That I may die Roaming...

[Oisin]

Hi folks,
Just finished a book about a 34,000 mile motorcycle trip I did in 2008. Some of you might have seen parts of it before which I included in the ride report Ruta 40.
I'm going to put it here chapter by chapter for the next ten days or you can download the ebook here for free.
http://thatimaydieroaming.blogspot.com/


That I may die roaming...
Prologue

My name is Oisin and I’m from Dublin, Ireland.

In July 2008, I undertook riding a motorbike 34,000 miles through North, Central and South America. The route that I intended to take would see me leaving Toronto, driving initially east to Nova Scotia, and then riding thousands of miles across Canada until I got to Anchorage in Alaska.

Once there, I would continue my journey north to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska, the most northerly town there is a road to in North America. From there I would ride south for months, back down through Alaska, Canada, mainland USA, Mexico, Central America and South America until I got to Ushuaia, near Cape Horn, the most southern tip of South America.

The final leg of the journey would be riding back north to Buenos Aires in Argentina, where I’d fly both myself and my bike back home; all going well in time for Christmas 2008.

In total, I planned to go through 14 countries, namely Canada, USA, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina. I hadn’t made my mind up about Colombia yet.

I had an adventure filled with thrills, spills and some unbelievable situations. In my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined all the stuff that would happen to me. This book is my account of the journey.

I went on this trip to put some excitement in my life. Every kid I knew growing up, wanted to be Luke Skywalker or Han Solo. In my head, going on this trip represented my chance to blow up the death star and snog Princess Leia.
When I started I knew the outcome was uncertain but that the days ahead would be filled with adventure and fingers crossed, sex would be around every corner

Most people would love to do something like this; I’m just one of the people who did. Hopefully, after reading this book maybe you’ll think about setting your sail and having an adventure of your own.

Thanks for reading, and May the Force be with you.
Oisin



Chapter 1
On a cold and wet Friday in September 2005, while out shopping I was enticed over to a DVD stand in HMV. The banner said, “Buy 3 DVD’s for 30 Euro”; I picked up two movies I really liked and because I couldn’t see another movie that caught my fancy, I grabbed a DVD called the Long way Round. It was a documentary series with Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman detailing their trip around the world on two BMW motorcycles from London to New York, heading east. I had seen ads for the series but never watched it and to be honest wasn’t even remotely interested in motorbikes or in the two lads heading off to foreign shores. That said, it was as appealing as anything else on the stand so I picked it up and went home.

The relentlessly crappy Irish weather continued for the entire weekend and with Liverpool losing on the Saturday the weekend was turning into a complete washout. I picked up the Long way round DVD and stared at the black and white cover photo of Ewan and Charlie with their motorbikes and said “**** it, nothing else to do” so I threw on the DVD. To my complete surprise I watched it straight through, episode after episode, finishing up the following morning at around 2am. I was hooked. I wanted to do something like this; No I simply had to! There were however a couple of minor obstacles to overcome, like I didn’t own a motorcycle, nor was I able to ride one.

At the time I was married. Things weren’t going well primarily down to the fact that I was a bad husband, about as emotionally available as a tin of processed peas and I was spending far too much time in work. As the winter wore on, my enthusiasm to do a trip started to wane, what with ongoing marital problems and being up to my tonsils in work, I put it to the back of my mind.

Around November 2005 one of my best mates, Dave, asked me along to the annual motorcycle show in the RDS arena in Dublin. As I was walking around the displays looking at all the bikes I came across a stand for Globebusters, a husband and wife motorcycle tour company in England who run overland trips. After exchanging a couple of pleasantries, I walked away with one of their brochures.

I looked at the back page and there it was, the Pan-American motorcycle trip stretching from Prudhoe Bay, the most northerly town in Alaska the whole way down to Ushuaia in Terra del Fuego near Cape Horn in South America. I thought to myself, “this looks absolutely amazing”, I took the brochure and plonked it on my office desk to remind me on the bad days, that there was an alternative to what I was doing now.

That Christmas my marriage came to an end and after about eight weeks of wallowing in self-pity, I made a decision to **** off to Australia for a month on a road trip. I only thought up the idea on the Tuesday and flew out on the Thursday of the same week; I’m nothing if not impulsive. I packed like a lunatic and headed off to the airport and next thing I knew I was in Australia. I hired a Nissan X-trail and kept driving and driving to try to work the post-marital breakup blues out of my head.

On the journey, I learned a couple of things about myself. Firstly, that I was ok with being by myself for long stretches, and secondly that I really liked long journeys where you didn’t really have a place to get to. It was ok to just drive until you got bored and then, pull over, find a place to stay, go out and get some grub, have a pint and at the end of the day, hit the scratcher.
I also started to get a little peeved about having your holiday decided for you. You know how it goes, you tell someone that you’re going somewhere and right away they're off telling you that you have to go here, then there and how if you don’t go to “this place” well then “you simply haven’t been”. So I made up my mind that I was only going to go to places that I wanted to go to and not submit to any peer pressure about what I “simply must do” when travelling.

In Australia, I set myself the goal of never driving over the same piece of tarmac twice. This way the road would always change for me and every day would be an adventure because I didn’t have to retrace my steps on my way home. I carved a loop out in Australia and knocked out about 14,000km in only a couple of weeks.

When I came back to Ireland, I made up my mind that I was going to have to buy a bike if I was ever going to consider taking on the Pan-American Highway. My thinking was that I might start with a small trip; I needed to figure out if motorcycling was something I’d like, if I just upped and went I could end up hating the whole thing. I had my doubts, motorcycling is dangerous, certainly more dangerous than a car. When you combine that with the fact that you’re out in the elements and in Ireland all it ever seems to do is piss rain, I had enough reason to believe that the whole thing could turn out to be pure misery.

I went to see my friend Jason who has always been a keen biker. He had a couple of copies of motorcycle news that had heaps of bikes for sale in the back pages. No sooner had I opened the first classified page and there it was; a bumblebee 1150gs adventurer for sale, the same model bike that Ewan and Charlie had used for the long way round. It came with panniers, crash bars, heated handgrips and some other goodies and the whole lot was on sale for 11,500 euro.

The bike had less than 10,000km on the clock so was practically new. The chap who was selling it was based about four miles from Jason’s house so off we went in the car to have a gawk at the beast. I’d never make a poker player, as soon as I saw the bike I just said, “I’ll take it!” and wrote him a cheque for the full amount he was looking for. My penalty for such impulsiveness was I had to listen to Jason for about the next six months giving me the “can’t believe you didn’t even try to haggle!” routine. I didn’t care, I had my bike and I don’t think my pulse dropped below a hundred the whole way home.

My first big problem was that I couldn’t drive the bike. I asked Jason to drive it home for me and when we got to my place, I had my first impromptu bike lesson. I was terrified when I jumped up on it, bear in mind that the BMW 1150 weighs over 250kg. If it starts to go to the left or right and gets past about twenty degrees from vertical you’ll never be able to hold it up and the whole thing will just crash to the ground. Picking that weight up off the ground would be like shiteing a pineapple.

Every time I tried to move forward on the bike the engine would cut out as I tried to master the clutch. Every jump forward resulted in my shins getting clubbed by the crash bars, a sore bastard I don’t mind telling you. I knew that I tended to jump into things, more often than not, it doesn’t work out as expected; the niggling feeling that this was going to be another in a long line of bad ideas was starting to grow in my mind.

In keeping with a Hughes family tradition, i.e. full duck or no dinner, I signed up for three full days of intensive rider training with a private motorcycle school. The course was run in March and the weather was absolutely woeful. At various times it was snowing, pissing rain, sleeting, or howling wind and just to throw some salt and vinegar into the mix; the traffic was mental. There was however a positive aspect; I’ve always maintained that because I learned to ride in the rain I’m a much better rider in bad weather than most. Most people start the other way, they learn in the good weather and only tend to go out on their bikes when the weather is good, I never knew any different so having started the hard way I never looked back.

I was struggling to get the hang of the clutch; the instructor had a great analogy to help me get the hang of it.

“Listen horse, you need to think of the clutch as if it’s your birds left tit.... would you be grabbing it in and out like that? Eh? Would ya? No... I don’t ****in think so, she wouldn’t be long about punching your lights out.... nice and smooth... got it?”

As for the accelerator he said to treat it like a “budgies neck”. I think it was the bird’s knockers that did it for me; never being one to snatch and grab at a boob, at least not since I was in the cot.

When I told him that I was considering heading off to ride the entire Pan-American Highway on the motorcycle, he simply replied “Me hole”.
So now I had the bike and I could drive it; it was time to plan a road trip. I talked to my mate Dave about heading down to the Rock of Gibraltar in Spain; I said I’d chance the run even though I didn’t have a full license. So we started planning in earnest.

After a couple of weeks and with the excitement starting to build, Dave phoned me. His opening line was “You’ll never guess what”, to which I replied, having read the tone in his voice “Sheila’s up the duff”.
Dave’s girlfriend was pregnant. I was delighted for him but knew it meant that the trip to the Rock of Gibraltar was over unless I wanted to go on my own, with so little experience; it was just too risky.

Some months after, when Dave and I were out for a couple of pints, I asked him
“So how come Sheila got pregnant? Did the Jonnie split?”
(A pertinent question, Dave has a hammer on him like an oak tree, sort of thing you would normally expect to see hanging out of an elephants face), Dave replied, “Nah sure I can never get one to fit”, which all credit to him, he said with true humility.

