You'll have to excuse me ....

"You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best
I've been drunk for a month, I've been drunk since I left
These so-called vacations will soon be my death
I'm so sick from the drink I need home for a rest"
Spirit of the West

It's not that we've been partying hard since we got here, we do have to get
up early and be able to perform at a high level of ability, but it's more a
cumulative effect. Plus the fact that the booze here is so cheap it would be
a shame not to take advantage of it.

I ran out to pick us up Chinese food for dinner Friday night, and on the way
back I came up behind a large white slow moving 4X4 and just blasted past
it, paying more attention to the tachometer that was winding up to the
redline than to the truck. The speedometer was reading 210 km/h and still
climbing when the red white and blue strobes lit up the road behind me. I'd
just gone screaming past the local Sherriff. By the time I stopped I was
within sight of the sign on the highway pointing the way to the drop zone.

When he got out of the truck this guy was even bigger than the deputy I
talked to in Pennsylvania and he wasn't pleased. He stood there, using words
like "ya'll", and "boy" as he asked me the usual questions about did I know
how fast I was going and did I know what the speed limit was along there. I
tried telling him what my speedometer had read, and that I was confused by
the conversion from kilometers to miles an hour and he cut me off saying
he'd heard all that before. When he asked where I was going I pointed to the
sign and said I was here on a skydiving vacation. He seemed to relax a
little bit when I told him that.

As he stood there holding all my paperwork, he suddenly started moving his
head back and forth, sniffing the air, and asked "What's that smell?"
"Chinese food." I replied, pointing to the saddle bag. He looked at the bag,
then at me, then my paperwork, the sign for the DZ, back down at the
saddlebag, and suddenly started to laugh. Not an evil "I'm going to lock
ya'll up and throw away the key" type laugh, but the kind of deep from the
belly type laugh that made his whole body shake and probably left his sides
hurting. I don't know what the joke was, nor do I care, as he thrust the
paperwork back at me and said loudly and firmly "Slow down!" before turning
on his heel to go back to his truck. I meekly and gratefully got back on the
bike to very slowly drive the last few yards of highway to the DZ. I don't
know what the penalty is for driving at Warp 6 in this state, but I'm
betting it would involve getting arrested and the bike getting towed. I
fully expect to get a speeding ticket at some point on this trip, but I
thought it would happen at Deals Gap.

We had a 7:00 a.m. call on Saturday morning to try and get some jumps in
before we got winded out, but all we succeeded in doing was getting a real
early start at doing nothing. When we pulled the curtains back in the
trailer just before leaving for the dirt dive it was still pitch black
outside and we shared a laugh as we heard somebody outside shouting about
"Night 60-ways!" It wouldn't have been much different than what we had done
the day before because I had my eyes screwed shut in terror for a good
portion of the jump anyways. I've attached a pic of us on our 20 minute
call.

We all showed up at 7, drinking coffee and eating donuts as we made jokes
about the darkness and the winds that were already too strong to jump in.
Guy told us the forecast for Sunday was good, but that the winds for
Saturday would just get worse and he released us for the day.

So we went to the beach. One last ride with the two of us on the FZ, the
winds so strong we were making involuntary lane changes. The beach wasn't as
nice as it normally was, at times we felt like we were getting sandblasted
as we lay there.

The back of Nathalie's legs have enough bruises on them she looks like
someone snuck up behind her with a bingo marker, but overall there has been
surprisingly little damage given the number of skydives we've done and the
number of people involved.

After Guy had a rally for the troops late in the afternoon he turned us
loose and ordered us to go forth and party. There was free booze and beer
everywhere, all the stuff everybody had been hoarding came out, and plenty
of people were paying fines for various milestones. Then we went to Ruby
Tuesday's and proceeded to drink far more than was wise, spilling wine and
making enough noise to empty our end of the restaurant.

Sunday morning
Showed up for the dirt dive yesterday with my gear and a flashlight, showed
up today with my gear and an umbrella, dressed in my motorcycle rain suit.
It was pouring.

Several people gave me a hard time about showing up with my gear in the rain
and I explained it this way: "In January 2004 in Arizona I showed up late
for a dirt dive, without my suit, or my gear. One of the locals, a skydiver
of some minor note named Kirk (but not such minor note as an un-named
videographer of a badly dressed crew team) pulled me aside, and in a quiet
voice explained that it was good form to arrive on time for the dirt dive,
with your suit on, and your gear ready to go. I've never been late since,
and I always bring my suit." They stopped teasing me, I don't know anybody
who would contradict Kirk.

We were released until 11:00, it's now 10:30 and still pouring. If we don't
go up soon there's a bottle of Baileys calling my name from the counter
saying "Coffee and Baileys, breakfast of Champions!". I'm not sure how much
longer I can resist.

"Are my balls crushing your rig?"

