The Centers Of North America – There Be Monsters – Part II – Mission Aborted
Motorcycle Vapors . Social Studies . Songs For The Apocalypse
One of the markers of whether a ride was a success or not is whether anything broke during the trip, whether I got stranded or whether I lost any gear or not. This trip, aside from the challenges and anxiety of being vulnerable in a meteorologically challenged world netted a loss of one banana and one tattered and chain oil splattered upside down Canadian flag. The banana was probably left on the checkout belt at a grocery store in Steinbach, Manitoba. The flag has flown from my brilliant machine for five or more years over tens and tens of thousands of kilometers. Wherever it landed it will remain a signal of this mythical nation in distress. Perhaps someone will find it and display it. Perhaps aliens from another galaxy will see it in a ditch from way way up and dare to come down and investigate. Maybe they will see this artifact as the sign of distress that it is and choose to intervene positively. Hopefully the intentional worldwide apocalyptic weather and conflagrations don’t turn them off. Maybe they’ll see what’s going on and move on to a planet worth saving, having no need for fossil fuels or lithium – or a dumbed down species of suicidal humanoid.
Part two of ‘The Center Tour’ sort of begins in Tache, Manitoba, ‘The Center Of Canada’, after a Backtracking Winnipeg Avoidance Maneuver from Steinbach. The name ‘Winnipeg originates from the Cree word win-nipi meaning ‘murky water’ or ‘muddy water’ or ‘sewer water’. The name ‘Steinbach’ derives from the Germanic ‘Stone Creek’, or ‘Stony Creek’ – and yes, the town has three mostly dry creeks running through it, made somewhat wetter from recent rains.
So – From Steinbach I head west on Hwy 52 past Mitchell and then north on the 206 to Randolph and Landmark. From there I cross ‘The 1’ to the gravel service entrance to get to the ‘The Center Of Canada Park’. That experience can be found in Part One.
So – I make my way to the ‘Center Of The U.S.A.’
From The Center Of Canada Park I make my way to and through Lorette, Ile de Chenes, Tourond, St. Pierre Jolys, La Rochelle and St. Malo and Rosa. There seems to be a bit of French in these parts N’est-ce Pas? I then stay south on Provincial Trunk Hwy 59 to Roseau River and Tolstoi which was founded by Ukrainian immigrants in the 1890s and not named after Russian author Leo Tolstoy who wrote ‘War And Peace’ and ‘Anna Karenina’. The whole stretch to the border passed through lush and fragrant farmlands with only occasional whiffs of the arson fires up north.
I pass into the U.S.A at the U.S. Customs and Border Protection – Lancaster Port of Entry which is actually in Minnesota. This was another first for me. I had never travelled on two wheels instead of four in Minnesota before. Thankfully, of former Democratic vice presidential nominee, Kamala Harris and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz that signed a bill requiring schools to stock tampons in boys’ bathrooms, there was no trace. I wonder if ‘Tampon Tim’ had any influence on the weirdos at the Airdrie Public Library or Airdrie City Council. Were they partners and stakeholders?
Anyway.
Focus.
There weren’t too many people on the stretch of highway leading to the port of entry but I had to wait at least twenty minutes for the agent to give me the green light to approach. I didn’t ask why it took so long but the agent carefully asked me, with his head tilted to the left, why I was entering the U.S. at that particular port of entry. I felt like a suspect. Aren’t we all? I told him where I was coming from and that it was a more or less straight line to Fargo, ND which was my stopping point for the day. He seemed okay with all of my answers to the other questions he had. I had no fruit, except for that apple I didn’t mention, no guns or drugs. I remain boring that way. Don’t ask, don’t tell. I stop at the duty free shop to check my cell coverage. Of course nothing worked. I talked to the nice lady there. She asks if I’m going to Sturgis. She tells me about all of the accidents and fatalities that were happening there this year.
Thanks!
I don’t buy any perfume of liquor or beer. or tobacco products.
I am weird this way.
