Adventures with Allan
¯ Valkyrie, Valkera
Valkyrie, Valkera, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
Valkyrie, Valkera.......¯
This story starts in Edmonton, in September 2002, in the city campground, Judy and I out for an evening walk, seeing who’s partying at the big tent up the hill. It’s a company gig, big bonfire, lots of camaraderie, nice people, everyone having a good time. We chat for a while, then take our leave to continue our walk. On the way out I spot a gorgeous motorcycle that I just have to look at further. It is absolutely huge (HUGE), the biggest bike I have ever seen. We admire it for a while, then return to the party to find it’s owner, Leo, who comes out to talk to us about it. It’s a Honda Valkyrie Tourer, six cylinders, 1600 cc, six carbs, eight feet long, eight hundred pounds, equipped with windshield and lower bags. Essentially it’s a hot rod Goldwing, what my bike would be with twenty-four years of evolution on it. Leo has only owned it for two weeks, so he really wants to talk about it. He lets me sit on it - oh, this fits nice - he lets me start it and give the throttle a few twists - WHACK - WHACK - WHACK - serious power, right now. I REALLY, REALLY like this bike. What colour is it, anyway? It’s dark out and difficult to see anything but dark and light colours. Leo says it’s green over cream with a red pinstripe, and Judy confirms this by the light of the headlamps.
Eventually we say our goodnights, Judy and I continue on our walk, and in the morning we head for Jasper to enjoy our vacation, the Valkyrie seed firmly planted in my head.
Fast Forward one month.......
Back from vacation, work caught up, idle time on my hands, always the precursor of trouble of some sort, wondering if Birchwood Honda has a new Valkyrie, just to look at. No. Westside Honda? No. Bill’s Honda? No. Anything used? No, no, no. Hmmmm.
How about the Internet? One in Florida, expensive, one in Texas, crashed and rebuilt, one in Oregon, bumblebee yellow/black. Now it’s become a challenge and a bit of a hobby just to find one. No harm in looking is there?
An ever widening radius of phone calls to Honda dealers - nothing in Kenora, Thunder Bay, Regina or Saskatoon. An Interstate model in Calgary (may as well buy a Goldwing), a stripper in Edmonton (stupidly expensive to add Honda windshield and bags), a blue and black Tourer somewhere else (black and blue?). Okay, now it’s a mission.
In desperation, I called my sister Brenda and had her read me the Montreal Yellow Pages for Honda dealers. A bunch of calls later, I reached Lajeunesse Moto in Laval, who had a green and cream Tourer, complete with a red pinstripe, and oui, you can see it on our webpage. Uh, oh, this could be trouble.
It’s a 1997, 48000 km, perfect condition, $4000 worth of extras, even a trailer hitch. I asked brother-in-law Dave to go down and look at it, and, yes it’s huge, yes it’s in perfect condition, and yes it goes WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. I tracked down the original owner and got a clean bill of health from him. I negotiated with Norman over price, and got him to drop exactly one dollar. It’s the bike I want (I think), the price is reasonable enough, and it’s crunch time, poop or get off the pot so to speak.
Turning to the Voice of Reason - Judy - I seek out her wise counsel, looking for an insight that may be missing from my testosterone addled brain. Her response, and I quote, “BUY IT, BUY IT, BUY IT”. Oh yeah, you’re a big help Judy.
So I bought it, big bucks, sight unseen, 2500 km away, a potential disaster in the making. I have only seen one other Valkyrie in my life, that one in the dark. I have never ridden a Valkyrie. Six weeks ago I didn’t know a Valkyrie from a turnip. What if I hate it?
For the next six months, over a long and nasty winter, I console myself with Internet pictures, framed Valkyrie prints, a Valkyrie T shirt and cap for Christmas, a Valkyrie desk ornament, and magazine articles about Valkyries. If it’s big enough and bad enough for Gerhart Berger, I should like it, shouldn’t I? Geez, I sure hope so.
