that if you don't ride in the rain, it's not Lupus."
Well this is going nowhere. "No wait, I may have gotten my metaphors crossed. OH! I remember! If you don't ride in the rain, you're a *&$#@ pussy."
Protip: Profanity is always a proper choice and a good way to garner respect. It makes any situation more fun for everyone involved. But you knew that. You're in the Navy for God's sakes.
Had my ploy been successful? I look around at the faces staring at me for reassurance. The theme from "Jeopardy" is suddenly pumped over the boats PA system. My suspicions have been confirmed. The captain is an ass-hat.
"Oh," says scooter-boy, and offers a hearty laugh, "boy that there is the truth. You can tell the bar-hoppers from the real riders. You never see the bar-hoppers in the rain!"
The group agrees and we all share a good chuckle. Yet I see the signs, I know what will happen next. I've reached that certain plateau in my social skills where I go from absolutely amusing and entertaining to - and this is the absolute truth - dead on annoying. It's a short trip.
I'm cold, wet, shivering, slightly confused and out of ammo. In other words, I got nuthin'.
Luckily the rain is now coming down so viciously that even the die-hards have no choice but to return to their vehicles.
*** the journey continues. . . probably ***
"Oh yeah, we get some heavy weather here in dese here mountains. Weather report said it was gonna rain this afternoon. In fact, they said it was gonna rain all week." He looked at me as I began to shiver. "Bummer that, you being on the bike and all."
Show no fear . . . show no fear, I chant in my head.
"Pfffffttttt. We never let a little bad weather stop us," I managed to say through chattering teeth. "You know the saying."
He looked puzzled for a minute, glancing around at his fellow Canucks to see if anyone would volunteer the answer. None did. Now I was going to have to make something up.
"Well, they say. . . ."
Everyone leaned a bit closer.
"They say. . . ." I falter. I need an ending - something dynamite. Several things go through my head. What do they say? 'Take your vitamins.' But I don't really see how that applies. 'Wear a condom.' Sage advice, but not appropriate for the circumstances. 'If life gives you lemons, take the frickin' things back and demand a refund, or at least an in-store credit.' That one is a possibility. 'There are two things in this world you should never trust - Carney Folk and mobile Dentists.' Solid wisdom right there, but again lacking that certain spark. 'If it's too good to be true you're probably hallucinating." Well, you can't argue with that. But. . . but. . . suddenly, inspiration strikes!
"It's NEVER Lupus,” I say with a satisfied smile.
Ha Ha! Hoisted on your own petard! Refute that logic silly Canadians!
I would like to take a moment and ask you if you have ever experienced a blank stare? A truly 'cogs-turning-in-the-machinery-but-nobody-to-push-the-start-button' stare? Time slowed. Sound and motion stopped. I could feel the mood turning.
Did I really just say that? What the hell? Lupus? I realize that I may be suffering from hypothermia. Curse you Gregory House! Begone demon doctor of the airwaves!
"I mean," I stumble, "that if you don't ride in the rain, it's not Lupus."
Well this is going nowhere. "No wait, I may have gotten my metaphors crossed. OH! I remember! If you don't ride in the rain, you're a *&$#@ pussy."
Protip: Profanity is always a proper choice and a good way to garner respect. It makes any situation more fun for everyone involved. But you knew that. You're in the Navy for God's sakes.
Had my ploy been successful? I look around at the faces staring at me for reassurance. The theme from "Jeopardy" is suddenly pumped over the boats PA system. My suspicions have been confirmed. The captain is an ass-hat.
"Oh," says scooter-boy, and offers a hearty laugh, "boy that there is the truth. You can tell the bar-hoppers from the real riders. You never see the bar-hoppers in the rain!"
The group agrees and we all share a good chuckle. Yet I see the signs, I know what will happen next. I've reached that certain plateau in my social skills where I go from absolutely amusing and entertaining to - and this is the absolute truth - dead on annoying. It's a short trip.
I'm cold, wet, shivering, slightly confused and out of ammo. In other words, I got nuthin'.
Luckily the rain is now coming down so viciously that even the die-hards have no choice but to return to their vehicles.
*** the journey continues. . . probably ***
Kamis, 20 Januari 2011
The Shrivel Factor
*** continued from previous post ***
Here is the really funny part: The people in my particular group would wander away, one at a time, AND PUT ON FRICKIN' SHIRTS AND JACKETS AND HOODIES, then come back to tag-team each other, so the under-dressed could go put on some more appropriate clothes while the idiot from THE STATES gets soaked.
