Ancient Priest
01-19-2009, 01:03 PM
I said I'd post it. It's long. But IT HAS MOTORCYCLES IN IT! Click out of it right now if you're looking to nitpick.
Edmonton Bike Show
Half of a moon slid down the sky in the West, while over to the East of the highway a broadening bright stripe on the horizon grew into full daylight as I drove North. Breakfast was cooking in farms on both sides of the road - I could almost smell it. I was waiting for mine.
Breakfast at Chez Esso
Given that Leduc is an oilfield service town right next to the Airport, and given too that people in Alberta get up in the morning and get on with piling up their fortunes, the coffee shop at the Really Big Gas Station was packed with millionaires in coveralls at eight in the morning.
Beware what you order. Dan, looking as fit as he did last year, ordered oatmeal. So did I. But there is oatmeal and oatmeal. The worst kind, which we got, is shaken from a pouch into a bowl of tap water. Then it is nuked three minutes in the microwave. Then it’s good for mudding drywall. No texture at all and not much flavour. I asked for Parmesan with mine. Mother Earth here in the apron didn’t turn a hair - she just brought a saucerful left over from last night‘s pasta.
The jubilant radio voice said ,“Sunny with a high of nine in Edmonton today. The Spring-like conditions will continue for another few days…” We held a minute of silence with our heads bowed low for those poor bastards freezing in the dark back East. A warm wind blew out of the South over our shoulders when we set a course for Northlands, and then piled into Dan’s crewcab truck and only got slightly lost going North.
North to Northlands
The Capilano Freeway morphs into Wayne Gretzky Drive at some point in the upper wastes of the Provincial Capital. It’s a safe bet that in a generation from now (maximum, two) kids will say to their fathers, “Who was Wayne Gretzky?” “Some kinda politician, I think. That was before we got here from Newfoundland.” Does Los Angeles have a Wayne Gretzky Drive? Does Peter Pocklington still have money?
Alberta is still pretty agricultural. You can hear people say with a flourish of pride ,” I was raised on a farm”. So Northlands is a giant cowbarn. They race horses there in warmer weather, and pry loose bags of money from the punters’ pockets. Today, parking cost just the same as last year - $12 - with a two-buck rebate if you showed your green receipt at the ticket window.
Over at the Motoplatz, the lass at the ticket booth gave me a wide smile when she took another twelve bucks from me. The line-ups were long but people got through pretty fast. Everyone talked to everyone else. (Standard practice in a province with only three million in it.) Phil and Dan knew about everybody there already, and shook hands with a couple of dozen.
Dan will run for the Premier‘s job when he‘s through on the pipeline. But he has honesty issues. Right now he’s having a hard time learning how to tell lies with a straight face. I am rehearsing him: “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive”. (“But, with a few repetitions and daily discipline, we get pretty good at it, and then start practicing to steal public money.”)
Really Big Show
Bikes, bikes, bikes. So damn many bikes that you’d think they planned to sell the things. A few million kilowatts worth of bouncing light made you really glad that you’d brought your shades. But there was room for a few hunnert thousand gawkers to move between them, and the exhibitors were being pretty good humoured about the occasional tip over.