That's the question I asked of the 230 pound weigh lifter who was sitting in
my lap as we loaded for jump 7. We get packed onto those planes as tight as
sardines. Once I got him to move forward a little, I leaned back and said to
Rhonda "I think your boobs are crushing my rig." She obliged by moving back
a bit, and with the people in front of and behind me moving away from me, I
was left with the most comfortable seat on the plane.

I have no idea how it happened, but no matter where we were on the
formation, adjacent to each other or on opposite sides, every time we got on
the plane, I wound up sitting in Rhonda's lap. She'd climb aboard, turn
around, sit down, spread her legs, look up, and there I'd be with a silly
grin on my face. Again.

I have come to a decision. I wanna be trailer trash when I grow up. If I
grow up. we have been living in trailers and cheap hotel rooms for a couple
of weeks now, the truck has been stationary for so long it has become a lawn
ornament complete with it's own crop of weeds growing up around it. We did 8
great skydives today and it's 3 degrees and raining back home. Every day
makes it tougher and tougher to justify returning to reality.
There's a party of some type every night, and between all the trailers we
have rented we have all the mod cons if we want to cook our own dinner. I
also got a great tip from Graham. If you're going to dump a glass of wine in
your girlfriends lap, use white wine, not red. It stains less. Sorry
Nathalie!

We took last place in the 20-way Speed competition, we had a bust on the
first point in round 2, otherwise we probably would've won. As prizes we got
frisbee's and springloaded guns that shot foam bullets. The second place team
got a case of beer, and the first place team recieved a selection of Liquor
and $500 cash. They gave half to the judge.

Friday morning, Day 2 of Z-Team 2009
I looked around during the dirt dive this morning and it suddenly registered
that everybody but me was wearing a t-shirt with some
variation of "World Team, Team Elite, World Record, Sequential Record, or
Pops Record" or had a crest stitched or embroidered onto their jumpsuit
saying something similar. I was reminded of how lucky I was to be here. Then
we went out and did a 3 point 30-way. It was smooth, clean, and worked so
well it was like a dream. Again, I was reminded how lucky I was to be here.
I've never had the opportunity to jump with so many people of such high
caliber before. On one level it's quite intimidating, on another it takes a
lot of the stress away because there is so little of the boogie type of
skydives that more often than not include bodies colliding with each other
and raining from the sky like puppets tossed off a balcony. Every time I get
introduced to someone else the name sounds familiar, and I can half-way
recall reading about them participating in some significant event or
record.

On the first jump of the day I hadn't properly locked my visor down before
the exit. As soon as I left the plane the visor slammed open all the way,
catching air and snapping my head back. My eyes were immediately filled with
tears and I reached up to slam the visor shut, only to have it snap open
again, get slammed shut again, snap open yet a third time, and this time I
used both hands to haul it down and pound it into place. The skydive went
well, but the guy who followed me out the door was still laughing when he
landed. He said the first time it popped open he had to slam on the brakes
to keep from hitting me when I came out of my dive to close it. When I went
back into a dive trying to make up time and catch the base he dove after me only
to see it open again and have me slow down again as I closed it, and by the
time it came up the third time he figured that was just my way of warning
him that I was going to be slowing down again. He said I was bobbing up and
down like a porpoise.

Friday afternoon, 2:30
We've done four 30-way skydives so far today, and the first 60-way has been
briefed and walked through, but clouds have moved in at around 10,000 feet
so we are on a weather hold. The plan is for a kind of 60's era kaleidoscope
effect with whacker lines sliding back and forth, the whole formation
changing shape until it becomes a huge circle of skydivers. I'm in the base
between Guy and Marcel, and I'm sure even I can find and fly that slot.
Nathalie is in a hero slot again, the sort of slot she's had all day having
proven her abilities years ago, and is the last diver coming out of our
plane. We're in a Skyvan so by the time she runs the length of the plane and
throws herself out the door the base will already be at least a hundred
yards away and accelerating. She's gonna have a looong way to go.

Friday night. Late Friday night. Very late.
We have a 7:00 o'clock call tomorrow morning, after having had a lovely day
today, including a new personal best, a 60-way Skydive, beating my previous
largest formation by 1. Ahhhhhh. Nathalie also hit a major milestone: 36
hours and 15 seconds of freefall time.

The plan was to dive like Hell, and fly like F***, and that's what I did. On
the first attempt we fell through a layer of cloud that was a few thousand
feet thick. I've gone through clouds lots of times, but never with 60 people
plus 2 video guys. I'm hoping to get some pics tomorrow from the
videographers. The sight of all those bodies silhouetted against the
background of clouds and fields was spectacular. There were a few people who
didn't make their slots, and there were some level problems as well. On the
second attempt I was on Guy's arm within a few seconds of leaving the door,
then it's "Arch!" as hard as I can until it's time break off.