Motorcycle magazines had the Valkyrie on the cover no less than six times, with multi page articles and titles like “Mr. Big”, “Bigger is Better” and my personal favorite “Size DOES Matter”. I need a T-shirt with that logo. I need to at least SEE my bike. Four months to go. Will winter never end? Ninety-two days to go. Off we go to the Ozarks, on the Goldwing’s last ride. Thirty days. Watching the weather through Ontario and Quebec. Watching the air fares to Montreal. Weather hovering around zero, and I need daytime highs of at least 10 C. Go away, winter. Temperature finally comes up and I book a one way flight, knowing full well that it’s going to get worse before it gets warmer. It’s +22C and sunny in Winnipeg, how bad can it get? I’ll take ALL my bike gear, just in case.
But the waiting is over and I’m going to get my bike. Wonder what it looks like? Wonder how it drives? Wonder if it’s comfortable? Wonder how much weather protection it has? Wonder if it’s really that powerful? Wonder if I’ll like it?
Thursday, April 24, 2003.
Up early to catch the 7:20 am Air Canada Tango flight to Toronto, chat with Gerrie Fargie (an old friend) en route, share a chuckle about the dorks with their SARS masks on, into T.O. on time, an hour’s wait to get back on the same plane, holding my breath the whole time, just in case. Flight in to Montreal, obligatory fairy purser selling peanuts, arrive 1 pm local time. Cheap, fast, convenient and uneventful - just the way I like my airplanes.
Dad meets me, good to see him, hasn’t changed a bit, we grab my duffels from the carousel and head out to wait for the “jitney” that will take us to Dad’s car, parked at the Hilton. It was here that I had a weird experience with the guy from the other planet who was obviously trying to communicate with me for some unknown reason. Huh? Me? What? What the hell’s he saying? Oh, wait, this is Quebec, he’s speaking French. Something about my briefcase? Is that my briefcase that I left in the cart over there? Ah, oui. Yes, yes, that is mine. Merci. Merci beaucoup, monsieur. I had not had a single French thought until that moment, better re-arrange my thinking patterns, start reading the French part of the signs, be prepared to torture the language, anytime, anyplace.
Around the traffic circle - bunch of wimps need four traffic lights to drive it now - Dorval Gardens (The Shops) Deli for a smoked meat - extra fat, hold the bread; after all, I’m on a diet - then on to Laval on a slightly circuitous route to find Lajeunesse Moto and my new bike. I am really pumped as we pull into the lot. Normand is on the phone, he’ll be right with you, so Dad and I take the opportunity to look at the two Valkyries in the showroom, one a well used Tourer, the other a naked new one. Does mine have this? I know mine has that. Where is mine? Hurry up Normand. C’mon, c’mon. Absolutely jumping up and down, a little kid in a candy store.
Finally Normand finishes his call, we introduce ourselves, and he takes me out back to see the most gorgeous black and cream machine I have ever seen. BLACK and cream? What colour is this, Normand? Green. Green and cream. Are you colourblind? This colour is green and this colour is cream. Yeah, yeah smartass, thanks. The green is a deep colour and it just takes me a little while to see it. All the chrome goodies are there as promised. No scratches, no rub marks, no dents, no signs of age. The thing is perfect, as if it was new. And it is soooo good looking, and soooo big. Start it up - WHACK- WHACK- WHACK, just like I had imagined it. I’m too nervous to get on it, so I get Normand to pull it out of the shop and gas it up while I get changed into my biking gear and finish up the paperwork. Dad waits patiently for me to get ready, gives me directions to Mary’s house in Ste. Eustache, then follows after me in case I have a problem.
Rush hour traffic in Montreal, a strange bike, a massive bike, frayed nerves, unfamiliar streets, Quebec drivers. This is really wearing me out. I get it back to Mary’s without incident, rolling on the power a few times just to get a feel of the bike, really enjoying what I feel, but once it’s parked, I oddly don’t want to get back on it today. I guess that the six months of waiting is over, we’ll start a new chapter tomorrow.