Then I asked, “So was Sheila not on the pill?”Dave replied, “Nope”. Realising that he’d been bare backing and risking our trip if Sheila got pregnant, I said, “So you were just pulling out! Ya ****er ya! Your some bollix, it’s not like the tadpoles would have far to swim, you were practically delivering them to the front door with that baseball bat of a Mickey, You bollix!”

So that was it, there was no other opportunity to go on a medium length trip to see if travelling on a motorcycle for six months was something I would enjoy or even be capable of doing. I was left with the dilemma, if I’m going to go on this trip “Who in the name of **** was I going to go with”.

The summer of 2008 was the time I was targeting to leave, it would allow me to follow the summer south through the America’s. There were no organised tours running that year with Globebusters for the Pan American, and none of my friends could go with me. I kept asking myself, was I capable of going by myself, I doubted it.

The sort of things that went through my head cantered around that I needed to try to go with someone who’s good at fixing stuff. I’m the sort of guy who, if the house was falling down around me, I’d probably buy a tent for the back garden, I’m just not that good with my hands. Now that’s not to say that I don’t rub a good boob, I do, but with machinery, I may as well be staring up a bull’s hole.

So onto the web I went in search of kindred spirits, I was convinced there must be a couple of heads out there with the same sort of thing in mind, I still had a year to plan it so it was plenty of time to meet some guys who might be into same thing. I got a serious amount of ribbing from the lads about the gay connotations of searching for bikers on the web.

I found a website called Horizons unlimited and just pumped in the words, “Pan-American July 2008, anyone interested?” A lad living near Felixstowe in England replied and said that he was up for it. We talked on the phone and seemed to have quite a bit in common. We both said that if we were serious about this we’d have to meet and talk to hammer out what we both wanted to get out of the trip. A couple of weekends later, I flew to England and John picked me up at the airport.

On the phone John sounded a bit of a cockney but was gentle spoken, however when I met him, I nearly fainted. He was about 5 foot 5, a serious looking skinhead with tattoos the whole way down his arms. “Oh my ****” I thought to myself.

As it turned out he was an ex British soldier who served in Northern Ireland. Again, I thought to myself “Oh my ****! Either this guy has gone online to reel in some “ass” or he’s logged onto the equivalent of “dial a sucker to murder and leave in your fridge for six months while you take out his torso to have sex with while watching coronation street reruns.com”.

We got to his house and headed off down the pub for some pints and grub. On the way we walked down a pitch black lane, for a good while I was certain he was going to knife me. As it turned out I needn’t have worried, John was a sound skin and we got on like a house on fire. He worked on the docks and drove the exact same type of bike as me and was interested in doing the trip, if he could get his house sold on time as well as get leave of absence from his job.

While all this was going on Ewan and Charlie decided to do the Long way down, which was a motorcycle trip from John of Groats in northern Scotland to the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa. All of this just helped to intensify my feelings of needing to go on the trip. I decided that whatever route I was going to take it had to add up to more miles than the long way round, and the long way down combined. Why? Just, that’s the why! Not a good enough answer? Well it’s a guy thing, if you did ten press-ups I’d have to try to do eleven.

We talked a lot about the route. Flying a bike into the states since 9-11 was a nightmare so we decided to fly into Toronto, Canada. This also happened to be where my brother lived, so would be a lot easier to get lifts out to the airport to collect the bike. From there the plan was to head west to Nova Scotia to Cape Breton, and then track back west the whole way across Canada to Anchorage in Alaska.

Once in Anchorage we would ride north to Prudhoe Bay, the most northerly town in Alaska and then south for many months, the whole way to Ushuaia in Argentina and finally back up to Buenos Aires, a trip I “back of the enveloped” at over 30,000miles. The route had some big advantages, namely you didn’t need a carnet de passage in any of the countries, and you would only need two languages, English and Spanish.

The if’s and the buts were driving me crazy so I made up my mind that I was going to leave on the 12th of July 2008, and in order to remove one of the variables I went ahead and booked my flight. I also made up my mind that if John wasn’t able to come along and I couldn’t get someone to go with me, I would go alone. Although I desperately hoped that I would find a riding partner.

John had two kids who were in their twenties and unbelievably, no sooner had he decided to go on the trip than they popped round to his house to tell him that they were getting married that year. John was torn and he said he was going to come over to Dublin to talk about some things. I knew he was coming over to tell me that he wasn’t going to be able to go, and he was too nice a guy to tell me over the phone. He knew it was our dream and wanted to tell me face to face that he was letting me down.

A welsh guy popped on the horizons website around this time by the name of Geoff and said he was up for it also, I told him John was on his way over so why not plan to come over the same weekend. Geoff was in his mid to late fifties and his wife had passed away less than a year previous. It was obvious that he was on the run from his grief but he was a nice person and very friendly; if he wanted to come along “why not?” I said.

As expected, John pulled out, and I hadn’t heard anything from Geoff for over two months so I resigned myself to going alone. The piece I was unbelievably nervous about was Central America, “How in the name of Jesus am I going to get through those borders on my own!”, the icing on the cake being that I had about as much Spanish as is used in the average Speedy Gonzalez cartoon.

About a month before I was due to leave, I got a phone call from Geoff saying he was going. I was actually a bit disappointed because I had rather gotten used to the idea that I would be a solo traveller. However, when I thought about things like the Dalton highway in Alaska and all the dangerous countries that I’d be going through, it would be better to not have to do it alone.

As the day approached, the comments from people in work all revolved around “It’ll be a life changing experience” or “You must be ****ing crazy!” My nerves were at fever pitch. The date was set, and the only thing left to do was ship the bike to Toronto. This part, while expensive was easy. I dropped the bike off at my local BMW dealer and they arranged with James Cargo the shipper, to pick it up about ten days before I was due to fly out. I dropped the bike off with the panniers stuffed with camping gear and every manner of gadget that I could fit into the limited storage you have on a motorcycle.

I had the rough timelines for the trip worked out, mainly dictated by insurance limitations and I wrote in my diary:
“Plan is to take fifty nine days to complete the USA and Canada... Fourteen days through Mexico, another fourteen through Central America and the rest in South America finishing hopefully in time for Christmas!”

I structured the journey this way because in my head I reckoned I could do North America again when was fifty-five if I wanted to; its easy going relatively speaking. The real challenge would be Central and South America so it’s better to allocate the majority of time there.

I nicknamed the bike “Molly”, which I later changed to Sam Gamgee, I was Frodo. What happened to Luke Skywalker? What happened to Han Solo? Well, I decided that I was going to be a mixture of Frodo, Conan, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Jason Bourne, James Bond and finally Frodo, and no I don’t think that’s too many heroes to combine into one persona.

The week before I left, I completed the last mandatory task before undertaking any adventure; I went out on the rip. After about fifteen pints and lots of “You’re gonna get raped by FARC rebels....You know that don’t ya!” type statements the last task before travelling was complete.
With my flight merely hours away I sat on the couch in my sitting room looking out the window. I asked myself “Am I ready?”

I kept replaying a quote I’d read in my head, “The only way you’ll ever be 100% prepared for a trip like this is to have done it before”.
I had completed less than four thousand miles on the bike since I’d bought it and I had zero off-road training. With the Dalton highway in Alaska a five hundred and fifteen mile gravel fest ahead of me I told myself that I would have nearly ten thousand miles done by that stage so I’d be a lot more experienced and it would be ok.

I’d almost no Spanish, but reckoned that I could either hook up with some dudes who did when I would have to cross the borders or I’d get some Spanish lessons loaded up onto my I-pod, again I figured I’d be grand. I was ok for money and had heaps of travel equipment, space on the bike was the only concern and picking the bike up would be a massive problem if it ever fell over.

I had only met Geoff once and that was a worry, what if we did not get on? I couldn’t fix a thing on the bike if it broke down; I never even had to fix a puncture so if it happened I’d just have to deal with it at the time. I spent hours and hours worrying, and all I had to console myself with was the fact that there was no going back now.

My brother and his girlfriend dropped me and my cuddly toy rabbit Mr. Fluffykins to the airport in Dublin and as I boarded the plane, I couldn’t help notice the lack of fanfare. When Ewan and Charlie had headed off on their adventure there were support crews, a cake and big bunch of well-wishers and it felt a bit weird for just my bag and me to be heading off.

I flew out on Saturday the 12th of July exactly as planned nearly nine months previous, despite the best attempts of an air traffic controllers strike to halt my progress. As we taxied down the runway I just couldn’t believe it was about to start.

The flight to Toronto was wedged with people and I got stuck in a middle seat spending the next seven hours battling for elbow room with two fairly substantial lassies, although I doubt they talked in glowing terms about the hefty dude stuck in between them on the flight either.

It was quite a bit of hassle to clear customs, note to self: when filling in the customs form, always check "no" when asked “Are you shipping any goods to Canada, which are not on your person”. Invariably you’ll find things go a lot smoother. About ninety minutes after arriving and post a surprisingly gentle rubber glove routine from Gail in Canadian customs, I was out in the arrivals hall being picked up by my brother Ernan and his father-in-law, Jack.

The first question out of their mouths was nothing to do with the trip but was "What’s the story with Ireland and the European Union and the whole Lisbon treaty thing?" Ireland had just rejected the Lisbon treaty and it was getting massive airplay, so much for being treated like a superstar biker setting out on a terrifying expedition.

