Another Short Break - For Sharks!!

Good morning folks!

Going on a little sabbatical, so I won't be updating the blog with new content until probably after the 4th of July.

So, if you're really hooked you're just going to have to go buy the book.

In the meantime, think of me on June 25th. I'm going to swim the "Escape from Alcatraz" event in San Fransisco. I'm a little nervous, because it's titled "Shark Fest".

http://www.sharkfestswim.com/default.asp?PageID=20154

Hmmmm . . . that doesn't inspire much confidence.

Yes, this arthritic, brain-tumor-ed, prostate cancer-ed motorcycle rider is going to swim his ass off.

I smell a book!!! :)

So take care, ride safe, and I'll see you all in a bit.

David

Never Trust A Rotarian

*** continued from previous post ***


"So," Mark said, glancing at his demon-twin, "where are you guys from in THE STATES?"

Ah. Social pleasantries. There just may be hope yet! I look at your mom to see if she's picked up on the subtle change in the tone of the conversation. It was hard to tell. I noticed that during the last few minutes she'd started to twitch slightly.

"We're from the Seattle area. Well, actually a small town about 40 miles southeast of Seattle next to the Cascade foothills."

I find that adding 'small town' usually will put people at ease. I have no idea why. Maniacs and psychopaths are abundant in small towns. Why, visit any Rotary Club meeting and you're sure to see at least three serial killers at any given time. Don't even get me started on local Chambers of Commerce. Let's just say that most of the Boards of Director's for Chambers are full-blown, unrepentant, closet Satan worshipers. Anyway, back to the small town thingee. I look to the group to see if this bit of info has had a calming effect.

More simple nodding, but this time I detect a slightly positive vibe.

Carl spoke for the first time. His voice was exactly like his brothers, but a tad higher. "I've been through Seattle a few times."

Pause. Silence. I waited for the follow up. The 'and it's a really nice place', or 'incredible scenery', or 'not as bad as I expected'. But no . . . nothing followed. Just a blank stare.

"Oh," I remarked, "well . . . good!" I mean really, what else could I say?

"Yeah," he said, "too many people for my taste."

Martha, his mother, cleared her throat and rolled her eyes. Admiration for this beautiful lady had now blossomed into full blown love.

I study Carl. How dare he not acknowledge the awesomeness that is the Pacific Northwest? And I'm not fond of your nose there chuckles, but I'm not going to point it out. Well, at least not yet. The day is young. I sized up the brothers as a unit. Even though they could outrun me, I was pretty sure that in a street fight I could handle myself. Or at least bean them with my cane into some form of submission. Mom could have kicked their asses straight up, but I was hoping it wouldn't have to come to that.

*** the journey continues ***

Children Of The Flax

*** continued from previous post ***

Despite my feelings of inadequacy concerning hot cereal, I knew if Leeza left we would be lost. Two souls from THE STATES ripped to shreds and devoured by this eco-outdoorsey-anti-American minded family. I wanted to say something - anything to engage her in conversations but alas . . . I had nuthin'. Panic and fatigue had drained my creative juices. Were I a lemon I would be all crushed and lumpy with the pulp naught but a disorganized mess in the rind. Still, I had to try and convert these northerly heathens into friends, and quickly. A stolen glance at your mom confirmed that she was about 2 seconds away from a full blown case of the social willies.

I opened my mouth to address the group and prayed that something coherent would pop out. It was a 50-50 gamble. "Come here often?" I asked.

Great. I've just used the lamest bar pick-up line ever on an entire family. That may be a new low for me.

Mark cleared his throat. "Yeah. We come every summer. Carl here," he said, jerking a thumb towards his brother, "lives in Peru. He doesn't get home much. So, it's a nice way to get the family to reconnect."

Carl, who was a smaller, younger version of Mark, even down to the hair and glasses, nodded his head.

"Oh," I said, "that's pretty cool. What a great place for you guys to gather. Not a ton of distractions up here." I made sure to keep my tone light and breezy.

The brothers, in complete unison, nodded their heads three times. Not two. Not four. Three. I felt my stomach turn. This was some scary, scary stuff right here. It really was 'Children of the Corn', only much farther north. 'Children of. . .’ what the hell does Alberta grow this far north? Oh yeah. 'Children of the Flax Seed'.

Now that I see it on paper, it doesn't sound that scary.

*** the journey continues ***

Free-Range Sherpas - I Would Expect Nothing Less

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In the end - and this had nothing to do with the fact that your mom was chewing on her lower lip so hard that blood was squirting willy-nilly about the room - I choose the path that will, in most situations, deflect animosity. SDH. Self Deprecating Humor. It's the magic wand of social interaction. It's the salve of awkward situations. The 'special sauce' on the burger of cringe that smothers everything and makes you forget that what you're eating is 90% cardboard.