We try to hook up with Brenda and Dave, but that’s just not going to happen this trip, and with the weather being pretty miserable, I decide that I can’t afford an extra day in Montreal, that I had better hit the road in the morning. For supper, Dad, Mary and I decided on a small restaurant nearby, turns out to be an excellent choice, we even pick up a bottle of “brown bag” wine to take with us (selecting with great finesse the large bottle nearest the door of the LCBO). Scampi, fillet, and shrimp were on the menu, all delicious. I even ate a bread bun, my first in several months. Coffee and dessert later we called it a night and headed home.
Home for me tonight was my own room, very nice, big window, bathroom down the hall, breakfast in the morning. Just like a B & B without the cost. We chatted a while and tried to watch some hockey, but everyone was tired, and tomorrow, as they say, is another day.
Friday, April 25, 2003.
7:30 am, -2C, damp roads, cloudy sky. Not a promising day, but, as it happened, the best it got. Unpacked all my bike clothes, put most of them on, packed the bike, tightened a loose footpeg, re-packed the bike, ate breakfast, re-packed the bike, started and warmed up the bike, put the rest of my gear on, took a picture, said my good-byes and took off for Winnipeg, a long, long way away. Sunny as I left, but the last sun for a very long time.
First stop is Goulet Sport in Ste. Therese where I picked up all the service records for the Honda. And a set of windproof underboots and a new balaclava to replace the one I had forgotten in Winnipeg. It’s cold, very cold. I have never been this cold on a motorcycle, and had I been on the Goldwing, I would have turned around and waited it out. The Valkyrie has better all round weather protection but, damn, it’s cold, and getting colder.
The Autoroute is just as I remembered it, without the toll booths, a trip down memory lanes; Avila, Mont Gabriel, the bridge at St. Sauvere, snow on the ground everywhere, ski trails with seemingly full coverage. Coffee and fuel at Ste. Agathe, meet up with the only other biker I have seen - he is an ice cube and not going far - temperature drops to -5 C, strong gusty wind with snow. 15 cm overnight and still coming down. The road is dry, so I keep going, heading for an overnight in Val D’Or, 500 km away.
The bike is wonderful, big, powerful and easy to ride. Very, very, comfortable. The driver’s backrest is perfect, the windshield keeps almost all the wind off me, the engine gives a little warmth to my feet. Hands get coldish, but with cruise control, I can switch off and get them right out of the windstream. Judy’s new full-face helmet is a lifesaver, fogging up a little when I slow down, but otherwise keeps the weather out very nicely.
Past St. Jovite and Mont Tremblant, lunch, fuel and a beer at Mont Laurier, then on through La Verendrye Park, 250 km of trees, more trees and frozen lakes. Stop for fuel at La Domain, watching the young jerks in the new white van peel rubber up and down the parking lot in a state of agitation after being kicked out of the nearby restaurant. Cursing and hollering. They sound like Indians. Six or more of them looking for trouble. I am certainly going to watch out for them. They leave, heading away from the highway, whew, and off I go. I pull back onto the highway, get rolling, and there they are, waiting to cross in front of me. They wait until I am close, and pull out directly in front of me. I slow down, then goose it by them and keep a close watch in my mirrors.
At this point the opposing traffic has a passing lane - two full lanes going east and ours going west. The asshole driving the van is across the yellow line, fully on the other side of the road, running head on at the traffic coming the other way. He scares the bejesus out of five or six cars while I watch, then he comes for me. I watched him come across three lanes of highway at me, he had to be doing 160 or more. I timed it just right: as he was about to hit me, I pulled sharply right and slowed down. The asshole just missed me and zoomed by, in search of death. Hope he finds it. Hope I find the whole vanful in a ditch, screaming in pain, begging me to help them. Indians.