I was starting to notice a trend, as much as I would like to think that what I was doing was the equivalent of Luke Skywalker attacking the death star, I had to be content with the fact, that I was the only one who thought so.
On the way back to house the three of us stopped for some nosebag and after a pound of wings and three frosty bottles of Coors light it was time to go and meet up with the rest of my extended family. After a lovely evening catching up it was time to unpack and hit the scratcher.

The plan was to collect the bike from customs on Monday morning, which would be the point at which the journey would really start. I’d arranged to collect Geoff on the way to the airport cargo hanger; the plan was that hopefully we’d collect the bikes and be on our way by Monday evening. I kept thinking about the scene in Die Hard 3, where Samuel L Jackson tells Jeremy Irons to “stick your well laid plans up your well laid ass”, and wondered whether or not we were just being wildly optimistic to think that we would clear customs in an afternoon.

Monday came and it was time to meet Geoff. We collected him at the hotel and Shannon asked me do you know where this place is? I said “don’t worry, I have a GPS!” Off we went out to the Cargo warehouse or at least to its address, whereupon I discovered the first of many limitations of the average GPS unit. Always remember when in the states to enter the address in East or West terms, you will find that 2500 XYZ street West is a completely different place to 2500 XYZ street East! After being lost for about forty five minutes, we copped onto the problem and made our way to the correct location where we stood in line to clear the bikes.

When we went up with our paperwork, it was obvious that the gents behind the counter had never done anything like temporary importing of motorcycles before. After a lot of head scratching they told us to come back tomorrow as they needed to take some soil samples from the bike to make sure we weren’t bringing in any fungi in the mud on the tires. A complete load of cobblers but there was nothing to do but turn away and come back the next day. They gave us a number to ring to check to see if the bikes were ready, and told us not to come back out unless we’d checked with the number first. They gave us the impression that it might take a couple of days, which really put a downer on things.

In our eagerness to get going we’d gone out to the airport in enduro motorcycle gear hoping to just jump on the bikes and drive off into the wild blue yonder. With the heat and the fact that the cargo terminal was a solid walk away from the customs area and having to walk back and forward between the buildings, we were literally cooking in our own juices. Geoff and I got a taxi to a hotel together, and shared a double room.

This was the first of many weird moments of the trip for me. There I was in a hotel room in Toronto with a guy maybe twenty years older than me, who I barely knew waiting to go and collect our bikes to start a trip where, who knows what would be ahead of us. It was surreal. Sharing a hotel room with a friend is easy; it’s a little harder when you barely know the person. As we were nodding off to sleep, Geoff started to snore like a whore’s bastard. I lay there staring at the ceiling wondering just what the **** I had gotten myself into.

Early the next morning we rang the number customs gave us and we got the news that the bikes were good to go, so off we set to uncrate the bikes and go through the customs formalities, it wasn't long before we were shooting east in the direction of Nova Scotia. Leaving Toronto gradually five lane highways became four then three and finally two as you get further and further away from the urban sprawl. Gradually we made our way through the traffic towards the town of Cornwall on the St Laurence River.


The stifling heat combined with wearing too much gear and the slow moving traffic made the early going almost unbearable. I was sitting on the bike driving along thinking to myself “Is this it? Is this how I’m supposed to feel? This is the trip of lifetime right?” It probably sounds unbelievably selfish to say it but I was having a horrible time, after a year of planning I was driving along roasting hot and miserable; when you stopped moving it was easy to imagine what it must be like to be a rotisserie chicken.

It’s only when you start travelling in Canada that the sheer scale of the country starts to dawn on you. We drove two hundred and seventy seven miles in the first day, or rather afternoon but if you were to look at a map of Canada on an A4 sheet, you would barely be able to perceive the distance at all. In Canada you have to stop saying things like its “two hundred miles away” or “its 400 kilometres away” and revert back to saying things like such and such a place is “a three day ride” or such and such a place is “18 hours away”. Talking in terms of kilometres or miles would drive you crazy. To put some numbers on it; Canada is over one hundred times the size of Ireland, and more than thirty six times the size of the United Kingdom, so there!

In Ireland and the UK it’s pretty common for motorcyclists to filter between traffic, that means making a second or third lane where there’s none marked, it drives the rest of the driving fraternity crazy but makes us bikers feel like kings. It turns out Canadian driver’s don’t like you filtering on your bike, in fact, seems like they hate it enough to physically roar out the window "hey a-hole... get in ****ing line". By the end of the first day I’d already had a couple of these greetings. Thankfully, due to the lack of availability of handguns in Canada I felt I was able to return the greeting with an extended index finger, not the sort of reply I would consider giving in Texas!

The Canadian highways are full of bikers; mostly driving big Honda Goldwing’s made to cover the sort of distances one encounters in Canada. Every time we stopped for Gas or a cup of coffee, which was about every hour we met loads of people. My first impressions were that the Canadians were a friendly, if a little guarded, bunch. Based on the first couple of conversations we had with the people we met along the road, most didn’t have a bull’s notion where Argentina was geographically, although most had heard of it.

After a shower that evening, I headed out to try to find a computer to send an email to my family to say that I’d survived the first day. I looked up Cornwall in my Canada rough guide, it didn’t mention it. Hmmm, let me try Google I thought to myself, where I found out that its biggest claim to fame is that its home to one of the biggest distribution centres in Canada, Yawn!
It was the first time that the realisation dawned on me that while there are lots of really great places in the world; in between them are a lot of really average or just altogether boring places. I guess there wouldn’t be such a thing as great places if it wasn’t for towns like Cornwall, so I saluted its boring mediocrity while draining a beer.

I lay in the bed that night staring at the ceiling wondering “Is this how I’m supposed to feel? Shouldn’t I be feeling better? Shouldn’t I be happier? Why am I still thinking about work? I’m on the trip of a lifetime, why doesn’t it feel like it, and how the **** does Geoff snore that loud without waking himself up?”
__________________
Ride on!

30000mileson2wheels.blogspot.com
BacktoBroke.blogspot.com

[Oisin]

[rockchunk]

nice one oisin seen the vid you posted before look forward to the next instalment

[Micky]

He's on the road again

Yipeeeee ... keep it coming Oisin

[MacFarlane]

Canny read

Keep it coming along dude

[Oisin]

The next day we got up early, jumped on the bikes and were off to a town called Riviere du loup in the state of Quebec. It was my first experience of French Canadians. Much like the “Real” French in that, although they may speak a bit of English, they do not speak it to you. I did my best to remember my secondary school French and managed to get by.

I have to admit to the French mob giving me a pain in the arse. I was a tourist in a place spending money; you would think they’d do their level best to communicate with you. Don’t get me wrong I’m all for learning the culture before you go somewhere and having to adapt, but when you know the guy behind the counter can speak English and he’s just trying to teach you a lesson it all feels a bit shit.

Although I was only two days into the trip one of my bubbles was about to be burst. Before I started the trip, I had images in my head of driving along the road with women in corvettes or Ferraris pulling up beside me and inviting me back to their hotel room for a shagathon, but over the first two days, I’d yet to see a single looker.

A routine was starting to develop; as I was driving along I tended to be just a bit faster than the average traffic flow. So as I passed a car I could peek into the car to see whose driving, desperately hoping it might be a nude centrefold with loose morals. So far, it had just been Canadian men with big hairy hands and some of the plainest women I’d seen since I studied engineering in college. I told myself, don’t worry when you get to “small town Canada” they’ll never have seen anything like me and I’ll be kidnapped to become the sex slave of an all women cult.

Geoff and I went out into the town and had dinner in a lovely restaurant and had a good chat. He told me all about how his wife had died; he was completely lost without her. They had been together since they were very young and you could see that when she died it left a hole in him that he was desperately trying to fill. After dinner we went out for a couple of beers and talked some more. We stood looking out over a balcony, with the St Laurence River in the distance. The whole horizon kept flaring with lightning as a stiff summer breeze blew into our faces. It was the first time I felt like I was having a good time.

The next day we set off for Moncton in New Brunswick, three hundred and eighty miles from where we were, we’d be about ten hours total on the road, including stopping for grub and taking pictures. I was starting to feel just a little hard core as I rested up on the bike at one of the gas breaks when up rode a guy on a bicycle. His name was Alex and he’d cycled the whole way from Vancouver to here, over six thousand kilometres. It just goes to show that no matter how crazy you think what you’re doing is, there’s always someone doing something crazier, buns of steel doesn’t even come close to describing this guy.

Moncton was supposed to be a nice place with lots to do and see according to some folks we met along the way, so we were quietly looking forward to it. On the way into town we noticed a lot of strip bars and tattoo parlours, while not necessarily a bad thing, it’s never a sign that you’re rolling into a Beverly Hills’-esque type area. I pumped “find nearest lodging” into the GPS and it took us to an Econolodge. It looked a bit rough but my ass was so sore from riding (the bike) that I would have slept under a bull for the night.

As we pulled into the car park three baddies pulled up in a car, got out and checked into a motel room just opposite ours. They left the door open in their room and were all drinking away at a couple of cans of beer sitting on the bed. All four had their tops off; I was beginning to think these lads were on a gay cruise. As I was stripping the bike and bringing the gear into the room, I was worried these guys were going to be doing their shopping out of our stuff if we left the room.

Parking our nervous feelings about leaving our stuff in the Motel, we had to wash some clothes or we’d smell so bad we risked getting hosed down by state officials the next time we stopped. We asked the guy in the motel where the nearest launderette was and off we went. We got to the place and said, “Hi there, what time do you close?” The girl said 9pm, we said grand and started to load up our stuff into the machines. She said “Eh dufus its 8:50pm, you won’t get a run through, we looked at each other and said “no it isn’t... its only 7:50” at which point we both realised we’d crossed a time zone, another new thing to have to deal with when riding across very large countries!

