Civilization at a Harley Rider's place?
Trip Start
Jun 06, 2004
1
11
27
Trip End
Jun 30, 2004
Pembroke,
Ontario,
Canada
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
I'm finding it difficult to get comfortable again. The pillow is not doing the job, and although I run through my usual repetoire of pelvic tilts and foot position changes, nothing seems to work
North Bay
. I am thankful when we pull into a Home Hardware in a small town. We need spark plugs and Gaz butane, but they don't have the right versions of either. Henry buys some string so he can haul up his aluminum footstand rest while on the bike. (This is a 4" square flat sheet of aluminum used to prevent the footstand from sinking into sandy or muddy ground.) Now I won't have to pick it up anymore, a chore I am happy to dispense with, especially when wearing full gear, which makes me about as bendable as the Michelin Man. We would also love to buy some of the snap-together laminate flooring they have here, which looks like tile rather than the hardwood-strip type we have at home. Maybe it will make it out to the coast some time soon.We repeatedly pass acreages where the pine trees have hardly any understorey, succeeded by areas where there is lots of deciduous bush around the trees. Are the trees-only sections plantations, or is there some other explanation?
We roll into a big gas station in Pembroke and phone Harley Dave, so-called because he rides and restores only Harley-Davidsons. He has ridden out to the coast on business regularly for 15 years, and has stayed at Henry's often since they met in a coffee shop. Even though we regularly mock Harleys (in Dave's presence, if not that of Hell's Angels), we are grateful for Dave's hospitality and the chance to do some maintenance on Gzowski in his extensive shop
Sandy & Dave
. He comes to meet us and I guiltily take up his offer to ride with him. The seat is SO cushy, and I don't feel the bumps even when he tries to hit some on purpose to show me how good the shocks are. I am a traitor.We have a suite to ourselves in the Victorian brick house Dave and his wife Sandy are renovating. We all sit in the sun and chat. I am finally able to wear the tank top and shorts I optimistically packed. Sandy heads off to work and the fellows get parts and settle into some serious bike work while I shower and do laundry, then bask in the sun reading, writing my journal, and knocking back several glasses of Sandy's very tasty homemade cranberry wine.
When Sandy gets home again we have a yummy dinner of hamburgers, hot dogs, cole slaw and excellent potato salad. (I am very fussy about potato salad.) In the midst of the dinner, I am attempting to squeeze out some mustard when the whole top pops off instead, drenching me in bright yellow. I shriek and mop up as best I can with my napkin, giggling. What makes it even funnier is that everybody else carries on as if nothing had happened at all. Apparently they have a mustard-error policy similar to my family's fart policy: if someone is so unfortunate as to perpetrate it, the duty of everyone else is to ignore it into oblivion.
Another friend of theirs popps in for a visit, and we all admire Sandy's orange and white Harley Sportster, which Dave is threatening to sell if she doesn't ride it more. She promises to ride into Quebec with us tomorrow. I have to excuse myself at 10 pm, since I just can't keep my eyes open another minute. Too much sun and wine and pampering, I guess. If I don't watch it, I'll get too used to civilization again.