"Idiots on the motorcycle is more like it," I said, bobbing my head. I looked from one Canadastanie to the other giving each of them the grin of the dangerously stupid.

No response. Alpha Canuck narrowed his eyes. I could see the wheels turning. 'What is your game, stupid American? How dare you challenge my expectations?'

Martha, much to the consternation of the rest of the table, giggled. I immediately felt a twinge of fondness for this lady.

Leeza chose that moment, bless her free-spirited soul, to arrive with our coffee and tea. "Here you go folks. I hope you like the tea. It's one of our special blends."

"Thank you," Mom said for the both of us. I was afraid to break eye contact with the alpha male lest he take advantage of the situation and go for my throat with his foon. Or spork. Or runcible spoon. Whatever.

"Be right back with some wonderful oatmeal. And I do mean wonderful! It's handpicked pesticide-free organic oats lightly soaked in spring water gathered from the local mountain peaks above the 3 kilometer mark by imported Sherpas using thatch-baskets woven by First Nation people. It is grand cereal if I do say so." Leeza turned to walk away then stopped abruptly, turned to us with a narrowed brow and added, "Free-range Sherpas, of course."

Well of course they were. I would expect nothing less. I hadn't tasted it yet, but somehow I felt intimidated by a mound of steaming, gummy lumps. Oat anxiety. Although, if you were to look that up in the DSM, (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - no, you don't need to know how I know that.), my apprehension may have more to do with white-haired men in buckle shoes, lace, and 17th century hats.

Gah! I just gave myself the creeps! Curse you Quaker Oats!

*** the journey continues ***

If The Ship Is Going Down

*** continued from previous post - sorry for the delay folks, this damn prostate cancer keeps crimping my style ***


I pushed on, "Please to meet you," I said, pivoting my head, nodding, and making eye contact with each member of the group. Your mother did the same, but I noticed a slight catch of nerves in her voice. The family returned the nod, reluctantly I thought, and after a couple of minutes we realized this was the most we were going to get out of them. There they sat, studying us, casting sidelong glances at each other.

Well, what a fine morning this was shaping into. Hostile Canadians surrounding me on three sides. Hostile tiny woman to my right. Nature's glory over my shoulder. Flop sweat forming on my shiny, shiny bald head, and I hadn't even had my first cup of coffee.

Mark cast a quick glance to his family. Evidently there was some bizarre telepathic connection between the lot of them. Children of the Corn comes to mind. Or the Albertan equivalent. What would the Albertan equivalent be? I would have to ponder that at a later time. Something cold and flat no doubt.

"So," Mark said, but it came out as an accusation which I actually had to admire. It's hard to pack so much emotion into two letters without the aid of weaponry. "You're the ones with the motorcycle. And from THE STATES!"

He then rocked back in his chair, folding his arms once again across his chest. Not a question, just a statement. A statement tinged with contempt and accusations and devilry.

Ah . . . now I get it. We were evil! I actually felt your mom scoot her chair out from the table, preparing to bolt. I put a hand on her knee, and held her in her seat. She wasn't going anywhere. If the ship was going to sink, we were going down together. My mind raced. Was there any possibility of salvaging this moment? More importantly, did I want to salvage the moment? Hmmmm . . . it might be fun to adopt a scorched-earth approach. I could insult the Queen. I could declare my complete contempt for all things cheesy. I could tell them that, as a profession, I raped babies but had a side job as a litterbug. So many options . . .

*** the journey continues ***

A Proper Canadian Accent

*** continued from previous post ***


Back to breakfast.

I decided to take the proverbial bull by the horns, for this was your mother's worst nightmare. I could intuit this from the fact that she was kicking my ankle quite viciously under the table. I grimaced and ever so gently moved the forks out of reach.

Casting caution to the wind, I cleared my throat and took the plunge.

"Hi, I'm David and this is my wife Suzanne." I smiled, projecting confidence and warmth and mostly no insanity at all.

Mostly.

Now usually, when you introduce yourself to a group, unless you're holding a gun in a dark alley while the introductions take place, everyone speaks in turn and introduces themselves. This is what happens in what I've come to call 'normal society'. Apparently, from the land where milk really does come in bags, this was not the custom.