After some grub, Geoff was knackered but I still fancied a couple of pints so asked the cab driver on the way back to take me to a good bar. This cab guy starts raving about this place called “Rockin Rodeo” where there were 4:1 ratios of women to men and that he’d gone there the last few weeks and never failed to score, making it clear it was wall to wall women. Now the cab driver didn’t look to me like he’d score in a brothel with a pocket full of twenties so I thought the odds must be good so I said, “take me there Andre!”

He dropped me off, I paid a $4 dollar cover to get in, and yep you guess it, I was the only one in the whole bar, and the bar was about the size of a football field. I nailed a Coors light (watching my figure) so fast that it gave me brain freeze. I said **** this and left and as I walked out the same taxi driver was still there driving off with another fare. I let out a roar at him, something traditionally Irish, “ya lyin bastard ya”.

Feeling a little dejected, I got a cab back to the motel. The next cab driver raved about this “other bar”. I think these guys were on retainers from the bars to bring dopey hairy arsed tourists in, but seeing as I was on holidays I tried the “must visit Irish bar”, called the auld triangle. The bar turned out to be about as Irish as Margaret Thatcher’s underpants, so I had one more Coors and headed off back to the Motel.

I finally got back to the motel room where Geoff was up to “high doh”, he realised that when he went out for a smoke, he’d left the door open and there were now thousands of mosquitoes and black fly in the motel room. After two hours and more fatalities than in the battle of the Somme, all the wee beasties were dead but I still went to sleep itchy as hell. Moncton left a lot to be desired!

We left in a hurry the next day after a restless night worrying about a mixture of mosquitoes and baddies robbing our motorcycles, and drove just shy of three hundred miles to Sydney in Nova Scotia. We had intended to go to Halifax but there was a Harley Davidson convention in Sydney with open air gigs and ride outs. It would be much more our style and it would be great to meet a bunch more bikers. These conventions draw bikers from all over and the closer we got to Sydney the more bikers we met on the road; both our moods were soaring. Every time we’d stop at a garage, we’d end up spending about twenty minutes talking to everyone about where we were from, and where we were going.

Nova Scotia translates to New Scotland and as you travel to it and pass out of the state of New Brunswick, you get an instant reminder of where it gets its name from. I'm not kidding, the temperature dropped around twelve degrees and it was freezing not to mention pissing rain. I’m certain that two hundred years ago when the pioneers were heading that way, a bunch of hairy arsed Scots hit this spot and said “**** me jimmy, it’s just like Scotland”, and the rest is history. Having said that, I would move to Nova Scotia in the morning, it was full of wonderful friendly people.

The first night in Sydney was great, the Harley convention had five open-air bands playing and all these guys could play. All the bands were heavy rock and there was about two thousand Harley heads around the place creating a cracking atmosphere. The next morning the plan was to do the Cabot trail, which for the great unwashed is one of the top ten road routes in the world; a two hundred and seventy kilometre long ring around Cape Breton. We talked to people who at been up on one of the hills that day looking down into the ocean and they could see whole pods of whales feeding at one of the inlets.
We set out at around 8am and then the heavens opened like Noah was due to take the Arc for another spin. Within twenty minutes and despite wearing some of the best enduro gear on the market I was soaked right through to the butt crack. In the end, we only did forty miles and rode to a place called Baddeck to spend the night. That night we met a father and son pair doing a motorcycle expedition of their own from New York State to Cape Breton. Their names I can’t remember but we went out for grub and beers with them and had a cool time.

This part of the world is full of hunters and one stopped by for a chat. I have to say I don’t get the whole “hunter thing”, this guy was boasting about having killed twelve moose in his hunting career. Geoff started taking this piss out him saying, “Isn’t that just like shooting a big cow?” I was asking what he did with the meat. He said that he ate it, at which point we all roared laughing. Apparently there’s nearly seven hundred pounds of meat in a Moose, so even if this guy was having moose steak three times a day for his entire life he still wouldn’t have eaten that much.

I said to him that as part of preparing for the trip, I had kept reading to be wary of Moose, if you hit one on the bike your finished. In fourteen hundred miles so far I hadn’t even had so much as a sniff of one; I made a joke that it was his fault. The night ended in a sombre mood, Geoff had started to talk about his wife again and I guess by talking about it, he was working the pain out of his system. We spent the rest of the evening out on the motel veranda drinking whiskey and killing mosquitoes.

The next morning it was time to give the Cabot trail another go, the weather looked like it was going to be great and the omens were good, it was simply sensational. Although at this point I hadn’t actually logged that many miles up on a motorbike, the Cabot trail was the best motorcycle road I'd been on. There were sweeping bends, hairpin turns, mountains, cliffs all accompanied by brilliant blue skies and warm sunshine. I was driving the bike right at the extremes of my capabilities and a couple of times I had the hammer down far too hard and nearly flew off a cliff.

On the way round as part of letting the sphincter sort itself out after a couple of near misses we pulled up to a whale tour and went out and saw a heap of Minkey and bottle nose whales. They all looked the same to me despite the protestations of the tour guide. After an hour or so of watching the whales it was back onto the Cabot trail and I was doing as good an impression of Valentino Rossi as a fat bastard from Clondalkin is able to, on an overloaded 1150GS Adventurer.

The Cabot trail is so good you can get caught in two minds very easily. Do I just ride it? The road twists and bends through the countryside like it’s a motorcyclist’s wet dream. On the other hand the views of the landscape and ocean are so good you want to keep getting off the bike every five minutes to take pictures. My advice is to do the Cabot trail twice, and each time, ride it counter clockwise. That way you’ll keep the ocean on your right side. Do it once for pictures, and then do it again just to appreciate the ebb and flow of the road as it makes its way through Canada at its most pristine.

With the sights saw it was time to leave Nova Scotia and blaze a trail for New Glasgow starting the long journey west, the next time I'd see the ocean would be in Anchorage, Alaska.
__________________
Ride on!

30000mileson2wheels.blogspot.com
BacktoBroke.blogspot.com

[Oisin]

[Oisin]

Chapter 2
Having knocked out the Cabot trail, Geoff and I decided it was time to start the long road west to Alaska. Even taking the most direct route it was over 5000 miles away, a lot further when you factor in detours for sightseeing. We decided that New Glasgow would be a good place to stop for the night, it was about three hours west of where we were. No sooner had we started when the weather quickly turned miserable and we were stopping every forty minutes or so for coffee in the ubiquitous Tim Horton’s coffee chain, anything to get out of the rain.

We got to New Glasgow without too much fuss in the end. Much like Cornwall and Moncton, there wasn’t a whole pile going on. As we were parking up outside a motel another biker called Ed pulled up driving a 1200GS adventurer. We went over, introduced ourselves, and invited him along for dinner. We headed for a round of wings and beers, chatted for a good few hours about bikes, and shared stories from the road.

As the night wore on Geoff started to talk about his wife again. I guess because the grief was still so near for him, it occupied a massive part of his consciousness; he struggled to talk about much else really. It was at that moment that I decided I was going to break off and go my own way in a day or two. It wasn’t that Geoff wasn’t a nice guy but this journey represented the adventure of a lifetime for me, I didn’t want to spend it helping him through his depression. Maybe if we’d been best buddies before the trip, it was something I would have gladly done but when you barely know someone, it was too much, for me at least.

Obviously, Ed when he listened to the story was very sympathetic but being my fifth of sixth time through it and I guess I looked bored. When Geoff went to bog I said something I regret, along the lines of “you can’t get that guy to stop talking about that stuff, it’s really head wrecking”. No doubt Ed just thought I was an insensitive plonker.

I knew that I’d cut my losses in the next town and plunge out into Canada by myself. The next day, the three of us, as part of back peddling across Canada decided to strike back for Riviere du Loup, we’d had a great night there first time round, so it made sense to just stay there again.

We covered a lot of ground, over five hundred miles in total arriving and staying in the same guest house we had the first time round. We’d travelled 2200 miles in only a couple of days and I was ****ed tired.

Along the way I noticed Geoff and Ed were burning me off the back, which is where the lead bikes keep up a very hefty pace, maybe one just above where you’re comfortable to ride at. I was at the back wondering “since when did I become the un-cool guy? When did I become the guy who gets burned off the back?” Ed had obviously thought that I was a dickhead having talked behind Geoff’s back.

I found myself thousands of miles from home, rallying down a Canadian highway absolutely miserable, wondering just how the **** all this bullshit had happened.

The roads in Canada are unbelievably straight so straight they would drive you to drink. You end up counting every mile and end up just sitting there bored out of your ****ing mind. Every now and then you might slip into a trance where you don’t notice the miles passing, but it doesn’t last long and then you’re back in the helmet; just you and your thoughts and your very sore arse. At times I’d have conversations with myself along the lines of “Hmmm, what do I usually think about when I’m trying to pass the time? I can’t think of anything!”

The next morning I met Geoff for breakfast and said to him that I was going to go a different route around the great lakes and was he ok with that. I think he knew it was coming and I think he was happier that way anyway. Once we cleared the air it was amazing, we were back getting along like a house on fire. Ed by this stage had already left so we agreed that we would go as far as Montreal together at which point he was going to burn south towards the USA. His plan was to circle the great lakes from the south; mine was to continue to cross Canada. We made a remark about meeting up on the other side of the lakes, but never did.