I was pretty upset for a long time, powerless to do anything about them, wondering when they’ll re-appear in my life, watching out for every white van coming my way for more than 100 kms. Where’s a cop when you need one? Over a rise in the road apparently. A QPP with radar was parked on the other side of the hill, handing out what surely must be mega-tickets, because everybody was absolutely flying down this road. My reaction time honed razor sharp by the cold, wet weather, I managed to stop only 100 m beyond the cop car, turning around in the highway without dropping the bike, and pulled up for a chat.
He got out, into the wet, windy and just barely above zero weather, I managed to get off the bike without falling down, and we chatted for at least 20 minutes in the freezing cold. He drives a bike himself, we compared good roads (I won the pissing contest with the Ozarks), and, yes, we do have a lot of trouble with the Indians around La Domain, and, no, there’s not much we can do about them especially once they’re back on the reserve. He is very impressed with the Valkyrie, I’ve had my break, he wants to be back in the warmth of his car, so we part company, both of us back to our respective missions.
Reached Val D’Or about 5:30, stopped at the Tourist info booth, tried the B & B that the cop had recommended but it was full, ended up at the Continental Hotel right downtown, four bars and four restaurants within a block in either direction. Bought a couple of cigars at the Tabagie, and, starting with Tequila and a beer, tried all four bars without much happening considering it was a Friday night. Supper at Del’s across the street from the hotel, all you can eat buffet including skewered shrimp, scallops, veggies and salad. Great diet food, great food. Checked the bike, unloaded a few things, threaded the cable lock through the front wheel and the crash bar, and up to the room, where I soaked in a hot tub for an hour. A handful of aspirin, a hockey game, phone calls to Judy and Dad, and bed. This has been a character building day, but a good day.
Saturday, April 26, 2003.
Up early, long, hot shower, possibly the best shower I have ever had in a hotel, think about stealing the showerhead for home use, downstairs for my morning coffee fix. Four people in the coffee shop, all speaking English, a genuine rarity in Val D’Or, and we get to chatting across the aisle. Two young women in their 20’s, both natives from way north of Val D’Or, and a local guy. We talk about native languages and culture, what it’s like in Winnipeg (the girls had absolutely no idea where or what Winnipeg was - they thought it was a reserve), what it’s like on the reserve, their schooling system (?) and so on. The conversation was pretty normal except for their use of the F*** word, which was liberally and loudly sprinkled in. I pulled out some cash to pay for my coffee and one of the girls asks me my name. I tell her, and she introduces herself and her friend by name. Nice to meet you, I say. She says “So, Allan, why don’t you buy us our breakfast, eh?” Right out of the blue, like I owed it to her. Indians, they’re all the same.
Pack my stuff, get on my gear, check out, haul everything to the parking lot, pack the bike, warm it up, decide to take a picture of the bike over there in the sun (SUN !! ), and shoot out of the lot to take the picture. GGGRRRAAAUUUNNNCCCHHH. What the hell is that? THE CABLE, I FORGOT THE CABLE. Ooohh, CRAP. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The front fender is all bent up and the paint on it is ruined. Aaahh, CRAP. Twenty-four hours with my pristine bike and I’ve already buggered it up.
I don’t think anyone actually saw my stupidity, so at least I haven’t been publicly humiliated, and I’m still King of the Road. Well, what’s done is done, I’ll have it fixed when I get home, let’s move along, let’s get that picture. So I pull it out onto Main Street, Val D’Or, much less cocky, much more slowly, and I DROP THE DAMN THING IN THE MIDDLE OF SATURDAY MORNING TRAFFIC. Eight hundred pounds of somewhat used motorcycle, lying on it side in the middle of the street. What do I do now? Pick it up, stupid. How am I supposed to do that, it weighs EIGHT HUNDRED POUNDS! The answer? Adrenaline, sheer adrenaline.
