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Well, I went and did it and have regretted it immediately afterwards.

After nine years of walking around this world with a soup strainer, I have shaved off all my facial hair with the exception of the eyebrows.

The Lawdy Mama and I have an agreement that she won’t cut her hair as long as I don’t shave my face. She took off to AC/DC and the next thing you know, I’ve got the electric trimmers out.

And now that I’m soon to be embarking on holidays, I have one week to grow my face back.

After a couple of days of posting pictures about my latest King trip, I figured I’d put some words to the photos.

Recollections of a Road Trip, Pt. 1
I’ve just spent a week riding and living on my bike, nicknamed ‘The King’ courtesy of a dude named Lucky, which is a story in its own right but that tale would take us down a highway of anecdotes consisting of colorful vocabulary only fitting for a drunken sailor on shore leave so we’ll leave Lucky out of this, for now. As I slather my face in aloe vera to combat my glow in the dark nose and wind burnt visage, my crow’s feet grow a little bigger when I think of some of the characters that graced my life in the last seven days while The King hauled my carcass through some of our nation’s finest pieces of scenery. There’s something to be said for being at the right place at the right time so please allow me to indulge and describe some of these people that I’ve been fortunate enough to have crossed paths with, all of whom have left a lasting impression on me.
Warbride- As you first let these words form around your lips, it sounds like the name of a biker with skin like leather and eyes as piercing as coffin nails. Truth be known, ‘War Bride’, as she referenced herself to several times, is an old gal who recently celebrated her 90th birthday and a stranger that I shared a cup of coffee with. What the locals of New Denver must of thought when they witnessed this little old lady, complete with a babushka, sitting down to a cup of joe with a long haired biker dressed in leather is anyone’s guess but since she didn’t seem to have a care in the world, why should I? We discussed the origin of the motorcycle and her boat ride to The Great White North where she would wed a Canadian soldier following WWII, among other topics that fortunately failed to fall into ‘small talk’ category.

Polyester Dave- This cat isn’t so much a stranger but rather a good friend that moved to the Okanogan, the land of wine, Sasquatches and sea monsters. While we didn’t experience any of the above, I was reminded of an almost obsession from my youth; bats. Some kids have a thing for snakes, others for creepy crawlies and in my case, an affliction for the often misunderstood flying rat. You’ll probably never see a billboard on the TransCanada boasting of a town’s bat infestation but Polyester Dave is the proud owner of a balcony that resides eye level with the flight pattern of several dozen bats. When the sun went down and with cold beer in hand, it was a childhood dream come true, (minus the sunset and beer) to witness these gliding mammals strut their stuff, seemingly just out of hands reach. When asked by the Lawdy Mama the next morning how my night was, it’s not too often I can respond with, ‘Well, I was watching bats. What else are you supposed to do on a Tuesday?’

I’ve run out of room but feel it necessary to continue this column with a sequel because when you have handles like Al ‘Pache, Booger and Greg The Missing Vancouverite, there’s no way I’d be able to ramble on about the 1100 pound fish story or the tavern with no windows, walls or doors.

I’m still living in the past from my recent camping trip while riding around in this incredible nation. Here’s a couple of more pictures taken within the last ten days or so.

This pic was taken in some rest area somewhere in the interior of hippie land of BC just before a big RV rolled in and almost rolled over my camera.

This picture was taken while I was a little lost, hence the road atlas on the saddlebag. It’s hard to tell where you’re heading though when you have no destination.

I’m still limping courtesy of a bunk toe but I was feeling healthy enough to live on The Road King for a week as it hauled me all around this country. Here’s some evidence.

This picture was taken inside of the Queen’s Hotel in Fort Macleod where Ian and I stopped for a bite.

This picture was shot somewhere on a ferry somewhere between Needles and Faquier.

And this picture was taken at a place called the Blue Ox Inn where I needed to rest and rehydrate myself with a cold, locally brewed, pop.