When it came time to part ways it was very sad, we had stopped for lunch and talked some more about his missus and I really did understand how he felt and felt very sorry for him. As we drove up towards Montreal we got to the turn off, Geoff blazed to the left and I went to the right. I held my finger on the horn and then held my left fist high in the air as we both went our separate ways. I was on my own now and I couldn’t stop from welling up, and having a good old cry.

I just kept riding to try and work things out in my head and ended up doing just short of four hundred and fifty miles as I pulled into the town or Arnprior in Ontario Canada, just west of Ottawa. The town sits on a river and is very easy on the eye. I walked down to the riverfront and sat on a bench to try and soak up the summers evening. Tens of people were casting their fishing rods into the river as the sun was setting just behind the town on the far bank of the river.

I was feeling a bit lonely and thought to myself “your gonna need to come out of your shell more or your gonna have a shit time, you need to start meeting people”.

If you’ve ever travelled by yourself I’m sure you’ll agree that at times things can be weird. If you’re a guy and you just go up and start talking to a guy, the guy will think “this dude must be gay”. If you go up talking to a girl “this loser just wants a shag”.

People in the western world can tend to think that there must be a reason why this “****er” is talking to me. The last thing we would ever admit to ourselves is that people might be just looking for company.

Everyone I talked to said that once you got west of Toronto and passed the great lakes there was nothing but flat farm land for thousands of miles. In a way I was quite looking forward to it, in my mind’s eye I reckoned that I might be able to get “in touch with myself” and really work some stuff over in my head, realistically I’d no clue what was ahead.

My next port of call was Sault Ste Marie, a town on the border between Canada and the USA. The town was formed as a result of connecting two parts of the great lakes and its locks are busier that the Suez and the Panama Canal combined. I don’t remember much about the road there, it wasn’t very scenic, that’s not to say that the countryside wasn’t nice, it just wasn’t very memorable. The land was largely flat with crop forests of ever green pines running right up to the road intermingled with the odd farm.

I went down to the locks to take a look, and went to see the movie Hancock. I’d developed a little routine when I pulled into a town. In the evening I’d take off the enduro gear, head in for a shower and then go for a spin on the bike with just a leather jacket, jeans and a pair of sun glasses on. I’d ride around the respective town looking for something to do, but mainly just to look cool. I reckoned that none of these red neck Canadian women would be able to resist it. So plenty of just me on my own then!

The further west you go in Canada, the less and less populated the country becomes so I had to contend with being on my own a lot, I hadn’t met anyone at all in two days. I guess crossing Canada on a motorcycle isn’t something that too many people do.

I was driving over four hundred miles a day, its sounds a lot, and it is, but there’s so little to do in this part of the world, its best to just push on. I would love to be able to say that there were some fun spots to pull over and have a good time but the only thing to keep you amused was the clouds in the sky. I crossed the 3,000 mile mark which meant I had completed about 10% of the total journey eleven days after leaving Ireland, at this rate I’d be finished sixty days ahead of schedule. I consoled myself by saying “Dude, spend your time in the happening places.”

The next day I was on the road again looping north around Lake Superior on my way to Thunder Bay. This was the first time since Nova Scotia that there was a decent bit of scenery. The lake itself is huge, bigger than Ireland by over ten thousand square kilometres so for the whole day I had a lake on my left side and forest on my right. It’s hard to believe the lake is fresh water; it looks just like the sea with waves lapping up onto gravel beaches.

I stopped every hour or so pulling over and walking by the lake having a chat with anyone who looked in the least bit friendly. Yakking away to the locals in any given area you tend to pick up lots of little titbits of information, for example; believe it or not, they get waves of up to thirty feet on Lake Superior during storms and it’s fed by over two hundred rivers. Some of the great lakes are officially dead with all the pollution, Lake Superior is still hanging in there though.

When I was about an hour from Thunder Bay I pulled over to the side of the road to take a few pictures. The sun was low in the sky on the right with the lake stretching out in front of me flickering in the evening sun shine. On my left, still a few miles distant a thunderstorm was starting to go into high gear. I don’t know if it’s how the town got its name but I can tell you the whole time I was there it was thundering away like crazy. The whole reason for the town to exist is to transport grain from the prairies out onto the great lakes where it’s ferried off to various ports.

I got up the next morning absolutely knackered and couldn’t bear the thought of riding, but the town was so dull that I said to myself “c’mon push on to the next town and stop there.” I was a bit down in the dumps and was feeling pretty lonely. I’d lost my phone and I was wondering whether or not to replace it. I was starting to get pissed off that I wasn’t getting any text messages from home; it was like the whole world had forgotten about me and was getting on with their lives. The phone in a way became a reminder of “people not getting in contact with me”, so I made a decision to do the rest of the trip without one.

When I look back on it, it was a stupid idea, if anything bad happened I would have been rightly ****ed, but my thinking on it was; what would phoning someone do anyway, it would only get them worried. I was really on my own now.

I pulled in at a town called Dryden, which was built around a large paper mill. I hadn’t been able to get near the internet for a couple of days so once I booked into a motel I headed out to look for the local library. Internet cafe’s are noticeably absent in most towns in Canada and the US. I guess there’s an assumption that everyone has a computer so why would you bother.

As I went looking for the library a guy pulled up on a bike beside me and said “hey how are you doing? What are you doing here?” I told him and next thing I knew I was back at his place swinging out of a couple of beers. He was a keen biker and I got a lot of “off road” tips from him, which would come in handy in Alaska which was getting closer every day. The suspicious person in everyone always thinks that someone just walking up to you must have an agenda, and I have to admit to thinking “maybe this guy is a serial killer or gay and he’s gonna take me back to his place and stab me up the arse.”

I needn’t have worried, he was a sound skin. Over a couple of beers I told him all about the trip so far, and that I thought it would have been better, that I thought I’d meet more people and that it wasn’t really working out as a dream trip, and to top it all not a whole pile of interesting things had happened so far. He really understood and told me not to worry; there’ll be lots of bikers once you get to the Pan American highway. I headed back to the motel after about eight bottles of various types of beer; it was just the tonic I needed to get my spirits up.

Relatively rested after a short run the day before, I headed for Brandon a town west of Winnipeg. On the way I passed through the geographical centre of Canada; I was officially half way across. Half way seemed hard to believe when I thought about the distance I’d covered, some 4300miles completed, almost the distance from Dublin Ireland, to Mumbai in India.

My ass was officially turning into a different life form, every time I sat on the saddle it felt like I was sitting down bare arse in a field of thistles. With the heat my motorbike boots smelt so bad I reckoned they might force an early migration of the Caribou herd. Mossies and black fly had by this point taken a penchant for my extremities and on average I had about twenty bite marks on the go at any one time. I even had a couple on my bum, that mossie was taking his life in his hands I don’t mind telling you.

I had hit prairie land, namely Saskatchewan, the Canadian equivalent of Montana in the United States; big sky country. The whole “flat land and big sky” thing is an amazing thing to drive through. You can see right to the horizon in all directions. The roads are completely and utterly straight with no bends for hundreds of kilometres and once the novelty of the landscape starts to wear off you, the tedium of the road starts to grow.

You just sit there. The road is straight, your speed is constant, the horizon is perfectly flat and the blue sky extends the whole way to the horizon. The fields by the side of the road are sown with same crop so nothing changes. The only things on the road are trucks and the occasional car. Everything seems constant. You become aware of every mile you’re riding, and every minute you’re driving. There is nothing you can do to take your mind off the vast unchanging landscape. It takes days to cross.

It is like driving through purgatory, the only thing to keep you company is a really noisy wind. The farmers in the area all joke that because the land is so flat, if your dog ran away, he could run for three days and you’d still be able to see him in the distance.

On the way to a Brandon I had my first “nearly killed” moment. There were two big eighteen wheelers blocking the highway doing about 50mph, they were talking to each other as they were driving up the road and no one could get by.

This went on and on for about 40 miles or more and yours truly not being known for his patience, especially while getting the shit kicked out of him by both the wind and the turbulence from the juggernauts was quickly losing the rag. I decided to bomb up a very skinny hard shoulder to the right at close to 100 mph and lashed by the lads in the trucks, giving it a bit of “yee hawwwwwwwww!” in the process.

It was only later, that a couple who saw me passing the trucks on the road, came up to me at a filling station and said that the trucker swerved for me as I was passing on the inside. They had called the police so I spent an hour or so talking to the cops who had arrived before I knew it. Most of the time was just spent talking to them about where I was off to I didn’t really want to bring up the fact that I used the hard shoulder as my own private race track. We chatted for a good while and to be honest I was glad of the company. Seemed to me that these guys were glad of the company too, I doubt too much goes on to keep the police busy in these parts.

I got into Brandon that night too late to get any grub and there was absolutely nothing to do, not surprising as the town is an agricultural hub. I hit the hay starving and my stomach started talking to me as it often does, “Aren’t you forgetting something fat boy? Where’s the ****ing nose bag!” Too hungry to even have a hand shandy, I just headed off to sleep.

The next day I was back on the road in a familiar routine; rise, ride for about an hour and then stop for breakfast, then ride for another hour and then stop for gas and so it would continue stopping every hour or so in an attempt to break up the monotony of the flat unchanging land.

The further into the state of Saskatchewan I went the more encounters with storms I had. A prairie storm is a thing to be feared, and can get violent enough to send you running for your mammy.