Bastards.
And you know why they acted so unconcerned? THEY HATE AMERICANS! No, that's not true. They had things like . . . oh, I don't know . . . maybe HEATERS, AND ROOFS, AND DEFROSTERS, AND CUPS OF COFFEE IN LITTLE DOOR HOLDERS, and NICE SMELLING AIR FRESHENERS so that the rain was nothing more than a small bother.
Then, as if the cake were not sweet enough - thunder and lightning!
"Whoa," my scooter-selling friend remarked, "dats a bit of weather dere, eh?"
I wanted to shout "Ya think?" but I wasn't ready to alienate an ally just yet. Water was now dripping from my nose. Cascading. A nasal waterfall to rival Niagara. (Niagara. . . Viagra. What the hell?) My glasses were covered in streaks, and the parts that weren't dripping were foggier than Keith Richard's childhood memories. I could feel water running through my mesh, soaking my shirt, and beginning to drip into my 'nether regions'. I looked up at the sky. Bad mistake. Water poured into my nostrils, making me choke.
“Is it raining?", I gasped." Another flash of lightning, this one too close for comfort. "I hadn't really noticed," I added nonchalantly, as parts of me that are never supposed to be wet unless I'm swimming, bathing, or suffering a mild seizure, became saturated. Saturated, cold, and shriveling by the minute.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Here is the really funny part: The people in my particular group would wander away, one at a time, AND PUT ON FRICKIN' SHIRTS AND JACKETS AND HOODIES, then come back to tag-team each other, so the under-dressed could go put on some more appropriate clothes while the idiot from THE STATES gets soaked.
Bastards.
And you know why they acted so unconcerned? THEY HATE AMERICANS! No, that's not true. They had things like . . . oh, I don't know . . . maybe HEATERS, AND ROOFS, AND DEFROSTERS, AND CUPS OF COFFEE IN LITTLE DOOR HOLDERS, and NICE SMELLING AIR FRESHENERS so that the rain was nothing more than a small bother.
Then, as if the cake were not sweet enough - thunder and lightning!
"Whoa," my scooter-selling friend remarked, "dats a bit of weather dere, eh?"
I wanted to shout "Ya think?" but I wasn't ready to alienate an ally just yet. Water was now dripping from my nose. Cascading. A nasal waterfall to rival Niagara. (Niagara. . . Viagra. What the hell?) My glasses were covered in streaks, and the parts that weren't dripping were foggier than Keith Richard's childhood memories. I could feel water running through my mesh, soaking my shirt, and beginning to drip into my 'nether regions'. I looked up at the sky. Bad mistake. Water poured into my nostrils, making me choke.
“Is it raining?", I gasped." Another flash of lightning, this one too close for comfort. "I hadn't really noticed," I added nonchalantly, as parts of me that are never supposed to be wet unless I'm swimming, bathing, or suffering a mild seizure, became saturated. Saturated, cold, and shriveling by the minute.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Rabu, 19 Januari 2011
Roid-Rage of the Rain
*** continued from previous post ***
Within seconds a few pitter-pats of God-juice turned into something much darker, much uglier and definitely much wetter. Think of a drop of regular rain. Now give it steroids. Make it do dual workouts at the gym. Give it a subscription to "Bodybuilder’s Monthly". Got a picture? Good. Now put seven of those together, squeeze them into a ridiculously small space like a Japanese commuter on an afternoon train, and you begin to see what I'm talking about.
When rain's big brother started falling, it actually stung my head - I kid you not. The drops were easily the size of quarters. And not wimpy Canadian quarters either, big burly 'real money 'Merican quarters' from THE STATES.
Ordinarily this would be no big deal. But I believe I have come to understand how a rock star feels: Groggy, confused, and unsure of their gender. No wait, that's not right. Unable to get away from people even when death is imminent, that's what I meant to say. I could not get my crowd of Canadians to shut the hell up long enough to put on some rain gear. Srsly. I am not kidding.
Each time I tried to make my way to the saddlebags, someone would come up with another question about the Vision. Or query my views on the nature of being, and whether we live in a self-constructed reality built from a mathematically provable 'fuzzy-cloud' of possibility spawning alternate dimensions that break from our own universe at every juncture of choice, or, are we simply existing in an illusionary prison of pre-determined fate. No lie. I thought that was a pretty insightful question for a third-grader. But apparently, other countries actually educate their young in the public schools, unlike in THE STATES where we are happy if they don't shoot each other. At least during social studies.