The gentleman sitting closest to me leaned forward. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a scruff of beard that complimented his flannel shirt quite well. His hair was mid-length, and parted on the side with just a shock of a black bang draping his forehead. He was of medium build, and on the skinny side of that. But not the 'I have some horrible medical condition' skinny, more of a 'I am an outdoor enthusiast, lean, mean, and packing my own crap out of the forest so as not to disturb the delicate balance of nature' skinny. His facial features were sharp. He fairly glowered behind his glasses, his eyebrows knotting and twisting like a flag in the wind.
Evidently this was the alpha Canuck for all members of the family, (Or is there a different nomenclature for familial groupings in Canada? Clans? Covey? Covens? Hockey Teams?), for all other eyes at the table turned to him.

"I'm Mark," he said with a nod of his head. "This," he said, indicating the elderly woman on his right, "is my mother Martha. Next to her is my wife Cathleen, my brother Carl, and our children, Amanda, Stacey, Jeff and that's', he said pointing, "Carl's wife Camila, and their kids, Jennifer and Brandon, and Brandon's friends Kevin and Alex.

I sat mesmerized. Like music his voice was. His was a thick Canadian accent. A proper Canadian accent. A 'screw you to the STATES' Canadian accent.

*** the journey continues ***

Hell Incarnate. At Least In A Six-Foot Radius

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"Thank you," Mom said, "Is it possible for me to get a cup of tea?"

"Of course. David? Coffee?"

"Yes please, black."

"Be right back," Leeza said, and whisked herself into the kitchen. This woman never walked, never bounced. She floated around like a Fairy-Tale Princess on ecstasy. Minus the cat-in-the-hat striped stovepipe, and the propensity to disrobe with each new song.

I squeezed your mom's hand, which meant, "See? This isn't so bad."

Mom didn't return the squeeze, and I looked at her questioningly. She moved her eyes in a darting fashion to indicate our breakfast companions.

Crap. You know I'm not the most observant person in the world. Unless you have an extra arm growing out of your forehead I'm pretty likely not to notice. And even then, the arm would have to be unusually large. Or waving. Or have some of those huge rings on the fingers. On further inspection it appeared that we had been seated with the only unfriendly Canadians in the entire world. There were over 300 of them with knives, and daggers, and what could have been - although I'm not positive about this - an attack army of trained weasels hidden in their shirts.

No, I'm exaggerating. Here is what we were facing: One large, suspicious, and slightly nervous family. There were two men, in their mid-forties, two women about the same age, an elderly woman in her 70's, and various children that seemed to expand, then contract in number every time I glanced at them. None of this northerly entourage smiled. The two men sat with crossed arms. It was a symphony of flannel and denim and boots. My mind reeled at the sight. Sweet Mary and Joseph, what have we gotten ourselves into?

For you see, these were the most dangerous of Canadians. These were the out-doorsy flavor of Canadians. No mistake, and no other way to put it gently - these were authentic Canadian hikers.

A table of Canadian hikers all related to each other and two frazzled bikers from THE STATES. Woot woot! All aboard the fun train!

As you know the motorcycling community is generally treated as lepers by the likes of hikers and bicyclists. This is completely understandable. We are a loud, noisy, and sometimes quite unruly bunch. I always give the courtesy of a wide berth on the road but I don't think that helps. Basically, internal combustion is anathema to these groups. If you run across a 'herd' – that’s the proper term for a group of bicyclists, no. . . you don’t need to look it up – anyway, if you encounter a herd on a bike, derision will pour forth upon you like syrup from a pitcher. Unless you yourself are part of a larger motorcycle group. Then, all of a sudden people get all friendly in a hurry. But when we are riding alone, and happen to stumble onto a feral herd, if confronted I will take a moment to point out that they didn't walk to the mountains. And if they are so eco-friendly why do they have cycle racks on their cars? Yet you must be careful. Logic like that only leads to madness. Madness and bent bicycle frames and hiking sticks stored where no hiking stick should be.

Oh that's right! I'm one mean cripple when pressed. I am Hell incarnate. At least within a six-foot radius. Beyond that? Not so much.

Not that anything like that has ever happened. In reality I just give them room, wave and smile. Oh, but the ‘Hell incarnate within a six-foot radius’ is completely true.

*** the journey continues ***

We Meet The Native Homo Canukus

*** continued from previous post ***


After a cursory check on the bike, (Yep! Still a motorcycle!), we made our way into the Lodge. The place was alive and bustling. Voices and laughter poured from the interior. Yet your mother was as tense as an OCD sufferer in a light-switch factory. We took a deep breath, casting caution and judgment to the wind, and stepped through the alcove into the dining room.

