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Ride It Like You Mean It |
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Rollin' eZine Volume 1, Number 11 March 2001 =============
New and Used Cycles, news, reviews & info:
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Canadian Rockies, Here We Ride... Part 2 by Lauranne "Biker Betty" Bailey As I whisk this month's column off to the editors, I'm packing for Vegas, to escape for two days -- away from the snow, salt, fog, freezing rain, damp air -- into the arid desert climate to attend the Women in the Wind Winter Nationals. So far, I've no plans to rent a bike there as the rates are SO high, but I do plan an escape to Mt. Zion for some hiking and solace. I leave you with days three and four of last summer's tour, and hope it helps remind us all in the northern climes that riding season is just a few weeks away. Day 3 Thursday, July 27, 398 miles (+ my extra 50 detour) Today is a day for making time. No planned visits or detours, just traveling northwest on 16West. We hope to make it through Saskatchewan to the Alberta border. We start out with our $3.95 Canadian breakfast at Brenda's (separated from the hotel by an iron gate) -- which translates to about $3 in U.S. dollars -- plump, nitrate-free bacon, delicious eggs, brown toast (our equivalent to whole wheat) and luscious hash browns. After eating we start our travels between endless fields of golden blossoming canola (rape seed) and poppy blue flax seed. Set against the cloud-streaked sky, I feel my motorcycle and me head straight into an Andrew Wyeth painting of lost landscapes. Our first gas stop I discover only sports 87 octane, and my bike requires 89. We decide I will ride on ahead; the other three will meet me at the full-service gas stop. This moment brings exhilaration ... I am on my own for the first time in three days. The bike hums, little vibration, my face shield open to discovery, senses alert. The terrain rolls somewhat, and the quite limited traffic on this two-lane highway allows the mind to swim through the grains and surf the clouds. The foreign plant odors spread new banks with freshly formed rivers of memory. I am sated. The group catches up and we move on. Our second gas stop brings us to lunch time where we try out sausage gravy on fried potatoes. The one pump gas station/food store/post office brings out two women who applaud us for riding cross-country without men. Our third gas stop once again only has 87 octane. I'm beginning to feel agitated, not so much that the gas station doesn't have it, but that the three women don't remember I need the 89, so why don't we ride on to the next stop that has it, I think. So, the gas station attendant says there is a bigger city ahead -- Lanigan, and I press on. I am irritated that I am irritated. I know I need to voice my feelings when we meet up again. A hawk passes ominously low. The roadside shoulders narrow. I think ... oh, for some reason I should not be doing this. A flock of blackbirds swarm and circle and land in a perfect line across the road in front of me ... a feathered barricade. I think, now what is this? I keep riding and feel the hesitation in my motor as the engine warns me to turn my petcock onto reserve. I have about 25 miles left to ride in this gas tank. The road keeps going and going and I wonder when I will reach Lanigan. Twenty miles from where I left the other three, I see a sign that says 6 North. I'm thinking ... that could not be ... I must be intersecting with 6 North, soon. I should be on 16 West. Well, five miles later I reach Watson and learn I am 25 miles away from where I last left my friends, and they are 25 miles west of there, so I am now 50 miles away from them. I am panicking. Not the kind where the heart races and consumes the body, but the kind where I somehow believe doing things faster will help me while my intuition knows it only makes things worse. The gas station attendant comes out. Yes in Canada they still WANT to pump your gasoline, but motorcyclists prefer to do their own. I ask her where am I? I only brought along a general Canadian map, not a detailed one for each province. She confirms I am on 6 North, and I tell her where I need to be. She says it would be best to back track. I am thinking, well, if I have to be alone until I reach Edmonton, I will have to live with my decision to rush off ahead. I pull out the trusty cell phone and realize I left it on and the battery is dead. I grab the slip of paper Peggy prepared with everyone's phone numbers and contact information. I call Peggy's cell phone via a pay phone and get an out of service message. I call Mariann's cell phone and leave a message on her voice mail. I pack up and hop back on the bike, and southward I travel. This whole day has offered a threat of rain, but it always seems to stay south of us. I am hoping it stays south. I'm riding way beyond the speed limit, no other vehicles on the road. I keep saying little prayers that they will not be too worried and will think to check Mariann's voice mail. About 35 minutes later I see Mariann's bike at the Esso station in Lanigan -- staring at me with it's one chrome-eyed pirate look. I pull in and we four are all quite relieved. We decide to ride 100 miles more to Saskatoon, the capitol of Saskatchewan, and get a room. They ask me if I got their message, I tell them my cell phone is dead, Peggy tells me she put her husband's phone number, not hers on the information list, and Mariann says she couldn't figure out how to retrieve her voice mail. Cindy, who has no phone says, I told them I bet you went straight on the road, not realizing 16 West was a left turn immediately after the gas station. There was no sun out to gauge direction. Intuition works for Cindy, and I don't listen to mine. Mmmmm. Almost two hours later we reach Saskatoon and start looking for a room. We find a reasonably priced hotel until we realize it is right next to a nude dance club. We drive miles before we find a nice room for $19 each (Canadian money), unpack the bikes and get an average dinner at a nearby diner. Back to the room for showers, Mariann and I stay up a while chatting about her raising her son in a not so good neighborhood in Milwaukee and how her son would get harassed by police, merely for having some tattoos, piercings, and wild hair. Day 4 Friday, July 28, 327 miles As a wake up on my own (another motel's automatic wake up service not working again!), I think back to yesterday and how I let Peggy, Mariann, and Cindy know that I develop a level of uncomfortable anxiety when I have to get gas at a separate place, and deal with the possibility of being separated from them. It is agreed that we will not split anymore. Others will look for the 89 octane levels, and just for safety measures, I buy some octane booster. As we gas up for the trip, a wiry, dark-haired guy jumps out of his Chevette and asks us where we came from, where are we going? When we tell him, his drama antics bring out giggles in all of us, including his woman partner in the car. He jumps around telling us how envious he is of us as he has to run off to work. He praises our gumption and he rides parallel to us until we turn west on 16. The morning Saskatchewan sun plays at our backs as we leave Saskatoon. I love the way those two words march out of my mouth: Sas-catch-eh-whan ... Sas-ca-toon. The former is derived from the Plains Indian word “kisiskatchewan” which means swiftly flowing river. The latter is derived from "Mis-sask-quah-toomina" a Cree word referring the berry which grows profusely in the area. It is no surprise to learn Saskatoon is a major distribution center for the surrounding agricultural commodities. We pass through North Battleford at 80 miles on the gas tank. Peggy keeps riding, thinking we'd find gas 20 miles west of there. Well, there is a gas station, but Peggy sees a sign for a truck stop five miles down the road, so we travel on. During this portion of the trip, Cindy needs to put her reserve tank on. We arrive at the truck stop and we see a restaurant, trucker rooms, and a weeded-over gas pump that appears to have not pumped its 'pane in the last decade. At this point, I have to pee so bad I am jumping off my bike and can't really concentrate on anything else. We end up eating breakfast here as we are informed the gas station we left behind doesn't open until 9 a.m. and it is 8:30 a.m. We backtrack five miles for gas after eating, and then head northwest to Edmonton on 16W. We arrive to the big city around 1 p.m. and find the road signage a bit amusing. It's not like here in the U.S. when it says Exit Rte 1, 1 mile; Hwy 32, 2 miles ... the sign for the turn appears and one had better hope she is in the correct lane because it is coming up in 1/2 mile. We arrive at the Edmonton Mall where our hotel room awaits us. We run into many Women in the Wind members and share tales of our trip through the Canadian grasslands. Heidi, who is our international newsletter editor lives in Corvalis, Oregon, and travels to Edmonton via Alaska by herself. Judy, another woman from Mariann and Peggy's chapter near Milwaukee tells of her terror on I94 near Rapid City where a dust tunnel could be seen snaking up the plains from the south and was so strong, they all pulled over, and once stopped, Judy lost control of her bike, falling away from the bike into the ditch. At worst, she was bruised and frightened. I have felt those hidden gusts in a car, and feel a little fearful of our return trip through South Dakota. We secure a bellman, and the eye candy is delectable to our sorry, road weary eyes. We unpack our bikes, and begin loading gear onto the cart, and loading gear, and more gear, until we actually fill up one of those large luggage carts ... from bottom to top (where the helmets hung like stockings on the fireplace mantle). We definitely had our picture taken! As part of our usual modus operandus, we ask for extra towels ahead of time -- two per woman -- one for the body, the other to wrap our hair in a turban. We head up to the room and squeal with delight as we know we are paying $119/night in Canadian dollars for this huge room, two queen beds, large bathroom, and a jacuzzi. The bellman arrives, and he is a different one, which miffs us a little because we tipped the first one ahead of time thinking he was bringing the bags up. But he is so adorable and says 'eh?' after every sentence. He brings in our last bag, and I slyly close the door and say, "Now it's our turn to unpack you!" And without batting an eye, he retorts, "There will be an extra fee for that, eh?" We just had to let the witty young man go unmolested. After showers and unpacking, we head to the MALL for dinner. Now this is much bigger than the Mall of America if one can imagine. I don't even know its size but it goes on for blocks and blocks and blocks. We check the map and find the "Bourbon Street" section for some cajun food, and then I have to get back for my massage. Yes, I had made an appointment ahead of time to get a massage as I knew this would be rough going for me. The woman even brings her table to the room ... so 1-1/2 hours later, I am a rubber ducky as the other three women pour me into the Jacuzzi where we sip on champagne, eat Godiva chocolates and can't keep our buns weighted down in the water ... we keep floating to the top. And that is the last thing I remember other than saying how I look forward to NOT riding the bike on Saturday. Continued Next Month Lauranne "Biker Betty" Bailey has been riding her own bike since 1993, and as a passenger since 1977. Her current ride is a '97 Triumph Adventurer, following a parade of Viragos and a Shadow. While an editor and web goddess for her day job, she spends her free time riding, writing poetry, singing with a women's a capella group, and is working on a memoir of her mother. "Betty" shares a parrot and labradoodle with her husband of 11 years and is International Secretary for Women in the Wind, Inc. |
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