I move on
The stretch of Hwy 59 south through Minnesota is very much like the Manitoba agricultural lands I just passed through – from Lancaster to Lake Bronson, Halma, Karlstad and Strandquist and on down to Thief River Falls where I go west north west to Warren. Somewhere in there I had to stop at a rather large grain handling terminal to put on my rain gear, just before it started to leak and splatter my gear and windscreen. The winds picked up but always in the right direction as heads or tails. The splatters and darkening skies foreshadowed what was to come. I rode south on Hwy 75 through the few sheds and boarded up structures that were the village of Angus and then on through Euclid where I briefly closed one eye in honor of the founders, and then on to Crookston. Hwy 75 continued on as ‘The King Of Trails’ and runs most of the 880 kilometer length of the Red River. It begins at the confluence of the Bois de Sioux and Otter Tail rivers at the border between Minnesota and North Dakota. It then flows north through southern Manitoba and into Lake Winnipeg. Stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada, Highway 75 was dubbed the ‘King of Trails’ 90 years ago but there isn’t any real reason given for why it was dubbed ‘king’. The Minnesota portion, stretching 414 miles along the state’s western border, was not my classic idea of a scenic tourist destination but my scenic byway criteria was exceeded by the lack of tracks and litter and graffiti left by tourists and misguided malcontents. ‘The King’ took me to Eldred and down to a rather anti-climactic and fading Climax. After I stopped to towel off a bit after this shuddering excitement I carried on to Nielsville, Shelley, Halstad, Hendrum, Perley and Georgetown.
Somehow I ended up in North Dakota as the sky really started to go black. The air started to smell funny, a bit like a blend of ions, diesel, dirt, onions and moldy basement. Is this a Fargo smell? I stopped to plot a course to a motel I hadn’t booked yet. It was then that the sky opened up with canon fire and muzzle flashes. Rain bombs that hit so heavy, the water bounced twelve inches into the air as the wind pushed and bucked. I had to take the freeway that is I 94 where traffic was heavy and slow. Visibility was a guessing proposition. The low spots and underpasses were filling fast. I started to soak through. My rain gear had reached saturation. I was relived to make it to a once reliable brand of inns still boldly known as Super 8, now universally rated as one of the worst Patel Mafia type hotel chains in North America. Very much like the decay and dissolution of Greyhound bus lines, Super 8 represents a failed North American brand that reduces operations to the bare minimum of cleanliness and repair while upwardly maintaining higher prices. I paid $126.00 for such a product. I was desperate but there were other options at twice the price. I opted for economy.
Anyway.
After I checked in and lugged my cases and bags to the room and stripped off my wet gear and wrung it out and hung it up to dry in the rusty bathroom, I turned on the t.v. using the grimy remote. It pounded rain all night. It rained so hard it came through my rattling window frame. I woke in the night and stepped onto a brownish, rusty puddle that covered most of the floor. I mentioned it to the bored desk person as I went to grab some of the ‘free’ high carb, low nutrition breakfast offerings the next morning. She said with a shrug, oh, yeah, that happens sometimes.
Back to that Fargo night, after dinner my guts churned as they were trying to make up my mind for me on whether to carry on with the mission. It might have been the re-hydrated Curry Thai Chicken With Rice and figs I had for supper. On one hand anything was better than the Fargo experience – the gale force deluge, the canon fire thunder and lightening storms and the imminent threat of the forecasted ‘worse’ if I continued south and then west. My brilliant machine was a hard starter the next morning and it took me too long to realize that the exhaust pipe was swamped and filled with water. It spent the night windward and rainward and it filled up during the night. It never occurred to me to plug it as if I might be washing it. I sloshed the bike around a bit while turning it over and it eventually caught and held idle. I let the bike heat up to percolate out the rainwater, gradually revving it to speed the process. It’s alarming to see white smoke or steam come out of the exhaust. While the bike boiled water my gut and mind got together again to argue and convinced me to abort. I was sad and relieved at the same time. Little could I know of what was yet to come as I made my way home.
So after my second try at fueling up at a Cenex that wasn’t flood damaged, I popped onto Hwy 29 north out of Fargo and on to Hillsboro, Grand Forks, Manuel and Pembina. I have to say that the wind and weather were favorable and bearable so I thrummed steady to stay ahead of anything bad. I thought I might head west to Devil’s Lake and Minot and then head north to cross the border but saw a black wall in the distance so I stayed the course I was on. I crossed back into what’s left of Canada at the border crossing at Emerson.