The first thing I noticed was that in the daylight, the bank of windows had one of the most staggering views I've ever witnessed. I know I keep hammering this home, but it really was indescribable. And yet I blather on anyway. Jagged granite mountain peaks, the lush meadow, the creek . . . this must be what heaven looks like. Well, if heaven were in Canada. And all metric-y.

I stood mesmerized, drinking in the scenery like a parched CEO with the first Mai-tai of the day brought to my office by the new, (nod nod wink wink) secretary.

Really, I couldn't turn away until I realized that there were 30 pairs of eyes on us, and from their perspective it didn't look so much like I was soaking up the natural beauty spread outside the windows behind them but rather staring directly at them with a slack-jawed expression.

Great.

Fortunately, Leeza skip-danced over to us and ushered us to a seat at a nearby table. "Good morning David and Suzanne. I trust you slept well last night?"

"We sure did," Mom replied. "The bed is very comfortable, and the room is great. Although after yesterday I probably could have slept on a freeway."

Leeza smiled, "Oh you poor things. Well, you're here now and we're going to take good care of you. Here," she pulled out the chair for your mom, "have a seat and I'll get you started."

Mom and I took our places at an already occupied table. My suspicions from the night before were confirmed: It was large, square, and could fit four on each side. We sat alone on our side, two empty chairs bookending us.

This was no regular table. It was a square of Canuckian humanity. Possibly a tribunal. From the moment we sat down, it felt like we were at a job interview that had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

*** the journey continues ***

With Polytheism You Get More Paid Holidays

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As much as I would have liked, I could delay the inevitable no longer. With a sigh and a smile, I broached the subject that I had been dreading. Please, if there is a God, let this go smoothly. Let her be cheered by the miracle of life, and decide to give me a pass on this one. I braced myself, took a deep breath and said, "So honey," I put an arm around her waist drawing her into a hug, "shall we go have breakfast?"

Have you ever had a cat nestled in your arms, relaxed and purring, when startled by some noise transform in the blink of an eye from an animal with no bones into a piece of steel? Steel with claws and fangs and a penchant for assigning blame? It's a joy, really. You should try it sometime.

Protip: Wear gloves, a heavy coat, and a goalie mask. A baseball bat is not out of the question.

"You mean the wonderful group breakfast with 30 people I don't know that by now consider us idiots at best and insane at worst?"

Damn. God has failed me again. I swear, as soon as I'm back in THE STATES I'm gonna go all Pagan. That'll learn ya God. Learn ya good. Or maybe polytheistic. I think you get more paid holidays with polytheism.

"Well, if you put a spin like that on the situation, anything can sound bad."
"Really," she said raising an eyebrow, "let's see. . . .how could you spin this? Mr. Moore, the limo is here to take you to your awards ceremony.”

Crap. She was in test mode. No worries, I'm fast on my feet when the need arises. I cleared my throat and in a crisp voice said, "Yeah, your awards ceremony. . . IN HELL!"
Ha. I've beat her at her own game. Two points!

She started to say something, then shook her head in defeat and said, "Go brush your teeth and shave. Let's get this over with. But I swear by all that is holy, if this goes the way I think it will, I’m going to stab you with a fork under the table."

"In the knee?"

“You wish," she said.

"Fair enough good lady. But don't jump to any conclusions. This may be an exciting new experience! Let's go with an open mind, shall we?"

Mom looked me in the eye for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a few seconds at most. With a dead-pan voice and a slight shrug she said, "Sure."

Ah, my little dove. Her exuberance overwhelmed me.

*** the journey continues ***

I Got The Sugar

*** continued from previous post ***


Yet, spectacular as the view was, this wasn't what had, for lack of a better term, put your mom all in a bunch. There, right below us, and I do mean right below - I could have spit and hit them - not that I would, that's disgusting - was the much touted 'wallow', and a Moose and her calf frolicking about in the mud.

"Oh my god! How cute is that?"

Mom jerked the camera out of my hands, and proceeded to take well over 9000 pictures of mother and child in various poses. It was the equivalent of a Canadian Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Minus the beautiful girls. And the warmth. And the beach was replaced by mud. Other than that - spot on!

As a side note, what is it with baby animals? Somewhere, in our genetic makeup is the trigger that transforms anything under a year old into cutest frackin' thing on the face of the earth. Really. Think about what I just said. Name me one totally ugly, disgusting baby animal. No, even Naked Mole Rats are adorable, so don't go there. Snakes are precious. Baby opossums make me weep. Okay, I've seen baby pictures of Rush Limbaugh at 9 months - that may be the exception. If we could isolate and harness the power of that infantile essence, there would be no lonely, ugly people in bars. What a gift to humanity that would be.