What a way to start Day 2 of the big adventure. I mentioned sun earlier? Yeah, right. +2C at 9 am and getting colder as I ride. Sun turns to cloud, turns to fog, turns to snow, turns to blizzard. I actually have to slow down because I can’t see. Roads are wet, cold and miserable, but not yet snow covered, so I press on to Kirkland Lake and the Whistle Stop for breakfast and a beer. The rather attractive girl behind the bar used the F* word a lot, apparently the norm up north, or maybe it’s just that I’m a hard rock biker that all the girlies are trying to impress. I called Judy from my cell phone, no answer, left a message. Five minutes later, with everyone in the bar listening, my phone rings - it’s Judy returning my call. It’s the small things in life that make you feel good. Sunny enough now to highlight the snowflakes through the bar window. One great poster in the bar said “You’re still ugly, buy me another beer”.
I feel welcome here in bilingual Canada, as opposed to Northern Quebec, where I was treated like an outsider, tolerated - cordial but without any warmth. I also noticed that Canadian flags were flying again, unlike Quebec, where there were hardly any flags of any kind. I guess that the average Quebecer considers themselves too sophisticated to declare an allegiance to either Quebec or Canada. It’s time for you wieners to stand up and be counted.
Fueled up, discovering that I can put in way more gas by standing the bike upright while I fill. This could come in handy on the long stretches between civilization up here, as I’m only getting about 200 km per tankful. The kid at the gas bar creams his jeans over the bike. The bike is wonderful - comfortable and fast. I’m cruising at 120 - 140 kph, passing is a breeze, gobs of power. Three sets of footpegs allow me to reposition myself occasionally, although I don’t use the highway pegs, way out there in the windstream. No physical pains from riding, other than the cold. Everywhere I go, people gawk and comment on the bike.
Passed Swastika and Moonbeam, two differently named towns within 100 km of each other. Fuel and coffee in Smooth Rock Falls, where two other bikers pulled out as I pulled in. They looked local, as they had no particular gear with them. The deadhead to Hearst, now six or seven hours in the saddle, still cold, now wet again, flurries as I pull into the lot of the Companion Hotel, the best hotel in the world.
This place has it all - a beautiful, spacious, room, a whirlpool, sauna and gym, a garage for the bike, a terrific bar, tonight’s restaurant special is all you can eat seafood, and, best of all, I don’t have to go outside again today. I left the bike in the handicap parking zone right outside the front doors, unpacked it, hauled everything up to my room to dry, got out of my gear and headed down to the bar, where I ran into Mike and Steve, two surveyors from Hamilton out here on a three week job. Really nice guys, and we passed a
very pleasant hour or two just shooting the bull. From where we sat we could see the bike, and everyone, virtually everyone, who walked by it stopped and stared. One guy spent at least 15 minutes walking around it, obviously enthralled.
I had a glorious whirlpool and shower, then went downstairs for the seafood buffet. There was a surprising amount of style on a Saturday night in Hearst, very Cosmo. Well, the ladies anyway. The guys tended towards pot bellies and some pretty scruffy clothes. The food was remarkably good - whole lobsters, Alaska King crab legs, shrimp and scallops, along with a very good salad bar and a bunch of other stuff that was full of carbs that I didn’t eat. I did have a bun, smothered in butter. And a glass of wine. Love this diet.
After dinner I went into the bar for some people - okay, girl - watching. What a great bar! There was a DJ playing terrific music (Mary J Blige) through an awesome sound system, the pool table was hustling, the dance floor was full of young women (I was drinking water, so most of them were still ugly), and I wrote four pages of crib notes for this story. As I was sitting there, I realized that I had been wearing the same clothes since I left Winnipeg, and it occurred to me that maybe I should change for tomorrow.
Still snowing as I went to bed.
Sunday, April 27, 2003.