And, since I was trying to maintain my new-found image as, "the-guy you-think-is-living-the-life-you-dream-about-and-is-having-more-fun-than-you'll-ever-have-because-he-has-a-really-cool-bike-and-a-nicely-shaped-head-while-I-have-to-work-pushing paper-for-people-I-hate-and-am-horribly-worried-about-that-lump-I-found-under-my-arm-when-I-took-my-shower-this-morning-oh-God-it's-cancer-IT'S CANCER-I-just-know-it!!!!!", I just stood there like a moron and got wet.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Within seconds a few pitter-pats of God-juice turned into something much darker, much uglier and definitely much wetter. Think of a drop of regular rain. Now give it steroids. Make it do dual workouts at the gym. Give it a subscription to "Bodybuilder’s Monthly". Got a picture? Good. Now put seven of those together, squeeze them into a ridiculously small space like a Japanese commuter on an afternoon train, and you begin to see what I'm talking about.
When rain's big brother started falling, it actually stung my head - I kid you not. The drops were easily the size of quarters. And not wimpy Canadian quarters either, big burly 'real money 'Merican quarters' from THE STATES.
Ordinarily this would be no big deal. But I believe I have come to understand how a rock star feels: Groggy, confused, and unsure of their gender. No wait, that's not right. Unable to get away from people even when death is imminent, that's what I meant to say. I could not get my crowd of Canadians to shut the hell up long enough to put on some rain gear. Srsly. I am not kidding.
Each time I tried to make my way to the saddlebags, someone would come up with another question about the Vision. Or query my views on the nature of being, and whether we live in a self-constructed reality built from a mathematically provable 'fuzzy-cloud' of possibility spawning alternate dimensions that break from our own universe at every juncture of choice, or, are we simply existing in an illusionary prison of pre-determined fate. No lie. I thought that was a pretty insightful question for a third-grader. But apparently, other countries actually educate their young in the public schools, unlike in THE STATES where we are happy if they don't shoot each other. At least during social studies.
And, since I was trying to maintain my new-found image as, "the-guy you-think-is-living-the-life-you-dream-about-and-is-having-more-fun-than-you'll-ever-have-because-he-has-a-really-cool-bike-and-a-nicely-shaped-head-while-I-have-to-work-pushing paper-for-people-I-hate-and-am-horribly-worried-about-that-lump-I-found-under-my-arm-when-I-took-my-shower-this-morning-oh-God-it's-cancer-IT'S CANCER-I-just-know-it!!!!!", I just stood there like a moron and got wet.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Selasa, 18 Januari 2011
Is it rain? Or is God Crying?
*** continued from previous post ***
As a native North-westerner, you know that 'rain' comes in many flavors. There is the gentle ‘mist’ that creeps into every crack and crevice and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'light rain’ that trickles down gently from the skies, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the typical 'rain', as in "Hey, it's raining!", that pelts your skin and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'cloudburst rain', that comes from nowhere, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. Then we have the 'deluge', the big splattering drops that . . . well, soaks you to the bone in seconds.
These are the rains you know. Throw those conceptions right out the window. But first check to make sure there is no one walking on the sidewalk below. You don't need a lawsuit.
Oh, the first few drops were innocent enough. Sort of a "Hello, I'm rain. Pleased to meet you. Just passin' through. Just makin' the grass and the trees grow. Don't worry about me, I'll be on my way soon enough. You enjoy your day now."
Stupid rain. Once rain starts on a train of thought, much like a Pokemon aficionado or a model train enthusiast, it's hard to get it to shut up. So I became aware of this wet little bastard before anyone else on the boat. There are few advantages to being bald, but being the first to know when it's raining is right up there, second only to the ego stroke one receives from the never-ending stream of, "Hey! You have a really nicely shaped head." Every time someone says that to me, I think, "What the hell? Is it because they feel bad about me being bald? That's the only compliment they can think to say? Really? Would you tell a one-armed person, "Hey, the remainder of your arm is very cylindrical?
