kanji

03 February, 2003
Groundhog Day

One thing some of the readers here will never experience:

Sitting down and crossing your legs at the some time, without making some... adjustments, will make sparks shoot from your crotch to your neck. Yep, one of L'il Elvis' maracas just got in a pinch. Not at the party scene in Clambake. In the slammer.

Throb-throb-throb....

Low-key Sunday was a lot more tolerable than the recent stretch of days... temps in the fifties sure didn't hurt. Neither did some sunshine. A lot more pleasant to ferret under the hood of the Miata without having to move around in arctic overalls. Just having the freedom to be outside helped ease the greasy tasks: replacing the cam cover seal, cleaning and regapping plugs, and working up smokescreens 007 would be proud of (while suctioning solvent into the fuel injectors).

Reward, a short backwoods jaunt on a narrow country road at sunset... and hands just like a miner's... carbon working its way into the cracks, callouses and cuts.

After vittles, it was a night of crime on telly. Strange, how the serene and peaceful notion of Sunday night now includes gangland warfare... and there I am, with my nose stuck in it deep.

A bit jaded, perhaps?

That would suit tomorrow, better.

.......................................................................

Hostel Environment

Days Twelve and Thirteen: Prineville, Oregon,

With the Three Sisters at our backs, and most of the emerald that part of Oregon is tinted with, the terrain began to take on a much more arid affect. Through Redmond, and over the hills to the east we glided through flatlands bordered on either side by the first buttes I'd ever seen... horizontal, weathered ranges striated in bands of ochre and yellow. The road snaked along beside the Crooked river, having provided the erosion, and styling the hills into an art deco corridor. A pleasant perversion of the old west scenery were llama farms, the Freedom Seekers motorcycle club, and the appearance of a cool t-shirt that punctuated the ride so far... log truck, bearing down on a cartoon bike tourist, the legend: "Pedal, Dammit, Pedal!" Less trees here meant less shrapnel.

A day to consume water is mass quantities, the further east we rolled, the hotter and drier it became. Dudley had wangled our use of the pincic shelter in Prineville, stretched across either side of the highway... a fair-sized small town beside the river. A shower at the pool inspired an escape to the neon-strip... some frothy Olys partaken at the Cinnabar and the Skull, resulting in our having to drag Cor bodily from a restroom... where he'd passed out. Breakfast, at four AM. Then, to sleep.

To be rudely awakened at 8 in the morning.

What we didn't know was that a girl scout troup had booked the shelter, as well. The permed and fleshy matrons of Prineville weren't impressed with their festivities cheapened with smelly bikers in the vicinity, so we were less-than-politely asked to remove our belongings and move elsewhere. Perfect payback for a raging hangover. And yes, it was hot.

Some semblance of sobriety restored, some of us shuffled to the rockhound show at the fairgrounds... (sounds exciting, I'm sure), there we met two forestry grrrls that we met for dinner. Only with two more gents than ladies, upsetting the delicate balance... Cor silently tagging along. The price you pay for rescuing somebody.

Another rest day, passed... the last in a while. The ride promised to become hotter yet, the landscape more parched as we methodically ease our way to Idaho, not so far away.

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hit me with your rhythm stick




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