From Emerson I continued north on the 75 and then headed west on 14 to Plum Coulee and Winkler. It was then north again on 3 through Carman, Elm Creek and Oakville to stop for the night in Portage la Prairie. Qui qui! Oh ho! Portage was short on rooms due to the northern Manitoba arson fire refugee crisis but of course I found one for a regent’s ransom. It was a nice room though. The hotel was filled with loungers and heavy with security to keep the loungers in check. Every time I entered the lobby or went outside to check or service the brilliant machine I saw cars coming and going and dramas being played out – a lot of colored hair and pierced and inked ketone diabetic refugees with cell phones, kids screaming up and down the halls. It was festival time in Portage and presumably elsewhere that wasn’t northern bush.
From Portage I took ‘The One’ west all the way to Regina past numerous exits to places I didn’t stop at. I did stop in Sintaluta and Indian Head, SK though. Why not. Indian Head hasn’t had to change it’s name to ᑕᑦᓯᐅᒪᔪᑲᓪᓚᒃ….yet.
Regina has all the allure of any provincial capital with a ring (barrier) road. Political power is centered here. The country folk are slowly and quickly being herded out of the rural and bush country and into the cities that cannot accommodate them. Homelessness, joblessness and addiction are cultured and curated within the ‘ring’.
A rather confused GPS took me to check in to one of the better Patel Mafia immigrant slave Motel 6 I’ve stayed at. It was clean and attended by friendly folk. They let me check in early. It was too early for dinner so I went for a walk to stretch out, to see the neighborhood I’m in. My walk takes me through a graffiti and litter strewn alley in back of the motel where I see two young people, one male and one female passed out together next to a plundered, scorched dumpster. I watch for a bit, see that they are breathing and move on to see more evidence off rough camping and sleeping. I mention what I saw to the desk clerk who says it’s common. I make dinner in my room and then go out to service my brilliant machine. I end up talking to two other riders from Brandon, MB who are on their way home from a B.C. trip. They were riding big Indian power cruisers. We talked a bit about the trips we’ve been on and some incidents of importance. One of them was on a trip with his wife when they struck a deer at highway speed. Both were badly injured but have recovered. The man showed me his leg which featured what was left of his right foot which had scraped away through his boot when he took the big slide after impact. He still rides because he has to. His wife does not.
I leave early the next morning after a solid breakfast thinking that I’m going to make an iron butt run all the way home. The weather forecast seemed favorable so why not run/ride the 7.5 hour marathon. I’m feeling awake, lean but wiry. I set out on The 1 and right outside of the ring (barrier) I hit a dense fog which limits visibility to 500 meters or less, all the way through Belle Plaine, sidestepping Moosejaw and Caronport after 155 kilometers of limited visibility. Eerie and odd, right? I come out of the fog at long last near Chaplin, relieved, until I see a great wall of grey black blue in the foreground. The wind has picked up and it starts to rain moderately so I duck into what’s left of a gravelly and crumbling Esso station thinking to fully suit up and button down with the rain gear and tuck away the electronics. I’m questioning whether to wait this out or splash through as I venture back out towards the highway when the sky erupts with a barrage of canon fire and high flash bang explosives. It starts to pour like nothing I’ve ever seen, well, since Fargo that is. I turn around and head back to the Esso. I’m already saturated as I enter the Esso and ask the attendant if I can hang out for a bit. He’s cool with it and asks if I saw or heard the severe weather emergency broadcast for the area. Just as my phone powers up we are both hit with that screeching announcement warning of high winds, hail, and tornados. We are advised to take shelter immediately. I ask if there is a basement. Uh….no. The screeching repeats every minute. Sirens from emergency vehicles could be heard above the pounding weather ruckus. I talk to the fella. His name is Pardeep. He’s been in Canada for four years and working at the run down Esso for three. He lives and apparently attends school in Moosejaw which is an hours drive one way. He wants to be a project manager some day. Good for him. We are talking, in between screeches, as the first casualties roll in. Shaken people in battered and shattered vehicles turn up with stories of what I had missed by moments. A totaled black Hyundi with a U-Haul pulled in and several shellshocked, road weary looking people piled out while talking on their phones. The U-Haul was undamaged. Why don’t they make everything out of the same materials U-Hauls are made of? Turns out they were a touring band from Victoria called ‘Standard Issue Pleasure Model’. I totally got the ‘Bladerunner’ reference. They’re psychedelically okay…I guess. This ‘Super Cell Storm’ had rushed in ‘up the highway a ways back’, and taken out semis, cars, and motorcycles. Through all my years I have experienced severe weather and as a child wondered with awe at the power of nature as I watched the show from an open hayloft door. I can’t buy into any of the new made up language like ‘supercell’ or ‘sidewind’ events that we are now subjected to through governments and media. We now live on a planet of macro and micro bursts, shelf, volutus, asperitus, fluctus and flammagenitus clouds and hyper alert extreme heat and tornado, grapefruit sized hail and flood weather warning systems. What is happening all over the world is out of this world unreal and seemingly man made climate change and contrived to ramp up immobility through fear. Think of the crop failures and supply chain distribution disruptions. Oh God, not another conspiracy! I refuse to shelter in place.
