Hello faithful readers and friends. I fear you may have felt somewhat abandoned over the last several months, what with me tripping all over the Himalayas on my mad motorscooter and neglecting my blog. It’s a disease I’m afraid, wanderlust, one I am helpless to control. A slave to this insatiable craving for freedom and adventure, the inexplicable burn to ride, to wander, to explore. Please do be assured however several larger projects , a novel of epic intrigue, action and excitement and a collection of memoirs by a motorcycle madman are well underway. Arriving sooner yet, some sweet kisses in the dark by way of a short fiction story and a slice of life piece full of fun. Still I worry that those of you who do fancy a word from me on a regular basis are feeling somewhat shunned. I offer you this short but heartfelt explanation…
First published in,
There is nowhere to hide on the open road. It’s just you, your bike and all your dirty little secrets. Long rides leave you completely exposed. They strip away all the superficial nonsense, all your polite societal veneer. If you ride long enough, every last one of your character flaws will get poured onto the pavement for inspection. Eventually, you will have to examine who you really are, like it or not. If you’re riding in a group, they’ll get to see who you really are too. Truthfully, it’s as simple as that. That does sound a little harsh, perhaps you don’t believe it? Do you find my ideas a bit too bombastic for biker talk, or are you chuckling at the ramblings of some antiquated folklore or worn out biker code? Then maybe, just maybe you’re not a biker after all…because the truth is, there ain’t no code, only open road.
Featured Article in Blogadda March 25th’s
Can you imagine? Sounds like the start of a bad joke. What would they drink for pity sake? The Englishmen would undoubtedly opt for a scotch, Chivas Regal if you please, as the Canadian scoffs and orders a Canadian Club rye whiskey and the Indian will nurse his Royal Stag. What happens when the cheque arrives? The Englishmen will feign a move to pick it up, thus causing the Canadian to grab for it first. The Indian sits with a fabricated blank look on his face, pretending he has no idea what is happening. This, in a nutshell, is my life! These are the conflicts that dwell within me . The endless struggles that tear me in three very distinct directions on a daily basis. With almost every decision, I am forced to choose between my blood, my heritage and my adopted culture. What have I done? What have I become? Good God man, I’m Canbritdian!!
Outrageous, you say? Then explain why the beggars flock to me, a white man, while there are ample indigenous Indian people between us? They will literally trample a half dozen of their own kind to get to me. Is it because I must be a tourist and therefore have lots of money in my pocket? Is it because they know Indian people are “frugal” and less apt to loosen the purse strings? They are aware that begging has been outlawed in Delhi and Mumbai, but they think I don’t know that? No, the truth is, a large percentage of the begging in India is either a scam, or the beggar themselves are under the rule of the begging mafia, and it’s assumed I just won’t know that, being a white guy.
I have done a fair amount of travel. Not as much as some folks, but a good amount for most. Countless cities, in I believe…twenty five countries to date. With all this travel (some of it reckless; fair enough) and kaleidoscope of experiences, few crumbs of undeniable facts get tossed in your lap. Sometimes these crumbs are thrown at you by an orangutan, sometimes they are spit at you by a cobra; either way, you gather some rock solid truths. These things I hold dear, like gold. These nuggets of wisdom turn into rules after a while. So as not to suffer any regret after returning home, I try to adhere to them in a somewhat fanatical manner. The top of my list, the most important rule I adhere to while travelling is: Never, EVER, pass up the opportunity to lick a snake.
I recently read an article posted by a colleague called “Wanderlust – The Fuel For My Soul” It is very well written and stirred up the “change in the wind” innervation I generally have before saddling up my bike and making an abrupt exit stage left. Wanderlust…it’s a word I use frequently, I even have a slot for it to be tattooed on my body… a word that makes sense to me. It’s a condition I live with. She asks herself in the article if there is a “cure” for wanderlust, and that, is what got me to thinking.
Wandering….what a concept! When I dropped out of the rat race in 2013, I sincerely had NO idea where I was headed or what I was doing. I mean, there was a loose plan; but in all honesty, I was flying blind. Now here I sit in the fresh ka ka diaper of 2017, just two days old, and I am still unsure, still navigating with a makeshift plan, a concept, an idea…hell man, I’m still just wandering. As I reflect back over the adventures I’ve had with Mrs. R (my wife,) and Mina (my motorcycle) in 2016, I realize…turning my back on traditional society, thumbing my nose at the North American ideals, embracing the wanderlust, leaping unafraid (seriously scared actually) into the unknown and blazing my own trail was the sanest thing I have ever done…
.. sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. – Mark Twain.
Are Canadians too polite?
According to a recent Huffington Post article, a study performed by two McMaster University PhD researchers has concluded (based on a MASSIVE twitter post analysis) that Canadians are, in FACT, more polite than…well, it doesn’t matter who; I don’t want to offend anyone. The point is, what we all have always known to be true, is. The article concludes by announcing that the stereotype is not a myth; Canadians are overly polite.For years Canadians have been the focal point of endless jokes about (aboot) our apologetic nature. Who knew it was a fact? Inbred, genetic, ancestral, historical, hereditary, abiogenetic, xenogeneticstar…..MY GOD! We are engineered that way.