Of all the makers’ displays represented here, Harley Davidson was without doubt the biggest. There might have been between fifteen and twenty models of Harley in that Cow Palace. Maybe more. I should have asked. Some of the hired help in Harley orange-and-black were really nice guys. One good-looking young guy in their livery let me ask him, ‘was this a line of new imports from across the ocean? ‘ ‘ Where (and from whom) did they get this idea of two wheels and a suitable motor?’ ‘Did these things actually run?’ ‘I mean, as well as shine?‘ He put on his I-am-talking-to-one-really-stupid-old-bastard face and twinkled his eyes. Quiet confidence. They should have more guys like that…
We looked at the V-Stroms, and we looked at the Wee-Stroms. What the hell is the difference? But they are a neat looking package, regardless. And , as Chomitz said, a very competent motorcycle. Yeah, they should send a few dozen (a few hundred) of either or both to Afghanistan. It would cost cheaper than armored troop carriers. Those Taliban guys would be so hungry to own one of these that they’d give up bullying women in favour of riding at speed across the wide and windy sands into the blue hills yonder. As long as Allah allowed it…
I had special eyes for the big scooters. The small stuff now coming from across the Pacific still belongs in somebody’s toy box. Suzuki’s Executive 650 has 54 horsepower, brakes made for stopping, let-it-shift-or-shift-it-yourself, and enough storage space for nearly a weekend’s worth of condoms. Ten-eight. Ten thousand and eight hundred dollars. Give them five hundred up front and you get the special show-price. 'Okay, cash. Can we get out from under the GST?’ ‘Boy-oh-boy, what year were you born in? You really are a stupid old bastard…’
Shot knees and all, when I get these ones replaced, that is my bike. If Allah allows it. And Allah had better shorten the wait list for knees because I’m running out of patience.
We schlepped around there and looked at about everything. Phil charmed all the mature broads; I looked after the young ones. One blonde little miniature, perched up on the seat of a KTM, I told her I would buy her that thing if she would cook breakfast for me for the rest of my life. She looked interested. That’s obviously not going to be long. Then this big muscular specimen came on the scene. Not hugely better looking than me. That was her BF. She lost focus.
The Food Court
Blondes have notoriously short attention spans. The one behind the counter at the beer booth was a doozie. She had to look behind her into the cooler to tell me what was on offer, and she was trying to keep in touch with the tall case of freckles she had just now sold beer to. Testosterone will drive some people nuts. I have mine in control.
Hey, nice surprise! The beers were a quarter of a dollar less than last year. Beer won’t poison you, so we got a few. Not so the food. Horse -on-a-bun cost seven-fifty. (They didn’t have to go far for the meat. We had brutal winter weather a while back, with a higher than usual equine death rate.) Phil had a shot at choking his down, but gave it up after some bravery. I ate pretzels. Dan has self-discipline like a Spartan. He drank nothing, and watched over us.
An interesting feature of the catering arrangement this year was that alcohol, smokes, and the consumption of other pollutants were shuffled off clear away from the public areas. ‘No alcohol beyond this point!’ But, to restore a man’s confidence in being a human, there was a small representation of underage citizens in forbidden territory. It is a comfort. It’s reassuring. Is it a Resistance Movement? There are drinkers-in-training. Fundamentalist nazis shall not prevail!
Out in the Sunshine
We had about a lap, maybe two laps, left in our legs. I popped a blue--and-white pain pill, which, potentiated by a weak solution of fermented hydrocarbons, kicks in fast. ’Who was the best man here before I arrived?’ So we moseyed back into the carpeted show space, renewed our subscriptions at the Cycle Canada booth, bought another year’s worth at Canadian Biker (WHO SENT ME A BIGGISH CHEQUE LAST MONTH, THANKYOU!) and negotiated traffic that was a lot thicker than when we arrived. Dan is not a tightwad: he bought a book to read at home. Thank god for readers. Where would writers be without readers?
Enough is enough. The usual huddle of smokers outside the doors was a couple of baseball teams only lacking a ball. The cast out homeless pariahs of the twenty-first century, we cast our eyes down as we watch them die. We all die, but some more quickly than others. You don’t have to rush it.
The sun burned down on the northern wilderness as we staggered toward Dan’s truck. I looked for dusty old farmers out working the fields. In previous years we had hunkered down from the icy arctic wind in the lee of whatever shelter there was. This year we (I) could throw snowballs at stray cats, avoid throwing them at youngsters who looked like they had superior arms and good eyes, and argue in loud voices about the freedom to argue. To celebrate, in short, the perfect day.
Until Next Year, then…
Dan and Phil are the best company in the world. Good listeners and good talkers. That’s if you can get around Phil’s thick East London accent. He speaks a cockney joual which has gotten thicker in the forty-five years he has been away from ‘ome.. Some Brits will get more British out of sheer perversity, plus a powerful conviction that they belong to a Master Race.