Or is it something else? Is the shape of my head so important that you feel the need to comment? I mean, it's not like I did anything. There are no special exercises to produce a 'nicely shaped head'. No creams, lotions, or injections. And what, I wonder , do my brothers with the less symmetrically shaped noggins hear? If human nature, and past experience is any guide, it probably isn't pleasant. "Oh dear. Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it?" Or, "My, were you left on your back in your crib a lot as a baby?" Possibly,"Jesus! Did anyone live in the accident?" Why comment at all? How many times has someone come up to you and said, "Wow. That is a really attractive elbow you got going there." Or, "May I just say that is one round eyeball. Very nice." No. You never hear, "I don't want to be forward, but your knuckles are particularly attractive today." And why? Because . . . it starts . . . it's probably just . . . well I have no idea, but as your Great Uncle Jonathon the Priest used to say when referring to the Church's position on celibacy, "that shit's just gotta change".
Odd duck that Jonathon.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
As a native North-westerner, you know that 'rain' comes in many flavors. There is the gentle ‘mist’ that creeps into every crack and crevice and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'light rain’ that trickles down gently from the skies, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the typical 'rain', as in "Hey, it's raining!", that pelts your skin and soaks you to the bone in seconds. There is the 'cloudburst rain', that comes from nowhere, and soaks you to the bone in seconds. Then we have the 'deluge', the big splattering drops that . . . well, soaks you to the bone in seconds.
These are the rains you know. Throw those conceptions right out the window. But first check to make sure there is no one walking on the sidewalk below. You don't need a lawsuit.
Oh, the first few drops were innocent enough. Sort of a "Hello, I'm rain. Pleased to meet you. Just passin' through. Just makin' the grass and the trees grow. Don't worry about me, I'll be on my way soon enough. You enjoy your day now."
Stupid rain. Once rain starts on a train of thought, much like a Pokemon aficionado or a model train enthusiast, it's hard to get it to shut up. So I became aware of this wet little bastard before anyone else on the boat. There are few advantages to being bald, but being the first to know when it's raining is right up there, second only to the ego stroke one receives from the never-ending stream of, "Hey! You have a really nicely shaped head." Every time someone says that to me, I think, "What the hell? Is it because they feel bad about me being bald? That's the only compliment they can think to say? Really? Would you tell a one-armed person, "Hey, the remainder of your arm is very cylindrical?
Or is it something else? Is the shape of my head so important that you feel the need to comment? I mean, it's not like I did anything. There are no special exercises to produce a 'nicely shaped head'. No creams, lotions, or injections. And what, I wonder , do my brothers with the less symmetrically shaped noggins hear? If human nature, and past experience is any guide, it probably isn't pleasant. "Oh dear. Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it?" Or, "My, were you left on your back in your crib a lot as a baby?" Possibly,"Jesus! Did anyone live in the accident?" Why comment at all? How many times has someone come up to you and said, "Wow. That is a really attractive elbow you got going there." Or, "May I just say that is one round eyeball. Very nice." No. You never hear, "I don't want to be forward, but your knuckles are particularly attractive today." And why? Because . . . it starts . . . it's probably just . . . well I have no idea, but as your Great Uncle Jonathon the Priest used to say when referring to the Church's position on celibacy, "that shit's just gotta change".
Odd duck that Jonathon.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Senin, 10 Januari 2011
The Close Call and the Garbin-Frankle Delimeter
*** continued from previous post ***
Peripherally I notice that the sky has taken on a bit of a dark tone, but about that time we are DELUGED with people wanting to talk about the Vision. I kid you not. We were surrounded. So much for my fear of awkward silence.
You know those jungle movies - like Tarzan - or his lesser known cousin Mark - where the cameraman walks out of the bush and the natives appear, "plop, plop, plop", like they are being squeezed out of some unseen dimension? Yeah, like that. Only less bushier. Anyway, the point being that the deck is just jam-packed with these friendly northerners, and the cries of "aboot" and "eh?" and "shed-you-ell' are deafening. I begin to feel queasy. Too many smiles, too many "that there is an interesting bike, eh?". I contemplate throwing myself overboard, or faking a 30-minute coma, but I can't leave your mother to deal with this alone. Mom has problems of her own. She has her own group of admirers that includes the girl on the bike, the Pilot of the boat, (so who the F is steering?), and various passengers. I have a throng of guys around me, all talking about bikes. The various merits, or delinquencies, of every brand and model imaginable.
As you are aware, my knowledge of the history and lore of motorcycling is, like my knowledge of most other subjects, thin. Broad - yes. But thin and transparent and not much in the way of support. Thin like the ice of an October pond - and by that I mean - umm - really thin. Yet I manage to nod my head, smile and laugh at the appropriate times so after about 5 minutes I'm regarded as a genius with an encyclopedic knowledge of all things two-wheeled with a motor.
