Real Men...

                      

       

GOT  up early this morning, as I usually do.  Little Phx can't read a clock, but can see out the window to know when dawn breaks.


After feeding the cats, putting on the De-caf, taking my pill, having a pee and letting the little guy (I mean the cat) outside to a still coolish morning... I'm downstairs checking my email.  A habit I got, being in the financial biz for so long.  Many a time I would get a cheery phone call at 5:29 am from some over zealous Ontario based inside sales rep's assistant's, assistant... that didn't realize Canada consists of several times zones.  Probably the farthest they've been, some of them... is the Muskoka's!

Same routine pretty much every day.

Today, I get a message from my long time pal Ron (you may remember him from back in the Blog) You see, unlike some, RM actually is aging, slightly mind, but aging nonetheless.  As others have found before him, you don't just ride 800 pound motorcycles, you also have to push them, back them and generally manhandle them.  As many have found, sometimes B I G G E R, is not B E T T E R.  For years Unca Ronnie has been talking scooters to me.  Not just any scooter but Suzuki Burgman scooters.  Suzuki has had a 650cc* (remember when 40 cubic inchers were the bike to have!) for quite some time.

After much prodding over the years, you see like many Italians... he has lots of hair, but can be thick headed, he finally went for a ride on one.  I dare say he loved it.  Lemme see... plenty of power, smooth, quiet as a church mouse, and lo and behold, you can actually "step through" to mount them.

Now some men would not think that sexy, but hey... beauty is in the eyes of... right!

The question seemingly posed at the end of the email was that age old argument of...

"Do Real Men ride scooters?"

My answer to that... Real Smart Men do...

Now you can take the quiz.

 What is this?                                1 pt.

Name the object in the center of the photo.     1 pt
Bonus if you know the name of those things that connect the object to the rim.                       1 pt

What is this?            1 pt
Bonus if you know what a tickler is.                 2 pt

What is that thing in the center of this picture?   1 pt
Bonus if you knew it and didn't have to scroll up.     1 pt





Name this object.                                             1 pt
Bonus if you got it right.                                    2 pt

 What is missing in this picture?                          1 pt

What do these letters stand for?                          1 pt
 Bonus if you knew what these letters really stand for.     3 pt



 

What is this?                       1 pt

Who did you meet riding these?                       1 pt

Final question.  What is in the pic at the top of this Blog?   10 pt

See upcoming Blog for scores, and how you stack up as a "real man"

*okay so it's 638 but that's pretty close.

Rubber Stamp

They stamped my passport as I discreetly pushed the bills back into my wallet. I was on my way.  Border crossings typically in Eastern Europe consisted of deteriorating buildings once staffed by armed, stern officials... sometimes German shepherds leashed at bay.  In some locales, it's still like this, as I was to find out. 

 

As I left the crossing behind entering Albania, newly inked entry stamp smudged onto paper, I immediately noticed the severe contrasts from my previous travels.  Here, the poverty was apparent in the roads, homes and people.  It was like I'd entered a time warp and came out several decades in the past.  Hungary is not a rich country except in history, Slovakia a step "up" then Poland further yet.  Germany, Austria, and as I was to find out later, France, Switzerland, Italy... were all far more affluent and wealthy.

Leaving town, I geared the Divvie up, short shifting as I gained speed.  The bike had lots of low end power, no need to rev the guts out of her like a modern 600 sport bike.  Like me, she was no track hound, and preferred the quiet of the back road, slightly more gentle corners and a steady hand lovingly caressing the controls.

 

Once in top gear, we could meander along at a sixty or hundred and sixty kilometer pace... and anything in between.  Rarely was there a need for a downshift, even many towns could be negotiated in 6th.  She would pull cleanly from as little as 2000 rpm right on up to the red line if needed.

The terrain was old low laying mountains, or what we in Alberta reffered to as foothills.  I was off the main drag here and villages were such contrasts between ancient, having no streetlights to ultra modern cities.  The first such city was Shkoder and here I noticed the first of several peculiarities about Albania.

 

The country seemed to have no middle!

People either walked or rode donkey's in the towns and villages or drove around in various vintages of Mercedes, seemingly the car of choice.  No where except maybe southern California have I seen so many of this German brand of car as I saw here.  Old ones, new ones, blacked out windows, whole families.  At one point, after waiting my turn to cross a muddy river on a one lane wooden decked bridge, I was taking a little break when a new, black model stopped.  Three men, impeccably dressed laughingly exited the car and lit up smokes.  All the motorcycles around and they were plentiful, were tiny mopeds or old MZ's or Urals, the odd step through Honda or Yamaha.  Spotting me, the three came over and began asking me in Albanian about my bike. Walking around, talking amongst themselves, pointing at my maple leaf decals, rapid firing questions towards me.