Dan married Phil’s daughter. He is the most considerate son-in-law a man could wish for. Phil and I have a bet about who will die first. If he dies ahead of me, his will will include me for a thousand bucks. I, likewise, with him. But I intend to be around for at least the life of another bike. The Suzuki dealer will hear me ask, “What’s the life-expectancy of this thing? Put all synthetics in it, won‘t you?” And that won’t make any sense to him. But you can’t make sense to just everyone you meet. The points of view aren’t the same.
They were up for another day in Edmonton. The West Edmonton Bunfight. I was not. Home and my own bed for me. We ate again at the Greasy Greek’s in Leduc, where I had to explain to the waitress that a smoked meat sandwich needs, has to have, hot mustard. She dug around and found some.
No Better Place than Home
I didn’t have time to show the pair of darkly handsome young Greeks at the pool table how to set your next shot up when you play this one. They were really only here to put the eye of lust on the luscious shape of the waitress; they weren’t really here to play pool. I was for home. The wind was in the shoulder of my sail, and I was stay‘d for.
South. South where it’s warmer yet. South past Our Lady of the Propane Tanks; past the wild whooping Indians at Hobbema, where gang warfare is still in fashion as a way of keeping the population down; past the Premier’s Piss Stop, which was built for Peter Lougheed when he was king; past a million barley fields now covered with snowmelt; South past the Peace Hills where the Cree and the Blackfoot agreed that there was more profit in hacking in future at the white guys than on each other; South past the Provincial Loony Bin at Ponoka, where the food is reputed to be much better than the average restaurant, and where I may check myself in one of these days. South to home.
Home where, if there is warmth and peace; love and quiet; food and sanity; a place which you know and you put together yourself, and which is not hostile; and if you don’t actually stop once in a while and fix mentally on what these realities mean to you, then you’re a bigger bloody fool than I first took you for!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I told you it was long. I could whittle it down. But Time allows in all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs, before the children, green and golden , follow him out of grace... I stole that.
Edmonton Bike Show
Half of a moon slid down the sky in the West, while over to the East of the highway a broadening bright stripe on the horizon grew into full daylight as I drove North. Breakfast was cooking in farms on both sides of the road - I could almost smell it. I was waiting for mine.
Breakfast at Chez Esso
Given that Leduc is an oilfield service town right next to the Airport, and given too that people in Alberta get up in the morning and get on with piling up their fortunes, the coffee shop at the Really Big Gas Station was packed with millionaires in coveralls at eight in the morning.
Beware what you order. Dan, looking as fit as he did last year, ordered oatmeal. So did I. But there is oatmeal and oatmeal. The worst kind, which we got, is shaken from a pouch into a bowl of tap water. Then it is nuked three minutes in the microwave. Then it’s good for mudding drywall. No texture at all and not much flavour. I asked for Parmesan with mine. Mother Earth here in the apron didn’t turn a hair - she just brought a saucerful left over from last night‘s pasta.
The jubilant radio voice said ,“Sunny with a high of nine in Edmonton today. The Spring-like conditions will continue for another few days…” We held a minute of silence with our heads bowed low for those poor bastards freezing in the dark back East. A warm wind blew out of the South over our shoulders when we set a course for Northlands, and then piled into Dan’s crewcab truck and only got slightly lost going North.
North to Northlands
The Capilano Freeway morphs into Wayne Gretzky Drive at some point in the upper wastes of the Provincial Capital. It’s a safe bet that in a generation from now (maximum, two) kids will say to their fathers, “Who was Wayne Gretzky?” “Some kinda politician, I think. That was before we got here from Newfoundland.” Does Los Angeles have a Wayne Gretzky Drive? Does Peter Pocklington still have money?