When we got down from the first one Nathalie beckoned me over with a huge
grin on her face. The 2 guys she was rushing the door with had done back
flips as they launched, and she was planning on doing the the same on the
next one. I think the part that appealed to her the most was sneaking in
some freestyle stuff that would normally be forbidden on something like
this, the same way that a cookie you sneak out of the jar always seems to
taste best. They did it, and still made their slots fast enough they had to
wait for the build.

Saturday morning we go for a 3 point 60-way. It's gonna be cold up there,
we're going to 16,500 with oxygen.

"Who did you have to sleep with to get a slot on Z-team?"

That was the question asked of me by Ginelle from New York State.
Getting a slot at some invitational events like this can be very difficult,
and there are often questions asked about why a particular person did or did
not get the invite. I started to protest that I didn't sleep my way onto it,
and that as a matter of fact my girlfriend had pulled some strings and got
me onto it, which is when Ginelle pounced, shouting across the crowded
packing mat "So you did sleep your way on!" The comment has actually
enhanced my stature with this group.

If you ever get the guy around the fire some night, ask Jeff Gemmell about
the time he broke his leg and got dragged home on a toboggan with his buddy
running along behind carrying his foot. Or his perception of this
newsletter. He calls it Spam, but he didn't say it as politely as that. I
had always thought him somewhat dry, but it turns out he is one of the
funniest people I know. If you want some real entertainment ask him to go
get the soap. Then keep your back against the wall. Or about his time as a
member of "Team Shred". A legend in Canadian Skydiving. And I thought he was
just Jeff. He has turned out to be so much more.

Rhonda Joyce showed up yesterday. Finally somebody I could pawn the rest of
the Moonshine off on who'd say thank-you. She announced her presence by
having a cutaway - number 6. That works out to 1 every 323 or so Skydives.
As Dave G said: "If you're on your back, spinning like hell, and the planet
is getting real close real fast, RELEASE THE OTHER BRAKE!

The 20-way speed competition started today, 3 rounds consisting of one
practice dive and one scored dive in each round. I might be at the limit of
my abilities as far as the big-way stuff is concerned but when it comes time
for break-off I seem to be outrunning most of the people on the load.
Probably because I'm friggin' terrified and just want to get the hell out of
there. The winds have been bad all day, high to begin with, and getting
stronger through the day with plenty of gusts. I narrowly missed getting
piledrived into the ground landing from jump 5, and my whole right side
feels bruised and partly numb. I didn't think it was a big problem until I
went to pull on jump 6. It took 3 tries to pull the hacky, and my Pro Track
had started screaming it`s last warning, the one that sounds like a siren,
before I could finally yank it out and deploy my pilot chute. I set in well
under 1500 feet. I landed so far out I had to cross 2 barbed wire fences, a
couple of huge ditches that in a wetter spring were probably swamps filled with alligators and walk for 20 minutes to get back.

The skydives have been going well though. I`m not making many mistakes, and
the ones I am making are the same ones I`m making in the dirt dive on the
ground so at least I`m ``planning the dive, and diving the plan``.

The weather forecast for the weekend is crap so the plan has all been pushed
ahead. We are starting 30-ways in about an hour, and 60-ways tomorrow, a
whole day ahead of schedule. This should prove interesting. Where I jump a
formation load is when we use both Cessna's and put as many as 9 people up
at once.

"I've been throught the desert on a horse with no name..."

Monday, March ..........? I'm not sure actually

Jeff Gemmell arrived Saturday night, in a taxi, having arrived at the car
rental counter in Tampa with a drivers license that expired months ago. It
would seem that before they will rent you a car they want to make sure you
actually have a drivers license. This has lead to many comments about his
advanced age, poor eyesight, too many speeding tickets, and anything else
people can dream up as a possible reason for him losing driving privileges.

Over the last 3 days we've managed 7 jumps. The winds start picking up,
gusting, and generally getting squirrelly in the early afternoon, which is
when we stand down with the rest of the experienced people and watch as the
rookies and Tandems keep jumping and biff in. By 4 o'clock somebody will
make make a motion that drinking should commence, it's quickly seconded,
voted on, and the motion is carried, generally with no dissenters. Nathalie
even claims to have seen a message from God consisting of crosses in the sky
(jet contrails) and a giant M in the clouds signaling "It's Miller Time!".

We didn't jump at all on Monday, clouds moved in just after manifest opened
in the morning.

The jumps we have done have been pretty darn good though. Out of the 7 of us,
4 have jumped together quite a bit as a team, and 5 of the members have a
bucketful of National medals along with being past and present holders of
National and International records. Patrick and I are just trying to keep
up, but we're holding our own.

Plan the Dive, and Dive the Plan is the way it's supposed to work, but at
boogies and a lot of local drop zone pick-up loads it doesn't seem to work
out that way very often. But with these guys, we get down from a 17 point
skydive and it's just an average skydive, nothing special. I wish I'd hooked
up with this group a long time ago. It hasn't been without mistakes and
brain locks, but most of them have been by the junior members, which
includes me.