In the distance you can see black clouds and as you approach the storm day becomes night. As you get into the middle of it you start to notice some “off” yellow colours in the clouds, an almost sulphur colour; round about then you know you’re in deep shit. The temperature drops about ten degrees and you turn from roasting to freezing in just a couple of minutes.

The rain starts to come down in sheets and the rain drops are so large that your visibility drops to about fifteen feet. Fork lightning fires all round you and the thunder is so loud it drowns out the sound of the engine on the bike. You start to remember all the stories about how a car is the safest place to be during lightning and then start to think “hmmmm...don’t recall hearing anything about motorbikes”. On these vast planes there are very few places to shelter so there’s nothing you can do but put the hammer down and try and run like a blue bastard straight through it. Every second you’re in a storm on a motorcycle is spent shitting bricks, feeling like a nervous dog at Halloween when the fireworks are going off.

Often when I would stop for gas, the locals seemed to take relish in filling me full of fear with phrases like “there’s a Tornado warning about son”. I was driving along saying to myself “just my luck...the day the hairy arse dub shows up, a twister the size of Galway bay will drop straight on me.”
Living in Ireland or the UK, realistically we never see a real storm, at least not like they have them in North America, and you ain’t seen nothing till you've seen a prairie storm. The mad thing is that once you drive out the other side of it; it’s like it never happened. You’re back clear skies and roasting temperatures and uttering some choice phrases like “What the **** just happened?”

The influence of the Native American communities who originally inhabited these lands starts to jump to the fore as you continue west, towns called Moose Jaw, Medicine Hat and Swift Current all conjured up images for me of what this country must have been like before the wagons started to roll west. The towns may have had cool sounding names but as with a lot of towns in North America, they were all grid towns with no centre square and for the most part impossible to tell apart.

The colours of the crops either side of the road thankfully started to break up the monotony. It was still July so most were in bloom and there was a sea of yellow rape seed and flax planted as far as the eye could see. One farmer who I met in a garage told me that there was now an area the size of Germany planted with flax in Canada that used to be planted with wheat and corn.

With Oil prices shooting up and food prices dropping the farmers were turning to non food crops. I wondered what would the implications of it be, surely you can’t take that much food out of circulation without causing a famine somewhere.

Riding through this sort of terrain you go through the full range of emotions. The day always starts well; you knock out the first two hundred clicks in two or three hours and stop for a coffee. Then the second leg is always tougher; your brain starts to go crazy looking at a road which never bends and just keeps going straight for an eternity. On top of that, as the miles pass your boxer shorts start to ride higher and higher till they're literally sawing you in two by the end of the fourth hour. With another four to five hours in the saddle, you start to feel like your arse needs to be put in a sling.

The wind never seems to let up, ripping your head one way and then the other. When you’re passed by a huge truck, the turbulence punches you so hard you almost take it personal. Train tracks run in parallel to large sections of the highway and often you encounter massive trains which snake for miles through the vast flat countryside. They all stop at massive grain silo's which stand like sentries along the train track visible for miles.

The people you meet along the way are normally farmers. Most are friendly up to a point but keep their distance, not surprising really when you consider they're talking to a bearded loony from Ireland "So you've over here doing what?"

The prairies were very tough, not in the dangerous or physical sense but mentally challenging, maybe akin to the doldrums for sailors. Straight roads for thousands of kilometres, long distances, storms, howling winds, maniacal truckers and boring one horse towns, I was bored to tears. But every now and then the wind stopped blowing, everything was calm and there were no trucks or cars on the road. I was riding along surrounded by a sea of yellow and light blue flowers under a cloudless blue sky, with the fragrance of the field coming in through the helmet. For a fleeting moment I imagined this must be what heaven is like.
__________________
Ride on!

30000mileson2wheels.blogspot.com
BacktoBroke.blogspot.com

[Ash]

stunning

[Bin Ridin]

Very generous, Oisin, and i love the title!

"Cailin deas, Gob fliuch agus bas ag fainiacht" mar a dearfha ?

Bin

[srace7]

Oisin

I couldn't stand the suspense !! I downloaded your pdf and read through it today...

A really worthy read - I must admit there were bits towards the beginning where I couldn't get my head round your "full on" or critical observations - but as the book went on I appreciated the honesty...

It was fascinating to see the development of your views and opinions - and self awareness... Thank you for sharing - I could identify with the changes and observations...

It was clear your trip helped you put life into a different perspective - whether that perspective is better is not for me or others to say - it is just that you now have more data and more experiences to shape your views and thinking...

I found exactly the same from my solo bike ride - it was shorter and less adventurous than yours - but it took me out of my comfort zone and left me seeing the world differently - and wanting more...

I admire the honesty and am glad you too got more from the trip than just lots of digital images...

Thanks again for the candour and for sharing - I bet with the "new way of looking at things" you might have tackled some of those things that displeased you in the early days slightly differently now - and that's a great end result...

Enjoy your next trip, ride safe

Simon

[Oisin]

Originally Posted by srace7

Oisin

I couldn't stand the suspense !! I downloaded your pdf and read through it today...

A really worthy read - I must admit there were bits towards the beginning where I couldn't get my head round your "full on" or critical observations - but as the book went on I appreciated the honesty...

It was fascinating to see the development of your views and opinions - and self awareness... Thank you for sharing - I could identify with the changes and observations...

It was clear your trip helped you put life into a different perspective - whether that perspective is better is not for me or others to say - it is just that you now have more data and more experiences to shape your views and thinking...

I found exactly the same from my solo bike ride - it was shorter and less adventurous than yours - but it took me out of my comfort zone and left me seeing the world differently - and wanting more...

I admire the honesty and am glad you too got more from the trip than just lots of digital images...

Thanks again for the candour and for sharing - I bet with the "new way of looking at things" you might have tackled some of those things that displeased you in the early days slightly differently now - and that's a great end result...

Enjoy your next trip, ride safe

Simon

Appreciate the kind words Simon!
see you on the road some day...
by the way I'm off to do Dublin to new york Solo, via Magadan in 5 weeks... so that will be some trip!

take care and god bless
Oisin

[Oisin]

I made myself a promise on the trip that I would where possible avoid big cities unless I was getting the bike serviced and in keeping with that promise I burned straight through Calgary and headed for Canmore, a town in the Rockies.

I can’t tell you how good it felt to see mountains again; after nearly two weeks of flat unchanging landscape to have the horizon dominated my massive snow capped peaks had me smiling like a Cheshire cat. I headed out that night for one of the biggest pizza’s I’ve ever had and washed it down with a couple of celebratory beers. I was sure that now I was in the great north west of North America that I’d meet a lot more people on motorbikes or at least lots of tourists who might be kindred spirits.

The road turned north for the first time in nearly two weeks as I drove the road between Canmore and Banff and then on up to Jasper and from there on up to Hinton. The route took me through the Ice field parkway, one of the most famous roads in Canada, no matter who you talked to this was a “must see” area and it didn’t disappoint. For almost three hundred kilometers this road ambled its way through the feet of giant snow capped mountains. The mountains, three times the size of Ireland’s largest mountain were so impressive I doubted if anything would ever top the sites that lay before me, I rode completely silent and just lapped it all up, it was unbelievable.
Glaciers feed the rivers and lakes in the area making all the water turquoise; as if the scenery didn’t stand out enough already. Every time I’d see a mountain or a scenic view and say “yep that’s it ... nothing will ever top that”, just around the bend would be something even more spectacular. The Rockies chain stretches down the whole way to the Andes in South America, I liked the idea that this mountain range would be like an old friend by the time I was done.

The day ended in Hinton, a small town based around lumber. The bucket in your head where you store images of nice scenery was completely full for me, and after what I’d seen I had a strange feeling, namely that nothing could ever top it. This area is renowned as one of the most beautiful areas in the world; would it be downhill all the way from here?

At moments like these I told myself "it’s an adventure ya big bollix", it’s about driving from Prudhoe Bay to Ushuaia and going coast to coast at the widest point in the Americas so stop your whingeing and fill the tank up with petrol, it’s time to get going again.

I decided the following day would only be a short run of about five hours or so taking me from Hinton to a town called Grande Prairie. The day started out pretty crap as it was pissing down and for the first time on the trip it was really cold. Hard to believe looking at the calendar, that in July, things would be this cool but the chill rolls off the Rockies and joins cascades of wind and rain.

I was absolutely freezing on the bike and after about only thirty minutes I had to pull in and put on my arctic gear which involved stripping to almost naked by the side of the road and putting on an inner body skin, and an outer layer which is both water proof and wind proof and over that that the enduro suit. I also put on a balaclava to turn off the chill factor on my face which was quickly turning into something approaching the colour of a beetroot.

I'd expected to encounter this weather on the Dalton highway in Alaska or down towards the south of Argentina, not in Alberta Canada. The problem with a bike is that once your cold it’s almost impossible to get warm, like I said before it’s not like there’s a heater you can turn on and after about forty minutes rain, wind and cold I was thoroughly miserable. I pulled into the smallest town I’d ever seen off highway 40, called Muskeg.

I sat down in a diner dripping wet and shivering with the cold and ordered two of the biggest mugs of steaming hot coffee in the world with some hot sandwiches to try and heat up. The lady behind the counter obviously took pity on me and was quick to refill the rapidly emptying mugs of coffee.
Just then the whole room darkened when the biggest man I’ve ever seen walked into the room, comfortably six feet eight inches and built like a brick shit house. He nodded to the woman behind the counter who said to him "were pretty busy Frenchy, you can sit down with that guy over there (that’s me) if he doesn’t mind", not at all I replied.