Up early, into the whirlpool, on the road by 9 am. Hearst to Longlac, 210 km of straight, flat road, trees, thousands of trees, millions of trees. I passed a sign for the “Lone Pine Motel”. What did they do, clear cut? I had 20 km of giggles over that thought. High speed, cold, rain, then fog, then snow, then blizzard again. 160 kph, on cruise control, one hand on the bars, the other keeping warm. Through the snow and sleet. What a machine. Serious power, never a lack of it. Smooth and comfortable. Into my third day now and no ill effects from riding. No way the Goldwing would have come this far - way too cold and wet. 210 km of high speed, 207 km of fuel. Ran out just outside Longlac - the sun came out for the first time on the trip, I absolutely basked in it (at +2 C) while flagging down cars to ask for fuel. A guy with two quads on a trailer stopped, he had fuel but only premixed. Oh well, let’s see how it runs on 30:1. Fine, thank you. Breakfast in Longlac, chat with the locals, fuel up, wash the bike (still sunny), off I go to Thunder Bay, three hours distant.
I’ve been warned about cops between Longlac and Geraldton, and sure enough, there were two. Still lucky ticket-wise. Still snow on the ground, all lakes are still frozen solid. At the Beardmore Palisades the scenery gets absolutely gorgeous, the temperature plummets along the giant ice cube called Lake Nipigon, and it starts raining / sleeting. All the way to Thunder Bay. Cold. Cold and wet. Cold, wet and miserable. Stop in Nipigon for coffee (2) and a beer, fuel, and warmth. Chat with the locals. Back out in the cold and rain, heading for the Terry Fox info center at Thunder Bay. Rains harder, truck spray, along Lake Superior, still frozen? Can’t tell and don’t care. Just finish this day. Now the coffees and beer kick in, combine with the cold and wet, and, boy, have I ever gotta go, still 22 km to the info center. I’m dancing on the seat. Go ripping up the driveway to the info center, stop, park, leap off, pulling off my helmet, balaclava and gloves as I dash for the biffy, wondering if I’ll get wet from the inside now. Several more precious seconds fumbling with frozen fingers, rain pants, button fly jeans, long johns, underwear and (ahem) shrinkage, and, aaahhhhhh, I made it.
Had a nice, warm chat with the info girl, who went to considerable effort to find me a motel in Shabaqua, 45 minutes west of Thunder Bay. Sky clearing, bike filthy, me wet, I head out the final stretch, nice ride (I am accepting the cold as a fact of life by now), nice road, really crappy motel, special order a dinner that adheres to my diet (except for the surprise gravy), read a newspaper, soaked in the tub for an hour, watched a bit of hockey, ate almonds dipped in “No Salt” to replenish my potassium level, dried out my clothes by turning the bathroom heat to 90, checked in with Dad and Judy, then slept.
The evening featured beautiful blue sky and +4 C, by far the best weather since leaving Montreal.
Monday, April 28, 2003.
Up by 7 am, got fuel, and on the road by 7:45. -8C, cloudy and damp, wet roads. Just another day on the great adventure. I am simply used to it by now. Followed the railroad tracks for a million miles to Upsala, then Ignace. Fuel, breakfast, coffee, chat with the locals. On to Vermillion Bay, where I repeated the procedure, now looking for a car wash because the sky is clearing. It’s actually warm enough to pull my balaclava down off my nose. Thank goodness for Judy’s new full-face helmet, my shortie helmet has stayed in the rear bag, where I had packed it before leaving Montreal.
It’s about 1 pm, five or more hours on the road, exhausted both mentally and physically. It’s been a long ride, and the cold is really getting to me. I’ve passed a couple of hundred “Beware of Moose” signs, and I figure that if one of them trots out in front of me, by the time my brain registers the fact “moose”, then transmits the neurons to my frozen body extremities, my reaction time should be less than a minute. May as well just not worry about them.
Pushed me and the bike, heading for Kenora and a visit with Kelvin. Caught up with him at the store and he suggests that we head out to the zillion dollar house that he is building on spec at Deception Bay. I follow him out towards Pye’s landing - after so many km of solitary travel, it’s difficult to adjust to following someone - where we turn off the highway and follow one of Ontario’s twistier bits. The road is littered with sand, rough surface, up and down, left and right. Kelvin is right at home here and I am very uncomfortable, driving very cautiously.