When we couldn't jump on Monday we went on a field trip to Tampa. After a
couple false starts and a rainstorm we stopped for lunch, and having decided
I'd had enough riding a bike in the rain, I decided to return to the airport
while the rest of them continued on to Tampa. Within 5 minutes of parting
ways the clouds thinned, the sun came out, it turned into a nice day, and
since I hadn't remembered to get the key to the trailer from Nathalie, I
just kept on going.

When I stopped for gas, the real fun began. In future, the next time I'm
bored back home, I'm just going to go hang out at a gas station for a while.

There were a couple kids at the the next pump over gassing up an R1 and a
CBR (very fast bikes), and I asked them where I could find a good motorcycle
road. Most of the roads in Florida are too straight to be a lot of fun.
"Follow us!" they said, and took me to their playground. Florida is full of
real estate developments that stopped dead in their tracks when the market
crashed, and there are entire road networks in the middle of nowhere with no
houses on them. The pavement was in perfect condition, nice and wide, long
sweeping corners, no curbs, and if you went down you'd be sliding off the
road into sand. There are actual racetracks that aren't as safe as this
place was. After one circuit to make sure the road is clean, without any
sand or dust on it, especially in the corners, and then it's game on! We
spent the next 45 minutes screaming around our own private racetrack. The
kids had the faster bikes, but I was the one who went to Fast Riding School,
so it evened out. They'd keep catching me on the straights, but then get off
the gas earlier going into the corners so I could use trail braking to catch
up, get inside 'em, pick my line, slide off the seat as I weight shifted
into the corner and then blast out the far side 30 or 40 feet ahead of them,
only to have them pass me again on the next straight. They were suitably
impressed by a lot of the techniques I was using, and when I left they were
going to go find a Fast course of their own. I don't think it'll be so easy
to catch them the next time our paths cross.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I left. It lasted
for about 2 traffic lights. That's where some putz driving a Tracker pulled
up beside me, leaned out his window and asked "What kind of bike is that?"
"A Yamaha FZ6S" Was my proud reply.
"Man, that looks real sharp" He said. "I think that might be exactly what
I've been looking for. It would look great with my sidecar on it."
Sidecar? SIDECAR! SIDECAR!!! My FZ6S, my lean mean high performance machine,
my Streetfighter, with a Sidecar? The saddle bags were one thing, a
necessary evil, but a Sidecar? Old men who can't balance a bike any more or
forget to put their feet down when they stop use sidecars. He thinks MY bike
would look good with a SIDECAR? A new low. It's going to take days to shake
that mental image from my brain. Prick, Psssssssssst, Kaboom. The sound of
my ego crashing to the ground yet again.

Wednesday Morning.
We got 2 real hot skydives in yesterday morning organized by Dave from the
Sunshine Factory before high winds shut us down. So we went to the beach. I
hear it was minus 19 in Ottawa yesterday morning. We got to cross the bridge
that Nathalie and I went over when I picked her up and got lost, and the
view was even better when we knew we weren't going the exact opposite
direction to where we wanted to go. How long is that bridge? Long enough
that there's a warning sign saying "Long Bridge, Check Gas" at the
beginning. After spending a couple hours getting irradiated we returned to
the airport in time to get in 3 more jumps. On this vacation we have finally
achieved the proper balance of jumping, riding, beaching, and general
partying that I've been searching for all these years. This is so working
for us.

"I've been through the desert on a horse with no name..."
Point of fact: That song was not done by Neil Young, but by the band
America. I would just like to make sure that everybody knows that Nathalie
was right, everybody else was wrong, and and that she was so gracious in her
vindication that everybody on the Drop Zone stopped what they were doing to
wonder what all the shouting was about. In case anybody missed that: She was
Right, We were Wrong. Wrong Wrong Wrong. Wrong.

There's practice dives today for the bigway stuff that starts tomorrow with
a 20-way Speed Competition. Now that could get pretty sporty. A whole bunch
of rusty skydivers diving like hell to build a 20-way and then make as many
points after that as they can because every succesful fornmation after the
first one gets time taken off your score (That's a good thing). This could
take the sport of Full Body Contact, Combat RW to a whole new level.
The adventure continues................

I used to have friends

Or at least, I thought I did. And then Facebook came along. And all those people I had thought were my friends started sending me invitations to "Be My Friend". What were we before? Does this mean that all those people who have come over here and eaten my food, drank my booze, broken my wineglasses and passed out on my floor, weren't already my friends? What the heck were we? Were you all just taking advantage of my good nature? Not Cynthia apparently. Despite the fact that she has never been to my house, to raid the wine cellar, empty the Beer Machine or pillage the Liquor Closet, she has not only invited me to be her friend, but she has made me one of her Top friends! Imagine that! Not only are we friends, but she now considers me to be one of her Top 35 Friends!