There's a guy who used to own a scooter and motorcycle shop in Kamloops, BC. This man is a living database of all things bikey. I have no idea what he's talking about nine-tenths of the time. We chatter away about the specs of the Vision. What I like about the ride. And I always end one of the spiels with "Of course, there are a couple of things I don't like." Then I make something up. "The tires have too much air capacity," I'll say. "The headlight gets too hot." I pat the seat of the bike, "and the seat, well, I don't know about you, but I like to FEEL the road. With this thing, it's like I'm carried along on the wings of Angels."
People love it when you do that. It gives you instant cred. Instead of a Brand Lemming, you are now a serious connoisseur of the riding experience.
He says, "So, do you prefer a Garbin-Frankle delimeter, or a straight beckner with the over-sized spootner?"
Gah! I panic. I'm afraid that were I to falter in my authority the assembled group may pounce on me like a gang of wayward and drunken Weeblos at a Girl Scout Convention. Some of these guys look like they wrestle moose. And win.
Think David. Think!!
"Well, there's much to be said for both. You're going to hear guys try and defend each one, but I think it comes down to a matter of personal choice. And really, isn't that what this whole crazy world is all about?"
Only, I say 'aboot', and it feels just fine.
He eyes me. The crowd goes silent. I feel my heart beating in my chest, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I don't want to check, because it may be regarded as a faux-paux by my hosts, but I might have tinkled a bit in my chaps. It will dry when we are back on the road, I tell myself . . . it will dry.
His eyes grow wide. "That's just what I was telling my friend the other night!!! How can you say one is any better than the other?"
"Oh you can't," I quickly reply. "Anyone who argues that point, well . . . Pfffffftttttttt . . . that's just crazy-talk."
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.
*** the journey continues ***
Peripherally I notice that the sky has taken on a bit of a dark tone, but about that time we are DELUGED with people wanting to talk about the Vision. I kid you not. We were surrounded. So much for my fear of awkward silence.
You know those jungle movies - like Tarzan - or his lesser known cousin Mark - where the cameraman walks out of the bush and the natives appear, "plop, plop, plop", like they are being squeezed out of some unseen dimension? Yeah, like that. Only less bushier. Anyway, the point being that the deck is just jam-packed with these friendly northerners, and the cries of "aboot" and "eh?" and "shed-you-ell' are deafening. I begin to feel queasy. Too many smiles, too many "that there is an interesting bike, eh?". I contemplate throwing myself overboard, or faking a 30-minute coma, but I can't leave your mother to deal with this alone. Mom has problems of her own. She has her own group of admirers that includes the girl on the bike, the Pilot of the boat, (so who the F is steering?), and various passengers. I have a throng of guys around me, all talking about bikes. The various merits, or delinquencies, of every brand and model imaginable.
As you are aware, my knowledge of the history and lore of motorcycling is, like my knowledge of most other subjects, thin. Broad - yes. But thin and transparent and not much in the way of support. Thin like the ice of an October pond - and by that I mean - umm - really thin. Yet I manage to nod my head, smile and laugh at the appropriate times so after about 5 minutes I'm regarded as a genius with an encyclopedic knowledge of all things two-wheeled with a motor.
There's a guy who used to own a scooter and motorcycle shop in Kamloops, BC. This man is a living database of all things bikey. I have no idea what he's talking about nine-tenths of the time. We chatter away about the specs of the Vision. What I like about the ride. And I always end one of the spiels with "Of course, there are a couple of things I don't like." Then I make something up. "The tires have too much air capacity," I'll say. "The headlight gets too hot." I pat the seat of the bike, "and the seat, well, I don't know about you, but I like to FEEL the road. With this thing, it's like I'm carried along on the wings of Angels."
People love it when you do that. It gives you instant cred. Instead of a Brand Lemming, you are now a serious connoisseur of the riding experience.
He says, "So, do you prefer a Garbin-Frankle delimeter, or a straight beckner with the over-sized spootner?"
Gah! I panic. I'm afraid that were I to falter in my authority the assembled group may pounce on me like a gang of wayward and drunken Weeblos at a Girl Scout Convention. Some of these guys look like they wrestle moose. And win.
Think David. Think!!
"Well, there's much to be said for both. You're going to hear guys try and defend each one, but I think it comes down to a matter of personal choice. And really, isn't that what this whole crazy world is all about?"
Only, I say 'aboot', and it feels just fine.
