Ah, there is nothing better than blowing an entire day’s budget on a hotel room on your second day on the road. Fuck you mother nature. Why is it 41 degrees in the middle of June? And wet?
Livin' Large in the North. Actually pretty cheap for a hotel with a hot tub. Though you must make note to utilize your desolate loner discount card.
The skies were open all day, the motorcycle God’s crying their tears from heaven. Shivering and alone in McDonalds @ 7:30 pm I relented and got a room in one of those kitschy White Mountain towns I used to go to with my family when I was a kid. It could be anywhere around here, but the town’s name is Gorham. I passed Santa’s Village and Six Gun City on the way, such strange little theme parks, and a remembrence was dreamt of those weird and stressful summer childhood vacations spent in the Lesser White North.
Give me cold and give me wet, but give me one or the other, for I can do them both, but either or. This shit’s hard to do on a bike. For comparison, say if you don’t ride, wet yourself down with a hose and ride as fast as you can on a bicycle for 9 hours.
My waterproof jacket is only half so, protecting my precious Canadian loons and paper dollars but not sparing my Flip from the elements. My precious little Flip, it may be done for, and after so many adventures (the flip took a dip, haha). Rain pants gifted to me before the trip have been torn asunder whilst kicking over the CB, rendering them useless.
Well, whatever, thats enough of that.
Bike is running eh…its running. The chain is fucked up in some way that I can’t explain. This bike has never been good to it’s chains. There’s no exception here, and I don’t think this one will see me through the wilds of Canada. I have my repair tools, but we’ll see. Its violent action has already caused the sprocket cover plate to shed a precious screw, integral to the operation of the clutch. In a stroke of luck, I was able to find the right screw at the first place I looked, an ACE hardware store in St Johnsbury, VT. Huh, the last time I had to replace it, which was many moons ago, twas unobtanium anywhere on Long Island and had to be sourced from afar. Front brake squeals like a little pig, nonstop and LOUD, whenever I apply some pressure. I’ve got some caliper lube, but who wants to dissasemble that assembly in the rain? I’ll get to it at some point. Gas mileage was poor on the way up, getting about 40 mpg when it should be 50 mpg. It seems to be getting better after I synched the carbs a bit. This bike is a cantankerous little bitch, and like many relationships in my life, requires a lot of attention. I won’t give up on the ol’ gal though. She may be tamed, but not yet.
A momentary lapse in the vicious rains coincided with a visit to the Magic Hat brewery in Burlington, Vermont. This was no coincidence people. Look, do yourself a favor and go back and read my beer reviews of Magic Hat’s precious little brews, for I am enamored. Yet, remember and know that I trust no one and that it is difficult for me to unconditionally love anything, let alone a product. So, I always try to remain objective. And I am being entirely objective when I say that the Magic Hat brewery is fucking awesome. They have free beer. Well, free samples in little double shot glasses, but free nonetheless. A lot of thought goes into Magic Hat’s products, with each brew bearing its own intricately designed artwork replete with adorable labels placed in a magical boxes. The brewery is decked out with tasteful metal sculptures and art work everywhere. The first thing you see is this weird welded up metal tower. Climb the spiral stairs inside to the very tippy top, but don’t forget to feast your eyes on the caleidoscope on the way up. You have been warned. I drank my fill of #9, yet sadly was unable to be turned on to anything new, for I have already sampled every brew they had on tap. The taste of each and all was resplendent , as fresh as can be.
The ride up yesterday was uneventful. It rained as well. I predict that the weather on this trip will be one of extremes. For it will be cold and wet in the north, and blisteringly hot in the southern latitudes. Such is the lament of the manboy, for nothing ever comes easy.
A. Mora’s cabin was a more than welcome retreat. A blazing fire and a little Piazzolla gave my spirits a lift. I would have liked to stay another night but, you know…I’m restless.