I stood there, slack jawed, my head about to explode in a cavalcade of candy-canes and daffodils from the damned cuteness of this tiny, adorable, and long-legged wee beastie.
"Oh look! The mother is nudging it out of the mud!"

That's was it. I now needed insulin. We spent the next few minutes in a chorus of 'ooooohhhhsss and awwwwws', punctuated by the occasional gasp of delight.
Another quick side note: maybe it's just me, but I've noticed that cuteness has its limits. About 5 minutes and the miracle becomes mundane. ‘Yes, yes. . .the baby is doing a jig to the soundtrack of 'Oklahoma'. Yes, the top hat and cane are adorable. I told you that 3 minutes ago. Definitely cute. Yep. So . . . what's for lunch?’

As we stood there, we saw other moose make their way through the meadow to the wallow. It's possible that they had to punch a time clock hidden amongst the trees. There were deer as well. And what I now believe to be a lost hiker, but at the time thought to be a hobo seeking a therapeutic mud bath. Man, that guy could hold his breath for a long, long time. I think now that we probably should have reported that, but hindsight is 20 - 20, no?

*** the journey continues ***

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These And Who Am I To Disagree?

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Luckily, nature intervened on my behalf so unpleasantness was avoided. Mom woke me again, only this time with a "David! David! Get the camera and come here!"

I cracked open one eye, dreams still flitting across my synapses light as butterflies, and I couldn't figure out why Mom wanted a picture of me running down a hallway being chased by a grizzly in a pink tutu while an elk played goalie at the other end. Then, the world swam into solidity and I saw that she was standing by the glass door to the balcony, towel wrapped around her head, pointing excitedly at something down below.

"Grrrrk", I said, quite plainly. My vocal dexterity of moments before gone. Stupid tongue paralysis. I opened my mouth and tried again. "Whatizit?"

“Just get the camera and come here!"

I bounced out of bed and promptly smacked my knee on a log. Really, who the hell builds a bed out of logs anyway? Poor lumberjacks? Beavers forced into labor camps? Carpenters with a raw timber fetish? I managed to teeter over and grabbed the camera off of the end table closest to the bed, then hobble-gimped over to where your mom was fairly bouncing by the window.

"Look!"

Remember that we hadn't seen the view from 'Moose Snot' in the daylight, so you can excuse my sleep-addled brain as it struggled to interpret what I saw.

A postcard. That's the only way to describe the scene spread out before me . . . a flippin' postcard. In the daylight we saw that our room sat perched on a small bank 25 feet, (or 7.93 NLM - that's nano-liter-meters to you plebeians), above the valley floor, and overlooked that same gorgeous meadow that we had traveled by in the twilight. Iridescent green grasses, lush bush, and a small stream that looked close enough to touch lay before us. The meadow widened close to the Lodge, playing over hollows and slight slopes for a half a mile. (Oh I said mile, yes I did. So SNAPS!) Then the green blanket gave way to a gentle hill and the grasses transitioned to scattered trees. After a short distance the trees gave way to the dense forest of the foothills, that then climbed rapidly into some of the most stunning mountains I've ever had the privilege to view.

*** the journey continues ***

Lets Play A Game

*** continued from previous post ***


While Mom enjoyed a good scrubbing, I busied myself the way I do most mornings and promptly fell back asleep.

This time not the sleep of the dead, but more like 'Hey it's really cold because it's December and the electricity is out so let's bring that big honkin' BBQ into the house, fill 'er to the the brim with briquettes, and fire that baby up! That'll warm us all toasty and put a healthy glow into the kid's cheeks' kind of sleep.

Wait a sec. . . . ummm . . . I guess that's the sleep of the dead as well.

I don't know if you're aware, but another of Mom's and my favorite games is: If-David-Falls-Back-Asleep-Don't-Wake-Him-Until-It's-Five-Minutes-Before-The-Time-We-Have-To-Leave.

It's not my favorite game, as waking up in a modified panic does funny things to my heart and can cast a pall over my morning, but your mother has grown quite fond of it over the years. I don't share her enthusiasm, but she puts up with quite a bit from me so I allow her these simple pleasures.

I've asked her many, many, many times why she does this to me, to which she replies, "I woke you once. Be an adult and get your keister out of bed."

Silly, silly Mom. I've tried to explain to her that obviously, after all these years she KNOWS I'm going to fall back asleep, so why play this silly charade? Why not just wake me again?

To which she replies that I KNOW she won't wake me again, and I KNOW that I have to get up, so why do I insist on playing this silly charade and just get the hell out of bed?

Oh . . . now I get it! Gah! Well played good woman. I’ve done been bamboozled with me own logic.

*** the journey continues ***