The locals all gazed over but no one came by to translate.  In fact those nearest tome quietly backed away. To be honest, I was somewhat nervous.  I mean, here these guys are where most of the populace gets around on decrepit mopeds or on hay carts pulled by burro's, and they had on 2000 dollar Armani suits, were traveling somewhere in a blacked out top of the line Mercedes sedan, and weren't even sweating in the heat of the day far from the ocean.  After awhile the driver honked the horn and they left still chattering and laughing.

Unnerving.

As the car drove onto the bridge, not waiting to let any of the dozens of vehicles that were already lined up  pass, they were gone.  A moment later, a DR600 arrived from across the street.  The rider, tall as a bean pole and about as thick, dismounted and wandered over.  He introduced himself in English as Manfred, a German.  It was obvious he had been riding/traveling hardcore.

His bike was dust and mud covered matching him.  His gear was off-road.  The first thing he tells me after the usual salutations is that those men were Albanian Mafia.  Asked me what they wanted.  I replied that I couldn't understand a word they said.

Not to worry my new found friend tells me, they have much bigger things on their plates than stealing motorcycles from Canadian tourists but at the same time adds that I need to keep an eye on my gear and my turtle neck tightly done around my throat.  The country is not particularly safe.  Many 'criminals' gather here smuggling dope and arms in various scales.  Don't stop at lone check points...

He asks where I am heading, maybe we can ride together.  I say Greece is my destination before I turn around and head north.  I have limited time and will be departing soon for Canada.  I ask in return and he points to a castle overlooking the town.  He will go there and sleep for a few hours.  'do they have accommodations?' I ask.  'No, but he will take out his mat and sleep on the ground.'  Of course I was immediately curious about his safety, but to be honest, friendly as he was, he seemed very comfortable traveling by himself and I could picture him laying on the ground under the bike... machete close by.



To this day, I get mail from him and his friends about their dual purpose travels in Russia, the mid east, and Africa.

We bid farewell and I picked up the highway. 



 

Change is in the air...

Whether we like it or not, nothing ever stays the same. 

Relationships come and go, kids grow up, parents die, pets the same.  You dress for a sunny day's ride and bingo, it rains.  You go to one of your favorite regular eating establishments, and it's closed up.

No one likes it, everybody experiences it.

Sometimes we can control it, many times not.

Such a change is taking place right now. 

I have lived in this home for 17 years, longer than anywhere else in my life.  I myself have experienced many changes over that time period, and what I get from each and everyone of them is knowledge, faith, and growth.  Sure there is pain involved but I have always maintained that you wouldn't know the joy of the good times, if you didn't have the bad to compare to. 

The French say "ces't le vie" such is life.  And... such is life.

This week began with change...  B.C. niece Cindy, dropped in for a short overnight, to visit her uncle Frank... and load up my Baja Veteran Yamaha XT 225 Serow.

This little bike has seen the badlands of Southern Alberta, the fire roads of British Columbia, the Southwest desert of California and Arizona and the mountains of Baja.  She's been over the Elk pass separating two province's, ridden the KVR, crawled over rock ledges in the Sierra Giganta range, and served as a useful mount for running to Canadian Tire to pick up some glue.

Since Friday... she has already transported Cindy, not just along some back trail... but from a place where she was, to where she will be going. 

For Uncle Frank... the journey continues, my house is officially listed, there are potential buyers coming today, and soon we too, shall move on.

Ces't le vie...

FLASHBACK: Contrasts galore!

THIS wasn't a character in a Bond film, nope... this was my life.

I left Gradac reluctantly.

Isabela and her family.

THE sun was already poking over the mountains to the east.  Looked like another great day for riding shaping up.  My 2 day stay in this lovely little city had been enjoyable indeed.  Not only did I have a fabulous "penthouse" apartment for two nights, but the town itself was made for walking, the beaches were beautiful and the hospitality warm and comforting. 

Is this the life or what... I ask you.

I'D cooked a scrumptious home made meal the evening before, drank a cold Croatian beer sitting on the balcony overlooking the Adriatic as the sun set slowly into the west, and it had cost me 15E per night to do this.  I was seriously thinking of coming back the following winter and staying right here for several months.







LOADING the Divvie, my host family insisted on staying a wee bit longer for a bite of freshly baked Backlava, sweet and hot it was too. 

This is not the sea but an inland lake!