After an evening at the Emergency ward with my fellow injured geeks and freaks, the sawbones still isn’t sure why foot looks more like a balloon and less like a foot. I’ve been given the following options, as told to me by the doc

1. Tendinitis
2. Bone spur
3. immflamtion caused by two severly broken toes
4. Turf Toe
5. Gout
6. Blood clot

I’m still leaning towards the broken toes anology while listeners think it’s gout. Sure, the symptons leading up to gout are middle aged, out of shape men that like their beer. I’m three for three with that one but my spidy senses, and my foot, are tingling.

Let’s sure hope it’s not gout b/c I’m already pretty enough without my hands looking like this;

With a week to go before I head to the mountains on the Road King, it’s obvious that my left foot did not get the memo in reference to staying healthy. Two broken toes later, courtesy of the rose colored toilet in my house, my foot looks and feels like an inflated balloon.

If there’s any good news about this, at least the toes aren’t able to touch any ground because of the swelling.

I’ve always told my friends and family that I’d like to incporporate a really cool looking cane in my golden years but the cause is early as I’m not even in my silver years.

What you won’t find here is today’s bonus words but what you will find is at least 2 minutes of reading to help you sleep while at work.

I frequently use the term ‘providing a soundtrack for our lives’ when referencing music and how a solitary nifty little ditty can instantly trigger memories. It doesn’t even have to be a song you like nor do the lyrics have to fit the moment and it’s not something that you need write down as your subconscious is adequately outfitted at retaining all of those anecdotes that have ultimately made you who you are. Please allow me to delve into detail and peruse a moment or two from my own personal time line.

1984 – Rock You Like a Hurricane by The Scorpions.
This is the song that was blasting through my walkman speakers when I broke both my ankles while jumping my Honda XR 80. It should be noted that this was not my fault had the girl I was trying to impress stayed at home instead of opting to spend her summer with her grandparents, who were my neighbors by the way. No, I never did get the girl.

1987 – Rock’n’Roll All Nite by Kiss
This tune played all day in the car leading up to an eventful day in the bright lights of Winnipeg. I, along with fellow cohorts Chico and Weezee would later be explaining to city cops why we shoplifted some Colours Cologne, along with some choice musical selections of the cassette nature. It would also mark my first court experience, my first juvenile probation officer and a lifelong ban from Eaton’s. I still feel I came out the winner though; when is the last time you saw an Eaton’s store?

1988 – Oowatanite by April Wine
This song was playing in the distance when I experienced my first true kiss. She was a Mexican exchange student whose real name is Marichu but I couldn’t pronounce it so I called her ‘Taco’. Used to hanging out with the older kids, she tried her foreign hand with someone her own age. We smacked lips underneath a big ole’ cottonwood tree and she would later tell me I was a horrible kisser. Taco went back to dating older guys and I went back to my poster of Heather Thomas.

1990 – Don’t Treat Me Bad by Firehouse
My ride was a 1979 Cutlass Supreme, complete with a jet black paint job, smoked out windows and a transmission that had a non functioning reverse gear. Regardless, this was also the tune playing in that cassette deck when I ‘pulled’ my first case of beer as a minor. I want to say it was either ‘Club’ or ‘OV’ only because I didn’t know that better ales existed at the time.

1994 – One Bourbon, One Scotch , One Beer by George Thorogood
Lost in life, I felt university would solve my problems. Signing up for all of the ‘ology courses like sociology, psychology and anthropology, I also signed up to rent a house with four other party animals. And while I excelled at failing all of my courses, I still can’t suck back a flaming zambuca without being reminded of that song and the night one of my roommates, J.J. Dalton burnt off all his goatee hair when said shooter went awry.

I’m not sure what exactly is wrong with me but every once in a while I crave chopping wood. I don’t come from a line of lumberjacks and while I do have an affliction for plaid, I get the urge to chop wood every once in a while. I’m not sure if it’s the sound or the smell or the act of getting the blood flowing but after a day (or at least a good 20 minutes) of some good ole’ wood splittin’, I feel like I deserved to face the day.

It’s somewhat of a conundrum however as I have no wood to chop. So, to you dear reader, I ask a favor. I’m looking to chop some wood here in The Gas City. I don’t chop fast nor do I chop well and I don’t chop for long but I do posess my own splitting axe. In return for a cold beverage, I would be willing to visit your backyard with axe in hand if you’d be willing to let me split your wood.