Alberta is still pretty agricultural. You can hear people say with a flourish of pride ,” I was raised on a farm”. So Northlands is a giant cowbarn. They race horses there in warmer weather, and pry loose bags of money from the punters’ pockets. Today, parking cost just the same as last year - $12 - with a two-buck rebate if you showed your green receipt at the ticket window.
Over at the Motoplatz, the lass at the ticket booth gave me a wide smile when she took another twelve bucks from me. The line-ups were long but people got through pretty fast. Everyone talked to everyone else. (Standard practice in a province with only three million in it.) Phil and Dan knew about everybody there already, and shook hands with a couple of dozen.
Dan will run for the Premier‘s job when he‘s through on the pipeline. But he has honesty issues. Right now he’s having a hard time learning how to tell lies with a straight face. I am rehearsing him: “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive”. (“But, with a few repetitions and daily discipline, we get pretty good at it, and then start practicing to steal public money.”)
Really Big Show
Bikes, bikes, bikes. So damn many bikes that you’d think they planned to sell the things. A few million kilowatts worth of bouncing light made you really glad that you’d brought your shades. But there was room for a few hunnert thousand gawkers to move between them, and the exhibitors were being pretty good humoured about the occasional tip over.
Of all the makers’ displays represented here, Harley Davidson was without doubt the biggest. There might have been between fifteen and twenty models of Harley in that Cow Palace. Maybe more. I should have asked. Some of the hired help in Harley orange-and-black were really nice guys. One good-looking young guy in their livery let me ask him, ‘was this a line of new imports from across the ocean? ‘ ‘ Where (and from whom) did they get this idea of two wheels and a suitable motor?’ ‘Did these things actually run?’ ‘I mean, as well as shine?‘ He put on his I-am-talking-to-one-really-stupid-old-bastard face and twinkled his eyes. Quiet confidence. They should have more guys like that…
We looked at the V-Stroms, and we looked at the Wee-Stroms. What the hell is the difference? But they are a neat looking package, regardless. And , as Chomitz said, a very competent motorcycle. Yeah, they should send a few dozen (a few hundred) of either or both to Afghanistan. It would cost cheaper than armored troop carriers. Those Taliban guys would be so hungry to own one of these that they’d give up bullying women in favour of riding at speed across the wide and windy sands into the blue hills yonder. As long as Allah allowed it…
I had special eyes for the big scooters. The small stuff now coming from across the Pacific still belongs in somebody’s toy box. Suzuki’s Executive 650 has 54 horsepower, brakes made for stopping, let-it-shift-or-shift-it-yourself, and enough storage space for nearly a weekend’s worth of condoms. Ten-eight. Ten thousand and eight hundred dollars. Give them five hundred up front and you get the special show-price. 'Okay, cash. Can we get out from under the GST?’ ‘Boy-oh-boy, what year were you born in? You really are a stupid old bastard…’
Shot knees and all, when I get these ones replaced, that is my bike. If Allah allows it. And Allah had better shorten the wait list for knees because I’m running out of patience.
We schlepped around there and looked at about everything. Phil charmed all the mature broads; I looked after the young ones. One blonde little miniature, perched up on the seat of a KTM, I told her I would buy her that thing if she would cook breakfast for me for the rest of my life. She looked interested. That’s obviously not going to be long. Then this big muscular specimen came on the scene. Not hugely better looking than me. That was her BF. She lost focus.
The Food Court
Blondes have notoriously short attention spans. The one behind the counter at the beer booth was a doozie. She had to look behind her into the cooler to tell me what was on offer, and she was trying to keep in touch with the tall case of freckles she had just now sold beer to. Testosterone will drive some people nuts. I have mine in control.
Hey, nice surprise! The beers were a quarter of a dollar less than last year. Beer won’t poison you, so we got a few. Not so the food. Horse -on-a-bun cost seven-fifty. (They didn’t have to go far for the meat. We had brutal winter weather a while back, with a higher than usual equine death rate.) Phil had a shot at choking his down, but gave it up after some bravery. I ate pretzels. Dan has self-discipline like a Spartan. He drank nothing, and watched over us.