ALAS, good as it was, I had to be on the road if I were to make Greece tonight.

THE highway here is sinewy and tight, following the coast.  Several Islands are just offshore, popular with tourists from all over Europe.  It wasn't yet hot, but was certainly warming.  The scent of the sea was constantly with me.  No matter where you travel, if you have salt ocean nearby, your nostrils will pick that up like a fly to sugar.

I passed the E 73 turn-off that carries you to Sarajevo, that historic city that is unfortunately best known as the place where the First World War began.  Here the Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated, an event that ended the Austro-Hungarian empire, and  plunged the major powers into a 4 year long stalemate where millions died.  I wasn't going to the Bosnian capital today, but I did pass a series of checkpoints a few miles later on.  Bosnia you see, has a narrow strip of land that borders the Adriatic at this point.  You ride from Croatia into Bosnia and a mere stone's throw away, you reverse the process.

Entering Bosnia.

Leaving Bosnia 15m later

AT Dubrovnic, the road-bridge crossing the inlet was shut down for repairs and a long detour took me through the city itself.  Wild it was too, traffic thick and fast, drag racing from one light to the other.  A friendly, English speaking scooter rider directed me to follow him, as many had done before and since, back onto the highway.  Once in Montenegro, I headed inland at Kotor, through the capital of Podgorica (formerly Titograd!!) and cross country through mountainous terrain where I entered my fifth country of this trip, Albania.  The crossing was at a tiny little mountain outpost that felt like I was back in time to the 40's.

Entering the twilight zone, Albania.

WOODEN buildings, a narrow dusty street and very stern looking border officials that seemed to be searching everyone.  When my turn came, several guards, smiling and joking and pointing looked me over.

This was the official that helped me out with his broken English

I was getting attention from three different directions at once, not understanding a word they were saying.  Finally a fellow from the money exchange booth came over and in broken English explained that they wanted not only my passport, which they had in hand, but the document for the bike including insurance.

I followed the official in charge into a tiny customs building, no larger than 10x20 feet and he viewed my papers in dim light that barely made it's entrance through a very dirty single window.  My benefactor accompanied me and explained that my documents were not in order.  Surprise obviously showed on my face as he obligingly stammered that my personal document did not match the ownership of the Moto.

Talk about your time warps!

YES, I explained, I as a foreigner could not 'legally own' the motorcycle I was riding, but had a family member hold the title and registration and the document in his hand allowed me permission to ride it legally... and indeed I was insured.

This posted over a wooden, one lane bridge.

I believe having an international driver's permit helped in convincing them I was not smuggling the bike into their country. I was beginning to feel like this was going to be one of those instances I'd read about where some well placed Euros would, ahem... ease the situation.

See...

IT would be a gamble, every country and it seems every crossing have rules that make sense only to them.  Who knows, a bribe may land me in Albanian jail, not a pleasant prospect indeed...

Just shoot me!

IF I EVER....  breathe anything, even in a whisper, about moving again... just shoot me will ya!

Having lived here, with various other people, for seventeen years of my life.  Went through a major heartbreaking and confusing relationship that was incredibly hard and frustrating at times, did my first Baja trips from here.  Southern California many times, Europe thrice... it's come time to move on.








For whatever kick-started the dream of my own little spread, where I could putter on a trials bike or gas and go on a little dirt bike on my own little MX track, to having my dream garage, to a quiet place where I go write in solitude... and to share it with a woman that was an equal partner... this is now becoming the reality.

 

The seventeen years in this house in this city, have left me with a horde of memories both good and bad.   
Hell if there were no bad times, you wouldn't know it was good if it came and bit you on the bum!



Our experiences make us what and more-so, who we are.  Never shy away from having them, take the chance when it is presented and don't look back, don't harbor grudges, and for heaven's sake... don't sweat the small stuff.  Another of my little Dr N isms goes like this;  

"If it aint' gonna make a difference to the planet in a hundred years, why sweat it." 

So, after months of preparation, my pad is pret near ready for a new owner.  Time to move on.


 



   Remember gang... "Home is where you hang your helmet."

Nothing like the Banshee scream of a stroker!

THE DT 50 will spin right on up to and past 10,000 Revolutions Per Minute!  If sound and revs were everything in this life... the little un would seem like Tyra Banks, ex con Martha Stewart and rebellious Jane Fonda all rolled into a neat package.

 
I snapped a few pics while a stiff breeze rolled in from Quebec across the Gulf of St Lawrence.

German U-Boats once sank merchant shipping out there not all that far away.