I feel privileged! I feel special! I feel nervous! I had never given it any thought before, but now I wonder just how I rate with everybody else. And where do I really rate with Cynthia? Am I at the top of the Top list? Or did I just squeak in at number 35? Did I finish ahead of Dan? (Note: for 2007 I had about 30 pictures more than Dan printed in Canpara, meaning I win for 2007, and also I have more pictures printed than Dan as a cumulative total from past years. Not that it's a competition, but if it was, I'd be winning)

What sort of criteria is she using to select her Top friends? Is it all purely subjective or are there minimum standards that must be met? How can I improve my standings? (Not that it's a competition, but if it is, I want to be winning. Not that I'm all about winning. Remember, Cynthia started this.)

What happens if I do something to displease her? Say for example, cancel and re-manifest my 4-way and Tandems repeatedly, forcing her to juggle loads and aircraft back and forth repeatedly while simultaneously answering the phone, taking peoples money, and making sure all the paperwork, loadsheets etc. are in order? Okay, that's a bad example, because I already do that and she went and made me a Top friend anyway. But you get the idea. Will she punish me by coming over here and raiding the Wine cellar, emptying the Beer Machine and pillaging the Liquor closet? Will she demote me? Are there other lists? If there are, what are they called? Am I on some of them too? Is there a "Lesser Friends" list? Is there a "People who are my friend when it's late at night, we've been drinking around the fire, and I need help making it to my tent" list? (please note, you're all on my list for that one)

The stress! The confusion! The potential stigma and resulting shame that will result from getting dropped from a Top list could have far reaching consequences. And what about not getting added to other peoples Top lists? I'll have to drop off of Facebook, move, and meet people the old-fashioned way - in the showers at Carleton U.

Cynthia! How could you do this to me? I thought I was your friend!

The preceeding rant was brought to you by a thouroughly exhausted and completely frazzled Crazy Larry.

No friends were harmed in the making of this rant.

Except me. Cynthia, How Could You!?

Did you ride those bikes all the way from Canada?

That's the question we seem to hear everywhere we go. I want to lay on a big
story about having to use dogsleds to get them to the Canada-U.S. border and
driving them from there but Nat keeps telling people how I trailered them
down and they still seem impressed.


People have been asking when the next installment will be coming, and the
reason I haven't sent anything lately is because we've just been doing
normal people vacation stuff. Mostly. But here goes.
Went to Key West on Tuesday, and just cruising along that never-ending
series of bridges made the whole trip worthwhile. Visit. You won't regret
it. Save an afternoon for Duval Street, it's the main shopping street in
downtown Key West and is a mix of bars and tourist traps. You know you're on
a serious party strip when they sell beer from curbside stands, and through
an accident of timing we happened to be there on St. Patrick's Day. Curb to
curb drunks at 4 in the afternoon. Most of the stores didn't care when I
walked in with my cup full of beer, and those that did were considerate
enough to have a rack at the front door so you could check your beer and
pick it back up on the way out.

We were wearing shorts and shirts as we rode, I haven't been on a bike
dressed like that since the early 80's. We were still the exception though
because even with all the bikes we saw we were almost the only ones wearing
helmets.

We snuck into the beachfront Waldorf Astoria to get me a magazine to read on
the beach and to use the bathroom. When I went into the vast marble and teak
hall that was the men's room I was greeted by the attendant. I was pulling
my camera strap over my head as I crossed the room when I heard the
attendant ask "Would you like me to hold it for you sir?" I froze dead in my
tracks but my mind was racing.

Hold what? And if he's referring to what I think he's referring, how much am
I supposed to tip him for that? $5 Seems about right for the prostate exam
at the border but on some level this seem even more personal, so should I
tip more? And all the guys who are reading this know how important it is to
get the right aiming point to avoid splash back so how do I correct for
that? "A little bit higher, and to the left. Okay now, take your little
finger and..........."

Turns out he was asking if I wanted him to hold the camera, but if anybody
has some advice on tipping on those rare future occasions where I use a
bathroom with an attendant I'd happy to hear it.

After driving through Fort Lauderdale in pouring rain we crossed over to the
strip of land that lies off the east coast of Florida. The attached picture
is of Nathalie buying a couple of beers when we stopped to take a break. Not
only does this state have a brown bag law (meaning you can drink in public
as long as you can't see a bottle or beer can), some of the liquor stores
have drive through windows. The girl at the window gave us cold beer
complete with their own little beer can sized bags. It's illegal to have an
open container of alcohol in a vehicle, but you can pull up to a window
where somebody will drop a cold case of beer in your lap. What the heck do
they think is going to happen next? Do they really think I'm going to wait
until I get home to open it?