An interesting feature of the catering arrangement this year was that alcohol, smokes, and the consumption of other pollutants were shuffled off clear away from the public areas. ‘No alcohol beyond this point!’ But, to restore a man’s confidence in being a human, there was a small representation of underage citizens in forbidden territory. It is a comfort. It’s reassuring. Is it a Resistance Movement? There are drinkers-in-training. Fundamentalist nazis shall not prevail!
Out in the Sunshine
We had about a lap, maybe two laps, left in our legs. I popped a blue--and-white pain pill, which, potentiated by a weak solution of fermented hydrocarbons, kicks in fast. ’Who was the best man here before I arrived?’ So we moseyed back into the carpeted show space, renewed our subscriptions at the Cycle Canada booth, bought another year’s worth at Canadian Biker (WHO SENT ME A BIGGISH CHEQUE LAST MONTH, THANKYOU!) and negotiated traffic that was a lot thicker than when we arrived. Dan is not a tightwad: he bought a book to read at home. Thank god for readers. Where would writers be without readers?
Enough is enough. The usual huddle of smokers outside the doors was a couple of baseball teams only lacking a ball. The cast out homeless pariahs of the twenty-first century, we cast our eyes down as we watch them die. We all die, but some more quickly than others. You don’t have to rush it.
The sun burned down on the northern wilderness as we staggered toward Dan’s truck. I looked for dusty old farmers out working the fields. In previous years we had hunkered down from the icy arctic wind in the lee of whatever shelter there was. This year we (I) could throw snowballs at stray cats, avoid throwing them at youngsters who looked like they had superior arms and good eyes, and argue in loud voices about the freedom to argue. To celebrate, in short, the perfect day.
Until Next Year, then…
Dan and Phil are the best company in the world. Good listeners and good talkers. That’s if you can get around Phil’s thick East London accent. He speaks a cockney joual which has gotten thicker in the forty-five years he has been away from ‘ome.. Some Brits will get more British out of sheer perversity, plus a powerful conviction that they belong to a Master Race.
Dan married Phil’s daughter. He is the most considerate son-in-law a man could wish for. Phil and I have a bet about who will die first. If he dies ahead of me, his will will include me for a thousand bucks. I, likewise, with him. But I intend to be around for at least the life of another bike. The Suzuki dealer will hear me ask, “What’s the life-expectancy of this thing? Put all synthetics in it, won‘t you?” And that won’t make any sense to him. But you can’t make sense to just everyone you meet. The points of view aren’t the same.
They were up for another day in Edmonton. The West Edmonton Bunfight. I was not. Home and my own bed for me. We ate again at the Greasy Greek’s in Leduc, where I had to explain to the waitress that a smoked meat sandwich needs, has to have, hot mustard. She dug around and found some.
No Better Place than Home
I didn’t have time to show the pair of darkly handsome young Greeks at the pool table how to set your next shot up when you play this one. They were really only here to put the eye of lust on the luscious shape of the waitress; they weren’t really here to play pool. I was for home. The wind was in the shoulder of my sail, and I was stay‘d for.
South. South where it’s warmer yet. South past Our Lady of the Propane Tanks; past the wild whooping Indians at Hobbema, where gang warfare is still in fashion as a way of keeping the population down; past the Premier’s Piss Stop, which was built for Peter Lougheed when he was king; past a million barley fields now covered with snowmelt; South past the Peace Hills where the Cree and the Blackfoot agreed that there was more profit in hacking in future at the white guys than on each other; South past the Provincial Loony Bin at Ponoka, where the food is reputed to be much better than the average restaurant, and where I may check myself in one of these days. South to home.
Home where, if there is warmth and peace; love and quiet; food and sanity; a place which you know and you put together yourself, and which is not hostile; and if you don’t actually stop once in a while and fix mentally on what these realities mean to you, then you’re a bigger bloody fool than I first took you for!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I told you it was long. I could whittle it down. But Time allows in all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs, before the children, green and golden , follow him out of grace... I stole that.