I really did make it to Prince Rupert.
As you anticipated from the bike picture where we were
well up in the bow,
I was the first one off.
It follows that I got the #1 hit on the Customs parade.
I had been listening to dire predictions of the tough Canadian border
officials. They take hours. They distrust bikers. Here's
how it went:
The guy sees the very long line behind me, and decides, I think,
to slow it down intentionally by asking a longer series of questions.
"Where is home?" Valpo Indiana, over by Chicago. "Carrying any
firearms?" Left them home. "Any pepper spray, or Mace, for the
bears?" No. "Any liquor?" Only about 1/3 liter of bourbon.
"Any tobacco or items to trade with the natives?" (I swear, he said
it just like that.) No. "Drugs?" No.
He takes a leisurely look behind me and sees that long line getting
longer. Then, still staring intently over my shoulder: "Hey,
its been good talking to you." -- and sweeps his arm motioning for
me to get going. Thanks again, you lovely, dirty old bike; for starting
with the mere touch of the button, and not a backfire this time!
I got through Prince Rupert OK, heck the attitude lift from
the border patrol was carrying my spirits high. Now why did those good
officials get such a bad rap aboard the ferry? I put it down to a dull,
boring set of weather conditions, and trying to put a little life in the party.
One thing I noticed, that plume of stack exhaust smells like pine sap.
The friendly couple who were reading the same sign with me said they
were going to find the 'reversing rapids' and I thought I was in for another
long local myth. But, it seems there is a place where the tide runs
over these rocks, and so reverses the bubbles when the flow goes in and
out. I said I really wanted to stay and watch it with them, but my
tight schedule would not permit it. I apologize for lying.
The road out of town, I have to tell you, follows this huge,
incessant river/lake that just will NOT quit. That rain changes its
challenge by using mist, followed within seconds by dense fog and hides the
railway crossings until we are just on top of them. I reach back and
pull up the mantra hum, relax, and remind the old nerves that we are not in
a hurry. Loosen up. It feels so good to be riding again.
Take it slow.
Sounds good? I am rewarded by a diabolical plot that actually
makes me stop. The air fills up with these greasy
bugs. You might imagine that my ugly mug has seen some bugs.
Not like these. Even at 40 kph they hit with a pop and leave a smear
of guts that the rain will not wash off the faceplate. I have used cable
lubricant in a steel mill that was less tenacious. I don't know what
they have been eating, but the mess dripping through every fold in my rain
gear stinks.
I stop at a park, the ranger there is full of sympathy, but insists
on cash anyway. He told me the name of the bugs, but in my furious
state of agitation, I cannot read the entry on the page of my spiral notebook.
Cheer up, he said, it comes right off with windshield washer fluid mixed
with liquid detergent. I told him I would fill up my reservoir with
the recommended proportions. At least his humor was dry.
It is 9:50 p.m., the tent is up, and I'll continue in the morning.
No I won't. I find then that I slept wrong somehow, with my neck at
a twist, and now I have a headache. It doesn't help to try to write
Kitsumkalum in my logbook, especially when every town on every sign starts
with "Kit - something" and there is this film of scum on the inside of my
vitreous humor. What is that awful smell? I think we have the
creeping crud fungus in the clothes bag. This rope is wet, and when
I pull, it puts another kink in my neck. When will this rain stop?
Now don't get me wrong, this is a fun part of the trip, where the locals blast
along merrily at over 70 mph. and know by some radar instinct when the 20
mph. bend puts you right on the railroad tracks, all angled over in the rain.
I almost ask the ominous question "Who's the hell idea was this, anyway?"
but just then, only up the hill a few miles, I start to see the light.
I realize a couple of things. First, I'm way South again.
I actually got up in the middle of the night and it was dark. Maybe
that was depressing. Maybe. Second, this road is climbing, the
bike is singing a wild call to the trees, and the sky is brighter up ahead.
Inland, the Japanese current I learned about in school cannot dampen the dew
point nor thicken my spirits. This is great. Lets go swiftly.
I stop at Smithers, British Columbia. Nice guys at the
dealership, but I doubt if I impressed them much. I only bought a left
front turn signal bulb, and put it in myself. The new face shield was
crystal clear, and as we were shooting the breeze, one of them took my picture.
I hope it came out, because the one from my camera was out of focus, and
had more of their sign than of yours truly. It was quitting time, and
I was invited to just one beer, but I begged off to get moving again.
Here's why.
Climbing up, the air got dry and clear, all the musty bug infestations
are left behind. The lost film cassettes, the aches and pains from
rapidly advancing age, and the plain bad vapors in my head are just gone.
I don't deserve this.
But, I'll take it anyway. Tell me the truth. Wouldn't
you go fast? That dank valley is just behind. Crank it on louder.
The oil is fine, just changed with a new filter. The air cleaner is
clean in and of itself. The bugs' left over exoskeletons dry out, flap
in the breeze and blow away. Now, that is luxury.
I soon realize though, that those 90 kph signs don't mean a slight
(oh, maybe 15%) overspeed will permit me to keep this thing doing 100 mph.
As I learned quickly over in Europe, 90 kph is more like 54 mph, and doing
almost twice that is straining the Canadian/Indianian international relations
just a little too tight. I slow down. Luckily enough too, because
between Vanderhoof and Prince George they must have Mounties behind every
other tree. I amuse myself with a few choruses of "I'm a lumberjack,
I'm OK" but it is sung at a level sure to be drowned out by the bike pipe's
own musical notes.
Many of these signs warn, sternly, that it is illegal and unsafe
to spend the night in a public rest area. What I calculate is, such
regulations will tend to reduce the crowding by the amateurs, and so pull
off at the next secluded picnic table.
The sun sets, again, and I'm touched.
Now, an event like that, to be appreciated as a departure from
the norm, is damn near cosmic. Where have I been to have such a mundane
and normally unremarkable sunset be so much of a change?
It must be all downhill toward home now. That's good.
I, of course am not tired; but my little bike has rolled over the 6,000th.
mile for this trip, and must be. I won't unpack, it can't rain.
As I recline on the boards, the engine is softly clicking as it cools down,
tick... snap... ting... . Now, that is soothing. Good old bike.
I realize, for the first time in my life, that I have never given a motorcycle
a name. I swore at them, but never branded them. Peace.
I trust all those cops prowling about will inhibit the perverts.
I sleep like a lamb, and my neck appreciates the firm support of the solid
Canadian wood planks beneath.
Now, what could go wrong? 
Nothing. Just get up in the morning and stretch.
Pump the handle and wash up, down and all you can stand because its freezing.
The remains of the sardines, bourbon and mixed nuts go safely in the bear
proof dumpster, and lo, the bike starts up with a rumble.
Pay attention, this is going to be good.
How do you pronounce
"Banff"?.
or, back to
homepage
© 1997 - 2001 Mike LeDuc