How I Got Religon

Little longer post today kids.  I wanted to keep the flow intact.  As always your comments are appreciated.


*** continued from previous post ***

Just as I was contemplating whether to start the blessed fire on my arms or chest - not the face, I'm wayyy to pretty for that - I found sanctuary.  We'd reached one of our favorite local haunts, a small cafe born of river-rock and grease and hard, hard waitresses.  I pulled our two-wheeled motorcade of ice off the road and into the parking lot, then popsicle-hopped inside for a quick pot of coffee.  Yes the entire pot.  Then a quick trip to 'speak to a man about a horse' and back to our journey we went.  Warmer, happier, and way less 'So cold . . . need a nap . . . WHOA that truck was close!' like.  As we bounced along the outskirts of Yakima I watched the temperature gauge progress with tenacity to 60, 65, 70 . . . by the time we hit Interstate 90 in Ellensburg a half-hour later, the needle, (I know, I know. . .it's all digital so there is no 'needle' so to speak.  Quit being so picky and let me get on with the story), hovered around 76 degrees.

Mom leaned forward and said, "Pull into the gas station.  I can use the rest room and you can top off the tank."

"But we just stopped."

"It will only take a minute.  And I need to take off one of these sweaters," she said, unzipping her jacket a little.  "So stop whining.  We'll have a full tank and really knock down some miles on the freeway."

I would have argued with her - for the bike and her needs are my domain - were it not for a teensy, eensey, weensy little incident in Ellensburg a couple of years ago.  This was with the Suzuki, back before we were cruisin' large with the Vision.  We'd spent a pleasant weekend visiting your Aunt Vicky and Uncle Jahn in Spokane, (and by pleasant I mean no stitches were required and none of that 'if it pleases the court' crap.  If there's one person on the face of the earth scrappier than your Mom, it may be your Aunt Vicky), and were headed home.  As we passed Moses Lake, about an hour-and-a-half out of Spokane, I said to myself, "Self, you really have no accurate way to measure how much gas you have left because the geniuses that designed this bike thought that a fuel gauge would just be added weight and clutter.  You have a pretty good idea, based on past experience, of how far you can go, and you should make Ellensburg with no problems.  However, it might behoove you to take a moment, get off the freeway, and fill the bike.  Much better to err on the side of caution."  

That's what I said in my head.  What I heard was, "I got plenty."

Stop laughing.

I blew past Moses Lake, past George, (and the now defunct "Martha's Inn - Home of the World's Best Cherry Pie!  Say what you want, Martha's Inn in George, Washington - that is a fine sense of humor right there), and slid down I-90 into the basalt walls of the Columbia River Gorge.  As I passed the town of Vantage, and my last exit and chance for gas for the next 30 miles, a curious thing happened - that little 'low fuel' light on the instrument cluster lit up like a trailer park at Christmas.  After a sale at WalMart.  On double coupon day.  Refusing to believe what I was seeing, I told myself that I was registering low fuel simply because of the steep grade of the hill, and that as soon as we reached the top the gas in the tank would slosh back into place and the light would fade to naught but a fleeting memory.  I held onto that hope until we had climbed the other side of the Gorge and leveled out onto the plains outside of Ellensburg. 

 

Funny thing about that light fading - it didn't.  I began to sweat.  I watched my acceleration.  I coasted as much as possible.  12 miles out and then something I had never seen before happened - that little 'low fuel' light on the speedo began to flash.  It seemed to flicker in time to my heart, until the reality of our situation sunk in and my pulse raced to the tempo of an Aphex Twin song played at double-speed by a hummingbird on crack.  

Here is where I converted and began to pray - to any and all Deities that I could recall, and a few I made up on the spot.  Demigods such as 'The God of Rusty Ford Trucks', or "The Supreme Being in the form of a Winnebago', and my favorite 'The God of Idiots Who Didn't Listen To Themselves And Were About To Run Out Of Gas With A Tiny Woman On The Back Of The Bike That Was Going To Be Majorly Pissed', who - believe it or not - happened to take the form of a shiny, nude goddess on the mud-flaps of a truck I was following.

At one point I tried flapping my arms to give us an extra boost but your Mom failed to find the humor in this.

"Is everything OK?"

"Oh peachy", I said, much, much to cheerily through teeth clenched much, much too tightly.

I don't know how, and I don't know which God was looking out for us, but we made it to the exit to Ellensburg and down the ramp from the freeway.  Slowing, but not stopping, I turned right onto the main thoroughfare, went up two blocks to the gas station.  About this time the bike began to sputter and falter.  It finally gave up the ghost and died as I pulled in the clutch and we literally coasted off the street into the the pump bay.  I may, and I'm not ashamed to say this, have shouted 'hallelujah' a few times.

You know, it seems like I cry a lot on our trips.  Wonder why that is?  Allergies?

Mom climbed off the bike, took off her helmet, and said, "That was weird.  The bike was kind of wobbling there at the end.  Didn't it feel all wobbly to you?  Was it something I did?  I didn't think that I was shifting my weight around or anything was I?"

I was now offered a choice.  One, I could lie to your Mom and tell her that yes, it was indeed her fault and she should be more careful, or two, I could come clean and fess up.

Were I had it to do over again, I would have lied.  Lied like a congressman caught in a public bathroom taking a way wider stance than necessary.  

It's funny, but even to this day your Mom refuses to laugh about that particular escapade.  No sense of humor whatsoever. 

Anyway, the point of that little segue was that I now adhere to the biker's creed - 'Never give a gun to a duck'.  Wait, I might be confusing that with a quote from B. Kliban.  Oh, I know! 'Never pass a chance to top off the tank or use a bathroom.'  That's the one I was looking for.  Although, you should probably file away the tidbit about firearms and fowl for future reference.  It's just sound advice any way you look at it. 

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***