It's early Friday morning, and we're going down to the beach for one last
time to watch the sunrise and go for a swim before heading back to Z-Hills
and to start skydiving which is when the real entertainment will begin. 9
Days so far, a combined total of 4,800 kilometers on the truck and the
bikes, which sounds like a lot.but we've driven through some of the most
gorgeous places I've ever seen and still managed to spend time on the beach
5 days in a row. I imagine the bikes will be out in force on the weekend
back home, but this morning we're going to be driving down to the beach in
our bathing suits.

8:22 P.M. on Friday night.
We drove to the beach at 7:00 A.M. as planned, and went for a run along the
beach as the sun came up. I was in bare feet, dodging the surf as we ran,
sometimes it caught me, sometimes I got away, either one was good. Went to Starbucks, got our morning coffee, and sat on the boardwalk as the surf came up and we planned out our day. Went for breakfast
at the Blueberry Muffin before returning to the beach. I was standing in the surf taking pictures of the surfers when A Pitts S2S aerobatic biplane came along and put on a 20 minute airshow a hundred yards out to sea, right in front of us. All this, and it was only 10:00 in the morning.

"Pssst. Hey Buddy, wanna buy a.......?"

The night before Nathalie arrived I was coming back through Orlando and had
to stop for gas. It was late and I don't know the neighborhood so I just
followed the signs off the Interstate to find a station. I wasn't paying
much attention, it's just one more in a long series of anonymous gas
stations, they're all pretty much the same. Here you have to pay before you
pump so I walked in, got in line to give the guy some cash, fished out my
wallet, pulled out a wad of cash, and started pawing through it.

And became aware of 4 things.
In addition to the 2 attendants behind the bullet proof glass this station
was also staffed with an armed guard.

Out of the dozen or so people I was the only white guy.

Out of the dozen or so people I was the only one who didn't look like he'd
spent time in jail and liked it.

And that everybody was staring straight at me. And my wad of cash.

The guy beside me looked me up and down and started made some admiring
remarks about my jacket. He had one eye, a scar like a trench running across
his face, and was buying 4 bottles of mouthwash. I'm guessing he was more
interested in the alcohol content than in minty fresh breath. In fact it
seemed as if everybody in the place including the guard was sizing me up to
see what part of me each one was gonna get. I threw $4 at the guys behind
the glass and went out to get enough gas in my tank to get back on the
interstate and get the hell out of there to find a safer place for a fill.

I had just got the nozzle in the tank when a guy sidled up beside me and
asked "Hey man, want some rock?" First Moonshine, now crack cocaine, what
next? At some future gas station is somebody going to offer me a teenage
prostitute? Maybe a Goat?

"No thanks."

"You want crystal?" Great! Now he's trying to sell me methamphetamine!

"No thanks, I just need gas"

"Well then what you stoppin' here for boy? The regular station is across the
street." He says, pointing to a station across the road that looks so much
safer, and so far far away. Thanking him I jam the cap shut, hop on the bike
and almost fry the clutch in my haste to depart.

Saturday is the start of the Muff Brothers boogie so there's finally people
around to jump with. I get onto a 21-way where I have got to be the youngest
person on the load. And my gear, some of which I've been using for years has
got to be the newest on the load. One guy is celebrating his 78th birthday
and his wife comes along to the plane to bring his walker back for him. That
means either all these people have lots and lots of experience and this is
going to go incredibly well, or this will be very very scary.

Despite the crowd there's only one plane flying so we have to wait over 2
hours for our load. When it finally goes off I make my slot but the thing is
going so slow I start slowly dragging my whole side down. The organizer is
throwing me a dirty look but there's a few people going low, a couple people
bouncing off the formation, and a lot of general stupidity going on so I
don't feel the least bit guilty, I'm far from the worst skydiver there.

When we land they start talking about doing a formation load and I think "40
Of theses clowns in the air? No thanks!" Besides, it took so long to get the
first load up this probably won't get in the air until dark and I have to go
get Nathalie. I'm packing as the organizer is walking around collecting jump
tickets and as he comes my way I've already got my excuses for not being
able to go ready. And he walked right past me to ask the guy packing next to
me if he wanted on the load. WTF? I just got cut by the MUFF BROTHERS?
Yes, I know I didn't want to go anyway but I just got cut by the Muff
Brothers?!?! My skydiving career has just hit a new low, it can only get
better. Unless Z-team finds out. If anybody starts asking me about my recent
big-way experience, how am I supposed to explain this? The Muff Brothers
will jump with anybody! They have no standards or goals other than having
fun. They kept the 78 year old who didn't make his slot and dumped in place
without tracking but cut me?

Sigh.

I finally fetch Nat from the airport shortly before sunset, and as we're
pulling onto the interstate she tapped me on the shoulder to point to a
spectacular sunset over the harbor. And I promptly got lost. We wound up
going onto a 9 mile long bridge across the harbor with no way to turn around
until we reached the far side, but we were on a bike, in Florida, chasing a
sunset out to sea, so it didn't seem all bad.