I was sitting in a booth where you'd normally sit 4 people me with my motorbike gear on one side and Frenchy sat down opposite me taking pretty much the entire booth opposite; he barely had room just for himself. He stretched out his legs and I quickly moved mine out of the way apologising as you do. (Especially when a white version of Shaquille o’ Neil sits down opposite)

The dimensions of Frenchy were something to behold, his shoulders were gigantic and had a set of hands which were like a bunch of bananas. His rib cage was like a barrel and he looked like the incredible hulk (except not green obviously) sitting opposite me. Anyway you get the picture, he was a massive dude, I reckoned he had about fifty five years on the clock but that would be a guess.

"Usual Frenchy?" said the lady behind the counter to which he just nodded twice. With that I put my hand out to shake his and said "Hi I'm Oisin”, he shook my hand, mine looked like a little girls in his, and his skin had the texture of tree bark. One shake had me wanting to grab a tube of moisturiser! He didn’t say anything, I guess he'd figured out I already knew his name.
Somewhat awestruck I said to him "dude if you don’t mind me saying so, you are the biggest bastard I've ever seen", to which he didn’t say anything. Thinking the bastard remark might have offended him I quickly back peddled, saying "no offence on the bastard thing, it’s just a turn of phrase.... in Ireland... that’s where I’m from”, I was dying on the vine.

He still didn’t say anything but at least he didn’t look offended. Just then Doris showed up with the coffee saying "How are you today Frenchy?", to which he just replied; "Doing good Doris" to which she smiled and walked off leaving me with the behemoth.

I started to try and make conversation with him and I’m not bad at this sort of thing normally, shy and retiring are not attributes which feature anywhere on my resume but this guy was a piece of work. I was also anxious that Doris bring him his breakfast just in case he started to butter me and eat me.
The rest of the conversation went on:

Oisin: "So I’m over doing this big motorbike trip...y'know shipped the bike in from Ireland to Toronto...went to nova Scotia..and then over to here..heading for Alaska"
Frenchy: uh huh
Oisin: "yep and from there I'm going to Argentina...will be 30000 miles total...."
Frenchy: nothing
Oisin: "Cold out today huh?"
Frenchy: "Guess so"
(Think what he really meant was... you wouldn’t know cold from a cabbage ya big Irish dumb ass... as it gets to -40 here in the winter)
Oisin: "So are you from here?"..."like Canada? I mean ".."or...."(was desperate that he'd latch onto that "or")
Frenchy: "I’m from here"
Oisin: "So Alberta..? or this town...or "
(Was pushing my luck with the "or's")
Frenchy: "here"
(Jaysus this was tough going...talkative oul bollix aren’t ya I wanted to say to him if I wasn’t in absolute fear of my life that he'd either eat me or punch me in the head for yakking so much)

Doris arrived thankfully with the grub for Frenchy which was really a trough of food poured onto a serving plate where one might expect to find the carcass of a roasted pig at a banquet.

Oisin:"Holy ****!!...that’s some amount of nose bag!!!"(It was a nervous knee jerk answer)
Frenchy:"nose bag?"
Oisin: "yeah like a horse's nose bag... know what I mean?" and then made a motion like a horse emptying nose bag into itself and through in a neeaahhhh for good measure, Frenchy smiled and said..."you’re a bit crazy y’know that!"

Seeing my opening and not that I needed any invitation, I just kept blabbing on and Frenchy sat their listening at least I think he was listening. He asked me why I was doing the trip, I told him, to which he just said "hmmmm ok"
I asked him did he ever do any travelling, to which he just replied no.

Now that we were getting along just dandy, although it wasn’t so much a conversation as a monologue I did a Hughes classic and looking at the size of his hands I just blurted out: "dude with fingers like that who needs a dick!", "although you'd want to get the oul oil of Olay on the go before any birds would let ya near them." Frenchy roared laughing; one of those laughs that was so deep, almost like he'd been holding onto it for years.

After he'd finished laughing he took up his cup of coffee which looked like a play cup in his hand and said "Irish man.... your ok in my book"

Oisin: "glad to hear it... I thought you were gonna ****in eat me there for a while"(more laughing)
Frenchy sat there eating the rest of his breakfast shovelling fist sized pieces of scrambled eggs and ham into his mouth seldom looking up from the plate, although his eye level was still above the top of my head; like I said the dude was massive!!!
Frenchy: "so looks like you got pretty wet huh?
Oisin: "right through to the crack" after a delay of about 3 seconds Frenchy roared laughing again; no way was anyone going to tell him to quieten down.
We got talking then about all sorts of stuff, me desperate for a reason not to go back on the road because of the rain and cold, and him, well because I was yakking his ear off. We got talking about willow herb, a plant which dominates the side of the roads here; I told him we have it in Ireland too. It was left there by the last ice age, probably didn’t need to add the last part

I asked him was he married, he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring but that wouldn’t have mattered, it would have required a kilo of gold to round one of his fingers so unless he was really a masquerading Saudi prince there’s no way he would have been able to afford it.

When I did finish the question he just looked forlornly out the window into the vast expanse of forest; "nope" he replied after a time, I didn’t pry any further.
He went on to tell me he'd worked in the woods all his life as a lumber jack and that he loved the mountains and could never leave them. I remarked that he didn’t need a saw for the trees all he'd need to do was lean against them, to which he smiled.

We walked out together to the car park and I showed him the bike. I asked him to jump aboard and try it out; he did and made the bike (one of the biggest motorbikes anywhere) look like a scooter. I told him about the blog and that if he was ever online to check it out; he replied that "don’t have much call for computers... wouldn’t have a clue about the internet, too old to learn now"

We shook hands and said goodbye. I watched him get into his truck really testing the suspension as he sat in and started her up, "watch out for bears" he said as he smiled and drove off. I stood there for a while thinking, oh my god I forgot about the ****in bears!!!

Frenchy in my memory was the biggest dude in the whole world but also one of the most gentle. One of the downsides of the trip is that you only ever meet people once and then you move on most likely never to see them again. In some peoples case that’s great, but Frenchy I still think about. I reminded myself of one of things I’d read, that it’s not the places you visit, it’s the people you meet

When you travel alone you have no one to give you a second opinion. Once in the Rockies I cut further north from Grande Prairie which as the name suggested brought me straight back out onto the prairies. When I realised what I’d done I didn’t have the heart to double back on myself so I just pulled into a motel, had a bath and headed out to watch a movie. I invested in a small portable laptop which was great for keeping in touch with people, but if I’m honest was great for looking at porn mostly. So after only three hours in the saddle which you’d expect to knock out in Canada with one swing of your John Thomas I was off to sleep with the prospect of a better day to come tomorrow.

The next two towns I’d planned to stop in conjured up for me what life must have been like in Canada in the early part of the 20th century, namely Fort St John, and Fort Nelson. I could imagine wooden forts and lads with beaver skin hats all trading furs and whiskey, and Daniel day Lewis telling “yer one”, “I will find you. I will find you!”

The next day I’d hit the wall after only two hours so I pulled over not having the heart to continue. I was lonely and apart from Frenchy I hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with anyone in ages. My arse was officially on strike, so instead of passing through Fort St John, I just stayed the night there. The further I headed north the longer the days became, by the time I’d get to the Arctic circle there would be no “night”, just 24 hours of light.

The next morning I got up in bad form again and just jumped on the bike and left. I was starting to doubt the reasons why I’d come on the trip. I realised that the attraction of the long way round TV series for me wasn’t actually the bikes or the trip, what I really liked was the camaraderie that the guys on the trip had.

It had taken me 9000 miles to figure it out, but there was no turning back now.

That day I was driving along and I passed a lay-by where two bikers who were both driving BMW’s were parked up. I drove over to say hello, in a weird sort of way you almost expect people to greet you with open arms “Yay!, you’re a biker too!, and you drive a BMW, and you’re on a big adventure... let’s be buddies!”

These two chaps were about as friendly as a bull with a sore hole so after a few minutes I was back heading north again. I also hadn’t seen a moose or a bear or any form of wild life really so I was really struggling to keep my sense of “this is the trip of lifetime” about the journey.

That night I couldn’t sleep. At 4:17am I was still awake and wrote the following into my journal:

I’m in a town called Fort Nelson right now in British Colombia and am going to make a break for Whitehorse, which is over 1000km away. The reason for the long burst is because the only town between here and there is Watson lake...and staying there is the moral equivalent of having to stay the night in a nursing home.

Fort Nelson is not a place you would ever visit, it’s a town you drive through to get somewhere else and its sole existence is based around lumber. The whole town is stained by debris from the forests, a by product of pulling trees out of the woods. Fort Nelson is supposed to be way better than Watson Lake so I’m making the trek for Whitehorse sooner than stay in another crappy town for night. I guess that’s what you should expect of what was essentially a frontier town but when you've ridden such a long way to get somewhere a part of you just expects it to be better.

I was watching the news tonight and about the tenth story into it; the tenth story!!! was about this guy you kills another guy on a greyhound bus in Manitoba in Canada, unfortunate you'd say but can happen. Well, wait till you hear the details the guy killed him with a Rambo knife and then cut off his head.

The eyewitness was interviewed at the scene by the news guys and said the dude beside him was just asleep and the dude with the knife had just got on the bus. Can you believe it! One minute you’re asleep and the next some dude is walking down the bus isle carrying your head!! The eye witness said that the killer blamed the truck driver for making him drop the guys head and had then proceeded to follow them with the knife.