I loose him and don’t know if he has turned off or not. Then I spot him two curves ahead, pour on the power to catch up and when I crest the next rise, the road forks. Dim witted as I am, I choose the right fork. Too late I realize it’s gravel, and I’m going much too fast. I try to veer over to the left fork, but by now I’m right in the middle of the two roads, in the soft gravel, heading for the weeds, right straight at that Lone Pine tree. That reaction time I talked about? Yeah, right. Managed to skid to a stop, wrestling this 800 pound beast all the way, stopped, then fell over like Arte Johnson on his tricycle, six inches from the tree. Whew. No harm, no foul. I am just too exhausted to even attempt to pick it up, so there it lays until Kelvin comes back down the road, wondering what the heck happened to me. Ohh, that. So we pick it up, me thoroughly jittery, and proceed the last 100 meters to the jobsite. I am glad to be done with the bike for a while.
What a gorgeous “cottage”. 3500 sq ft of post and beam construction clad with high tech foam sandwich board. Three levels including the main level, a loft and a walk out basement, all with 10-foot ceilings. Acres of deck. Magnificent lake views from everywhere, and a terrific lot with its own beach. The basement is 2/3 blasted out of bedrock, with the other 1/3 a wall of exposed bedrock. Lots of possibilities here. Kelvin says he and his partners have $600,0000.00 in it already, and it’s not yet fully closed in. I know that he’s exaggerating, but there’s no doubt that there is a major wad of money here.
Kelvin then takes me for a tour of the neighbourhood - McCallum Point, just about the toniest area of Lake of the Woods, old money, new money, counted in the millions. One place under construction, that we toured, was over 10,000 sq ft. on three levels with lakefront on both sides of the house. It took us 1/2 hour just to walk around it. Inside it was kind of weird, all broken up into a rabbit’s warren of rooms, with no flow to the design, sort of centered around a great room that was significantly bigger than my house, with a ceiling that must have been 45 feet high. Nine - count ‘em, nine - fireplaces, three screened in porches, one that you could park a freight train in, full basement. Neither Kelvin nor I liked the design, but we were both in absolute awe of its sheer size. We couldn’t help but wonder how much money was going to be spent on furniture alone.
The sun has been shining the whole time we’ve been touring around, I’m rested and ready to go. I say my goodbye’s, jump on the bike, and nervously make my way back to the highway. Two hours to go. Sunny, cool, and windy. Really windy. Uncomfortably so. It gets worse as I emerge from the trees onto the prairies. Fuel up at McMunn. Battle the wind all the way back to Winnipeg, squinting into the late afternoon sun. I’m tired, I’m miserable and I want to be home. What’s with this stupid wind? Come around the perimeter, hitting every goddam red light there is, the personal fuel tank completely empty, long past reserve. Can’t let Judy see the bike for the first time this dirty, so I stop to wash it and make it pretty.
Finally, after 2300 km of adventure, I’m home, and there’s nobody here to welcome the returning hero. RATS. So I sat outside on the swing, downed three fast scotches, showed off the bike to passersby, slowly peeled off the layers until I got cold again, waiting for my sweetie to come home. As I’m sitting here waiting, I’m wondering which Judy will choose to go to first - the new bike or me - she should be pretty excited about seeing both of us. Either way, it’s a no-win situation for her. When she finally pulled into the driveway, it turns out she thought it was someone else’s bike, saw me sitting on the swing, came over to hug me, then figured out that it was the new Valkyrie sitting there. Sheesh.
It’s good to be home.
Allan Hamer
May 15, 2003.
PS: Continued to lose weight on this trip, now 45 lbs total. Down to a svelte 99.5 kg. from 120 kg in early February. Really enjoying the new body.