Sunday morning, after a few false starts we set out for Miami. Central
Florida looks a lot like the prairies, flat, no trees, just crops stretching
out to the horizon. Until we hit the orange grove. Almost an hour of row upon row
of trees so densely covered with oranges you could hardly see any leaves.
There were enormous dump trucks parked in rows with oranges piled so high
inside they were literally overflowing. We stopped for lunch in some hole in
the wall dive of a restaurant that was jammed with locals, which is just
about the best recommendation you can get. We got two extra-large chicken
Fajitas and two beers for $8. There was a highway work crew comprised of
short, large mexicans sitting at a long table by the window, and every time
Nathalie got up their whole table fell silent as they all watched her moving
around. I'm guessing that tall, red-haired, leather-clad French women are in
short supply around here. They saw me watching them watching her, and looked
briefly guilty until they saw the proud smile on my face.

We were cruising pretty fast, 120-130 km/h, and none of the Harleys we
encountered made fun of my saddlebags, they were all too busy admiring
Nathalie's bike. With the Canadian plates we drew attention to begin with,
and her bike is a a unique and unusual style of hybrid that has come into a
lot of favor lately with the globe-trotting adventurous types. At first
glance it can be mistaken for a dirt bike, and with the right tires it could
probably climb a brick wall, but it's also quite at home loaded with luggage
belting along the interstate.

Our hotel in Miami was on the beach, taken right from the art-deco style of
Miami Vice, and after dinner we strolled barefoot back along the beach from
the restaurant.

Monday morning we had to find a Yamaha dealer, my rear tire had developed a
slow leak and I didn't trust it to get us to the Keys and back. Turned out
it had a nail in it, and after getting it replaced and watching Nathalie's
bike (and Nathalie) draw an admiring crowd of bike mechanics we were on our
way.

The Florida Keys.

Holy Crap.

We crossed the first bridge, a huge, long, soaring climb into the air, and
out in front of us was a string of green jewels joined together by bridges
and causeways. To the right, the Florida side, the water was aquamarine
green, to the left, the ocean side, a deep, rich, blue. My camera was in the
seat bag behind me, and there were signs everywhere saying "No Stopping On
Bridge." Damn!

We had lunch sitting in a covered swinging table next to the ocean, and then
I had a nap lying on one of a series of 4 poster beds just feet from the
water.

Oh, we have SO arrived in the Keys. The plan for Tuesday is to head for Key
West, find a bar on the water, and work on getting a sunburn. I'm going
native and intend to ride in my bathing suit and a t-shirt, my helmet the
only concession to safety gear.

I hear the bikes are out back home, in the -5 temperatures. Snicker!

I had no idea so many people were up on their geography

I would like to take this oppourtunity to apologize to all those who took
exception to the fact that I called Newfoundland a Maritime province. A
great many people have pointed out that while it is an Atlantic province,
the Maritimes are comprised of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward
Island.

But just for the record, I'll bet the Maritimes were just as upset at having
Newfoundland lumped in with them.

They didn't have enough people to send the first load up until almost noon
today. I didn't even bother to manifest, and was getting ready to get on the
bike and go when TK called for a few volunteers to help him get a solar
panel up on the roof at his house. It only took a few minutes, and when we
were done he turned us loose on his orange and grapefruit trees and in a few
minutes we had stripped them bare. I'd hardly even seen an orange tree
before, and it was fun to sit in the branches peeling a freshly plucked
orange. I left with a whole sack of them.

I decided to set out for Deland and drop in on Gilles and Teresa. About
halfway there I had to stop for gas. (The fuel stops on this trip seem to be
providing an endless source of entertainment) Just as I started to pull my
helmet back on a drop-dead gorgeous blond-haired blue-eyed 10 out of 10 BABE
came out of the store and walked past me. She was the type every male stops
whatever he is doing to look at, and every woman loves to hate.
"Nice Bike." she said as she passed by.

"Thank you." I said, reflexively drawing myself up to full height, sucking
in my gut and puffing out my chest while trying to return my hairline back
to where it started 20 years ago through sheer force of will.

"My Grand-dad drives one just like it." she said over her shoulder as she
moved away.

Prick, Psssssssssssst, Kaboom. That's the sound of my ego being punctured,
deflating, and crashing back to earth. "Out of the Mouths of Babes....."

The Muff Brothers Reunion Boogie starts this morning. (Saturday) I think
I'll finally get my gear and go get on a plane, jumping with those clowns is
always good for some laughs. They seem to share a motto with Homer Simpson:
"Trying is the first step towards failure." Nathalie arrives tonight, and
then we're off to Miami tomorrow night, and then the Keys the following day.
It's 80 degrees farenheit, the winds are light, planes are full and flying,
and it's time to go have an air bath.

"Is that Canadian country music?"