Ride on.
When it felt somewhat safe to do so I carried on down ‘The One’ and stopped in Swift Current for fuel and to shake out the shakes. I saw another adventure biker bent over his big tractor-like, tricked out BMW R1250 GS. He looked up as I approached and asked if I went through Chaplin. I said I had just missed it, that I had holed up for it. He told me about the suddenness of it all and the first hit of an ice cube sized hail stone against his chest and the white out dump of hail, the wind, how he managed to pull over and stop next to a semi after seeing three bikes and some cars and trucks hit the ditch, how he crawled under the semi trailer and how another motorist who was in a car that was being destroyed yelled over the roar for him to take shelter with him. He showed me some pictures. He said he would wait a bit before sharing the images with his family. He was traveling solo and hoped to make it to Trail, B.C. that day, another nine hours. He plugged in his air pods and phone and sped off on his mission. I ran into him at the Alberta border crossing. He wanted some ‘prairie shots’.
I still have mixed feelings on having to abort the mission. Was it a failure of courage or a sensible decision based on current and real information and forecasts? My intention was to make it to the Geographical Center of the United States which prior to 1959, was located and marked by the U.S. National Geodetic Survey (NGS) near Lebanon, Kansas, at approximately 39°50′N 98°35′W. From there I wanted to make my way west to do the Chief Joseph Highway again and link up with the Beartooth Highway. In retrospect, this was overly ambitious. I was feeling healthy and feisty.
Another time perhaps?
Some riders of two wheels instead of four will wax poetic about the magic of the ‘freedom’ of riding. I’ve never been much for poetry. I know and have read some exceptional and meaningful poetry but see most of it as pap for wispy beatnik types with no talent for prose – like autotune is to music. As far as I know, Ayn Rand never wrote poetry, none that I’ve seen or read anyway. Without getting too poetic about any of this recent experience, all of my doubts of my future riding life or my life in general make me somehow more alive.
Significant gains were made in other areas of my development. I re-affirmed the seeming power of gratitude and prayer.
Why not.
MOTORCYCLE RIDING TIP #67 –
For older, scrawnier riders that have less meat and fat to cover and cushion their sit bones, after an extended time on the saddle and the shifting and squirming and discomfort starts, you might try pressing down on your foot pegs to lift your ass up off the seat. This takes pressure off of your sit bones and gives you some isometric exercise to help stave off the effects of sarcopenia in the legs, another old guy thing.
One Last Thought –
Was there a song that swirled in my head on this adventure? Yes there was. Killing Joke were formed in Notting Hill, England in 1979 by Jaz Coleman. They were ahead of their time. They cultured post punk industrial thrash metal. They still perform and record even after the death of brilliant guitarist Geordie Walker. ‘Full Spectrum Dominance’ seems appropriate for this trip. Check out ‘Love Like Blood’, ‘The Great Cull’, ‘New Cold War’ or ‘Follow The Leaders’.
Wanna soundtrack for the apocalypse?
Gently now.
Check out geoengineeringwatch.com…or don’t.
The sunlight’s shining through the bars
Of my bedroom cell
The world turns, we spread our germs
Silence is my hell
I laugh and weep, with cries so sweet
In this lonely place
I shed a tear, for sapiens
Who are already replaced
As cabals rise to prominence
Full spectrum dominance
Full spectrum dominance
We form in line, prostrate and kiss
The leviathan
Our church is science, our church is structure
Our church is one
Carry the card, to prove allegiance
To the power the cause the hive
Resistance is futility
Against a rising tide
As cabals rise to prominence