Much earlier than those times, whalers, cargo ships and wooden vessels under sail came to grief on these here shores.

Many of the current Islanders have roots planted out here from across the Atlantic.  Irish, Scots and even Acadian's are laid to rest in droves in various cemeteries pretty much in every community.

AS I stood watching the surf break endlessly across the red sand beach, I could not feel but awe at those that set sail from their family homes thousands of miles distant, and in ships that were sometimes (most times) barely seaworthy, they came. Compared to that, riding a Gold Wing cross country seems pretty tame.

PEI has a long history as far as Canada goes.

Maritimers have always been a hardy bunch, whether Newfoundlanders, Cape Bretoners or Islanders.  They persevere through horrid winters, flock to the beaches and their cottages in the brief heat of summer, pull lobster traps to feed hungry tourists, and sometimes even welcome strangers from away.

I continued my ride, cool as it was, the breeze pushing my little Japanese motorcycle across the lane.

Traffic was very light, a few pick-up trucks and some local farmers heading out into the fields to begin plowing.

I sat in the warmth of the sun for a bit, watching a muskrat doing his/her thing.  It would paddle it's way across a little pond before diving and re-appearing somewhere else.

These little creatures work hard building their own homes, something I could relate to in a sense.

The house was progressing, it won't be long before we can call it... home.

When I returned via the Irishtown road to our little valley, Diesel the dog from next door came down to greet me.  Shy a few days ago,  he would not hesitate to bound over for a pet behind the ears.

After a little while my neighbor, Ted came by for a smoke and a chat.

He filled me in on the local "goings on" or as some would call it... gossip.

Ted rode over on his Polaris ATV, and when it was time to depart, dog on lap... they headed off into the west.

My DT 50 day had been brief and somewhat chilly riding.  The following days the temperature climbed into the low 20's but for me... I was far too busy dealing with the dozen's of items that come with housebuilding.

As I write this, problems have cropped up with the roof rafters and after two tries... Stephen tells me they still are not the right dimensions.

Guess  I will be on the phone tonight trying to sort that out...

Very funny!

I got an email today... from someone in my past.  Seems in my last Blog I mentioned that;

"I would be on the market in 10 days..."

I meant, my house will be on the market in 10 days...

Ahem, thought I had better clarify that.

The joys of selling a house...

OH Joy, preparing to change a virtual lifetime, is a certain cause for picking up an extra bottle of Aspirin (fill in whatever your poison is here).

It's been 21 years since I left Prince Edward Island, Canada's smallest province, and in that time, I/we have accumulated a lifetime of stuff.

Garden tools, car ramps, battery chargers, spare tires, ladders, trash bins, old bikes for parts, old bikes just cuz they're cool.

BOTH my girls lived in this house for lengthy years, they left behind things.  There have been several people that I have helped out over the years that left things.

When Brenda and Anna moved in last fall, they brought things.

Houses, like cars or bikes or relationships, need upkeep and TLC on a regular basis.

MINE is no exception.

During those periods when I was recovering from the collision in '02 that kicked the heck outa me for over a year, then there was the heart attack and the subsequent down time... my place was neglected.  It's been a grind getting things back up to par but that's been succeeding fairly well, I'd venture to say.

LAST fall and much of the winter and spring, has been non stop work.  When the weather was conducive, it was outdoor work, painting repairing, modifying, down sizing.  When not, there was tearing walls down, putting walls up, painting, repairing, renovating, modifying... and downsizing.

All this cost time and money.

With the spring finally here, in fits and starts, both of us have been outside when possible.  I've been selling off my big stuff, the tent trailer went in a day, the travel trailer came home Friday and was sold Saturday.  In both cases very nice people indeed and it is always nice to see things you valued, give some pleasure to others in their turn.

WITHOUT a doubt, I will be on the market in 10 days!

What's left to do is mostly clean-up and touch up.  This is actually a very nice home, unique in it's lay-out and with plentiful garage and parking space, pretty much ideal for a family with cars, RV's, motorbikes and such and let's not forget, a very pretty view across to C.O.P.* and even a peek at the Rockies nearby to the west.

It will be sad to leave, there are many memories,

but like we've always said, home is where you hang your helmet, and some of mine are already on the Island.

TWO thirds of us are looking forward to the move, the other third is fighting it tooth and nail.

Guess which one that is...

THE countdown stands under 60 days now, officially, of course it will depend on the fast sale of my home.

Yup... the Joys of Moving are not quite as pleasurable as the Joys of Sex, and maybe more tiring to boot!

*COP Canada Olympic Park where the movie 'Cool Runnings' was filmed.