He eyes me. The crowd goes silent. I feel my heart beating in my chest, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I don't want to check, because it may be regarded as a faux-paux by my hosts, but I might have tinkled a bit in my chaps. It will dry when we are back on the road, I tell myself . . . it will dry.
His eyes grow wide. "That's just what I was telling my friend the other night!!! How can you say one is any better than the other?"
"Oh you can't," I quickly reply. "Anyone who argues that point, well . . . Pfffffftttttttt . . . that's just crazy-talk."
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.
*** the journey continues ***
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."
Rabu, 22 Desember 2010
The Gathering Gloom
*** continued from previous post ***
Funny thing about what Sweet Alice is showing me. It looks like this road, a very major road by Canadian standards, it about to end. Abruptly. In about 5 miles. (Or about 9 kilometers in hippie-speak.) Directly into a huge lake. I blink, thinking I've seen wrong. No, there is no mistake, the road just ends.
I lean back in the seat, and motion for Mom to raise her visor. "Hey, get a load of this. The road just ends. It runs into a lake."
"Really?" Mom says. "Well, is there another road we can take?"
"Funny thing, that," I answer, trying to mask the panic in my voice, "No. According to the GPS, this is the only road. For like . . . miles."
"Oh," Mom says, with no surprise in her voice. "Is there a bridge?"
I consult the oracle of Sweet Alice. "Ummm . . . no."
I zoom out on the map. There is a dotted line across the lake labeled "Ferry".
"It says we have to take a ferry," I tell her, just as we pass a sign that says "Shelter Bay - Galena Bay Ferry 10 km."
"Cool!" Mom replies and settles back in her seat. She loves Ferries.
"Yeah," I agree, and pull down my face-shield.
I'm thinking that a Ferry ride is going to be a nice little break. And how pretty is this going to be? I mean we are in the middle of INCREDIBLE scenery. There's no wind. The sun is. . . hey . . . where did the sun go? I hadn't noticed that. Ah well, it is still warm.
So there are a few clouds. Big deal. We may get a sprinkle or two. Just a passing summer storm. I'm a Northwest boy. I can take it.
I mean. . . how bad can it get?
Right?
September 23, 2008
Dear Amber,
I hope you enjoyed these installments on what has turned out to be quite a trip. Buckle up - we haven't even reached the good stuff yet.
Oh! I watched “An Officer and a Gentleman” last night. If they try and give you the call sign ‘Goose’, run and don’t look back.
Love you,
Daddio
PS. Your car was stolen and set afire last night. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.
*** the journey continues after the New Year with Chapter 4 - Ferry of the Damned! ***
Funny thing about what Sweet Alice is showing me. It looks like this road, a very major road by Canadian standards, it about to end. Abruptly. In about 5 miles. (Or about 9 kilometers in hippie-speak.) Directly into a huge lake. I blink, thinking I've seen wrong. No, there is no mistake, the road just ends.
I lean back in the seat, and motion for Mom to raise her visor. "Hey, get a load of this. The road just ends. It runs into a lake."
"Really?" Mom says. "Well, is there another road we can take?"
"Funny thing, that," I answer, trying to mask the panic in my voice, "No. According to the GPS, this is the only road. For like . . . miles."
"Oh," Mom says, with no surprise in her voice. "Is there a bridge?"
I consult the oracle of Sweet Alice. "Ummm . . . no."
I zoom out on the map. There is a dotted line across the lake labeled "Ferry".
"It says we have to take a ferry," I tell her, just as we pass a sign that says "Shelter Bay - Galena Bay Ferry 10 km."
"Cool!" Mom replies and settles back in her seat. She loves Ferries.
"Yeah," I agree, and pull down my face-shield.
I'm thinking that a Ferry ride is going to be a nice little break. And how pretty is this going to be? I mean we are in the middle of INCREDIBLE scenery. There's no wind. The sun is. . . hey . . . where did the sun go? I hadn't noticed that. Ah well, it is still warm.
So there are a few clouds. Big deal. We may get a sprinkle or two. Just a passing summer storm. I'm a Northwest boy. I can take it.
I mean. . . how bad can it get?
Right?
* * *
September 23, 2008
Dear Amber,
I hope you enjoyed these installments on what has turned out to be quite a trip. Buckle up - we haven't even reached the good stuff yet.
Oh! I watched “An Officer and a Gentleman” last night. If they try and give you the call sign ‘Goose’, run and don’t look back.
Love you,
Daddio
PS. Your car was stolen and set afire last night. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.
*** the journey continues after the New Year with Chapter 4 - Ferry of the Damned! ***
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