Anyway so now you know why I’m awake, but as if the thing wasn’t bad enough it’s that the news guys had the story about 10th in the order and they weren’t shocked enough. The story was followed by some kitten that got its head caught in the ****in drain!

So as if there wasn’t enough to be worrying about with bears, moose on the road, maniacal truckers, getting a puncture, dubs winning the Leinster football final, now you've got getting your head hacked off by some lunatic and to add insult to injury having it dropped on a greyhound bus floor which let’s face it, is dirtier than a coal miners arse.

The goal was to get to Whitehorse before nightfall, a journey of over six hundred miles most of which would be done on the famous Alcan Highway. It also represented the end of the Trans-Canada portion of my trip, as it was less than a half days ride till I got to Alaska. Starting at about 5:45am I set off on what turned out to be an assault on the senses.

After about an hour’s riding I had seen bears, wild dear and wild goats so was well chuffed. I stopped for a coffee in a campsite which also sold gasoline. I had a wonderful chat with the owner and this older American couple who were up driving the Alcan Highway to celebrate their retirement. This is a good point to mention that with soaring gas prices, all of North America was in crisis. Families who would have normally taken RV’s up to this region were staying at home and it was regular enough to drive for an hour at a time and hardly meet a truck or a car on the road. It added to dreamy feel of the whole thing, that you were alone and all this incredible scenery was just for you.

I passed through a place called Charlie Lake, one of the places where Ewan and Charlie had stopped and filmed a scene for the long way round. They had remarked that they had only fifteen days left to go in the program and I loved the look of the place. I hadn’t planned to pass it; I just saw the sign and pulled off the road. It felt magic to be in one of the places that had inspired me to do the trip. The sun was shining and at the end of a small wooden pier there was a boat parked up. The lake was a mill pond of beautiful blue water and the gentlest of breezes was blowing into my face as I soaked up the moment. For the first time since Nova Scotia I really felt great.
Further along the road I met three guys who were motorcycling up to Fairbanks from Washington State and we rode together for a good few hours. I’m not a skilled enough writer to describe how awe-inspiring the scenery was we drove through. Whether it was a mixture of having some company, the great weather and some of the most beautiful countryside anywhere in the world, I’m not sure but I was having the time of my life.

Isaac, Roger and Bruce and myself had some great chats about what all bikers tend to chat about; for example what was the best pound for pound motorcycle in the world, given I knew nothing about motorcycles bar how to drive one and that the BMW 1150 was my favourite only because it was the only one I’d ever owned I offered little to the debate. I also love the way people who are familiar with stuff shorten everything down to the shortest possible sentence; for example when we had stopped for lunch a bunch of motorcyclists passed us on the road, to which Bruce said, “Dude did you see the bunch of Twelve hundreds that just passed us, man they were some machines”, as if to say that all and sundry would automatically know what a 1200 was.

Later on we ran into a herd of buffalo which is probably ok when you’re in a car but when you’re on a motorbike it’s definitely not ok, these animals are massive. The buffalo are not owned by anyone and certainly aren’t tame, and much as they’ve always done, they are allowed to roam free. All I could think of was the movie dances with wolves, I definitely had some “Tatanka” ahead and was really worried one of the bulls would charge me on the bike, thankfully they didn’t and I lived to fight another day. I had been terrified by stories which I’d heard about loose buffalo “hooking” you, a process whereby a buffalo takes one of its horns and drives it straight into you.

It was like someone turned on the wildlife switch, at various points I saw three black bears all out near the road, a dose of caribou, chipmunks, mountain goats, deer, I loved every minute of it.

I kind of developed a theory on travelling that your mood pretty much maps the way it does at home except your peaks and troughs are higher and deeper. So for example if you’re a moody bollix at home it’s likely that you’ll be the same when you travel, except that if you’re in a good mood it’ll be better, conversely if you’re in a bad mood it’ll be worse because you don’t have any of the support structures you have at home that might get you out of it.
It could also be very tough on you physically. Motorbike 101 for those of you that don’t drive them, the contact area of a motorbike tyre, unlike a car, isn’t flat; its semi circular. It’s by leaning the bike right and left on the highways that you turn it, i.e. moving the contact area of the tyre on the road to the shorter circumference areas causes the bike to turn; yawn, I can hear you but I’m going somewhere I promise.

So this is where the fun starts. Imagine your driving down a 1 lane highway with oncoming traffic in the other lane. On your side of the road is a hard shoulder but it’s made of gravel, great if you’re in a car with four wheels, really dodgy if you’re on a motorbike with only two wheels contacting the surface. If you hit gravel straight on its no problem on a bike, however if you hit it while your turning there’s a really good chance the bike will just slip straight off the road. So the key point is that you really don’t want the bike going onto the gravel on a bend where you’ve a much smaller amount of tire contacting the road and the bike is leaning to one side.

Ok, so next up as your driving straight ahead there’s a forty mile an hour wind coming from the left side, i.e. which is doing its best to push you off the road or at least closer to the pesky aforementioned gravel. Now throw in that it’s gusting up to about sixty five miles an hour and things are starting to get a bit awkward. So how you cope with it is that you lean your body into the wind and keep the bike straight, i.e. compensating for the wind. If you didn’t it would push you straight off the road. With the gusts you can find yourself sweeping up to three to five feet across the road, so you adopt a position on the road close to the divide at the centre to allow you to drift a little if an unexpectedly large gust comes up.

Now the pot is beginning to simmer, throw in the rain and truck drivers coming at you from the same direction as the wind is coming from. In pissing rain an eighteen wheeler can throw up more than ten gallons of water per second and when they pass they shower you with a waterfall of turbulence bad enough to make your kidneys wobble. Finally, watch out for moose, deer, bears, pot holes and every other manner of obstruction that you’re likely to find out in the cuds and do it all through a visor on a helmet speckled with rain droplets and grime.

Driving through the above is a little something like this, in my mind anyway. Imagine doing this as your riding along for the whole day:
Ok Ois ya big ride ya... keep her steady... keep her steady.... oh jaysus big bastardin gust....adjust ya big bollix or ya'll be in the ditch....adjust ...done it...nice one...like i said ois....your a big ride.....jaysus the feckin rain is brutal....cant see a feckin thing....find a gap between the drips on the visor...right ...nice one have it..can see a bit... oh jaysus another big gust... hold er... hold er....jaysus ..big bend and gust...slow her down ya big bollix...slow her down.... holy lantern devine theres gravel in the middle of the road...avoid it... thank jaysus .. only just...more wind...ah me neck if feckin killing me ....oh ****...heres one of these trucker bollixes coming straight for me... can barely see him with rain...ah jaysus gonna get soaked... holy ****..can’t see a thing... wipe the visor.... gust of wind...only one hand holding the handle bars...nearly over into the gravel.... hold her ya big bollix...hold her....nice one horse... nice one.....jaysus i'd murder a cup of tea.... and a shag.... **** more wind....5 ft drift...keep your mind on the road ya big bollix... or a moose will be shagging ya in the ditch this afternoon!
Like I said earlier, I was having the time of my life.

I arrived in Whitehorse that evening checking the cheeks of my arse with my hand to make sure that they were still there, I felt like I was sitting bare arse on a bed of nails for the last couple of hours of the ride. I booked into a motel and went out for a bite to eat. My initial experience of the town wasn’t great, lots of drunken angry Native Americans. I knew I’d be stopping here on the way back so this was just a place to get a door between me and the night. I lay in bed that night thinking that everything I’d done up to this point was just bullshit, what if every day was like today, how good a life would that be!
I’d now travelled without a break every day for twenty one days and was getting a bit worn out but I knew I was close to Anchorage where I’d get the bike serviced and have a bit of down time. I drove off for Tok, Alaska and coming across from Whitehorse the impact the oil prices were having on the tourist industry up in the Yukon and Alaska was becoming increasingly apparent. The roads were empty; I drove through one section albeit in the morning time for two hours without seeing even a single car.

The knock on of the above was that over 50% of the gas stations I saw on the road were closed down due to no business, the usual supply of massive RV's from Canada and the USA had dried up due to the massive costs incurred from running the beasts, most averaging less than eight miles to the Gallon.
It was like driving around in a dream, the scenery was breathtaking and I was driving completely alone on the road. If you pull over to take pictures, no cars pass, there was literally no one around, the only sound you can hear is the sound of high flying birds or the breeze blowing but nothing else; eerie doesn’t come close to describing it.

It’s weird seeing some of the most naturally beautiful sights in the world and being completely alone doing it, it’s like getting a ticket to see the biggest band in the world and you’re the only guy there. In a whole days travelling where I stopped many times I met a total of five people, a Dutch couple, a German couple and another German guy, there were seemingly no North Americans on the road. By Midday I was at the border and ready to cross into Alaska. I’d successfully crossed the second biggest country in the world, I treated myself to a diet coke and a snickers.
__________________
Ride on!

30000mileson2wheels.blogspot.com
BacktoBroke.blogspot.com

[Oisin]

[srace7]

Originally Posted by Oisin

Appreciate the kind words Simon!
see you on the road some day...
by the way I'm off to do Dublin to new york Solo, via Magadan in 5 weeks... so that will be some trip!

take care and god bless
Oisin

Ah ya bugger !! You beat me to it... I'm doing that, or London to Vlad, in 2011



Ride safe and I look forward to that book too...

Simon

[Micky]

I reckon that Oisin should be given honorary state life membership of UKGSer for the quality, content and dedication of the write ups and the humour and entertainment provided

'Tis a far better show than Charlie and Ewan's