*** 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 ***