Getting across the border was, in the end, somewhat of a letdown. The guy asked a whole bunch of questions, going around and around who owned what, mixing it up each time and trying to catch me out, but had no interest in seeing the paperwork. He was far more more curious about the case of Smirnoff Ice I was bringing across  and making sure that I had no containers of hard Liquor. I never got the chance to produce my drivers license, 4 ownerships, insurance papers, photocopies of all Nat's stuff, and the permission slip saying I was allowed to take her baby to a foreign country. But I sure didn't miss the cavity search. Dianne says if the guy goes at you with a glove you have to tip him $5 for the prostate exam, but she didn't say if that was a tip for checking it or to check it.

After that I just fell into the normal routine of drive until my bladder can't hold out any longer, then stopping to use the bathroom, get gas, food, and coffee, all in that order. By the time I've made my 4th coffee stop I've got so much caffeine in me I'm starting to vibrate. I added one additional step for this trip and that was to check all the tie downs on the bikes at every stop.

At one stop around mid-afternoon just as I was finishing my walk-around I heard a deep voice behind me. "They say that when you see a Beemer on a trailer you better call a Cop because it's probably stolen." I'd heard something like that before, it's a reference to BMW's near legendary reliability. I turned around with several smart-ass remarks on the tip of my tongue to find myself face to face with a smiling Pennsylvania Deputy Sheriff who had to be the biggest cop I've ever seen. "What size is that?" he asks, pointing at the BMW.

"I'm not sure, it's not mine." I reply.

"Oh." he says, as he walks around to take a closer look at the Quebec plate on her bike, the Ontario plate on mine, the commercial plate on the truck, all the bumper stickers covering the tailgate of the truck, and suddenly I'm acutely aware of the fact that my hands are twitching like I'm being electrocuted.

"Do you have any paperwork for this all this?" he asks. Finally!!!!! I immediately dive into the truck, coming out with my passport, drivers license, 4 ownerships, 3 insurance slips, photocopies of Nathalie's passport and drivers license, a copy of her plane ticket and flight itinerary, and of course the note she gave me giving me permission to take her bike to the states. As the poor guy is spreading it all over the lid on the cargo bed of the truck, with me babbling away as to what each piece of paper is and why I have it, I suddenly get it in my head to show him the picture of Nathalie I have in my wallet. That just adds to the confusion because the picture is of her in full gear tracking away from her 2,000 jump, totally unrecognizable in her full face helmet.

I guess he decided I was on the level and only a danger to myself because he handed all the stuff back and fled.

About 10 hours later, sometime around 11 at night, somewhere in North Carolina (I think), I made yet another pit stop. Great Big Sea was playing on the the stereo and I decided to leave it on as I pumped gas. Again, another deep voice comes from over my shoulder "What kind of music is that" I turn to see the caricature of a Southern Redneck. Baseball cap, beer belly, and a pickup truck with a Confederate flag and a rifle rack complete with rifles and a fishing rod in his back window. I'd' a laughed but the guy was armed.

"It's Newfie music" I reply. "It's from the Maritimes."

"Is that Canadian Country Music?"

I had to think about that for a minute before deciding "Yeah it is. It's Canadian Country Kitchen music." Which is when I noticed he was tapping his foot to the beat of "That's how they showed their respect for Paddy Murphy....."

He kept asking questions, and having filled my tank, I suddenly reached in, punched the eject button, and handed him the CD. "Here ya go buddy, some of the best party music you'll ever own." At first he refused, but after I insisted he told me he had something for me. He reached into the back of his truck, and from a wooden crate he pulled out a quart canning jar filled with a a clear liquid and handed it to me.

What The F***?! "That's some of the best party goods you'll ever own." he said with a huge grin.

Holy Crap! I freaked! Suddenly I flashbacked to the guy at the border asking me repeatedly about hard liquor.

There was no way I was going to be able to drink all that before returning to Canada, especially on top of the case of Smirnoff I'd brought with me and all the beer I'd bought at the first place I stopped for gas. "$7.99 For 18 Cans Of Budweiser!" I'm a terrible impulse shopper.

Finally I agreed to take enough to fill an empty Gatorade bottle, and I left my new friend standing at the pumps holding his new CD and the remainder of his quart of Moonshine. If Great Big Sea suddenly leaps to fame and fortune in the U.S. riding a wave coming out of the Ozarks I want a commission.

As I drove away I couldn't decide if I'd drink the stuff, or add it to my tank as an octane booster. I'd better not spill any on the tank if I do, judging by the way it smelled when we were pouring it (standing by the brightly lit gas pumps at the side of a busy road, the very souls of discretion), it'll probably eat the paint.

I kept on going, driving late into the night and early the next day. As my mind began to wander and seek to entertain itself I passed a sign at the side of the road that said "Speed Limit Strictly Enforced By Aircraft." Not patrolled by, or surveillance by, but "Enforced By". Sounds like the aircraft is Judge, Jury, and Executioner. I imagined one of those surplus A-10 Warthogs or F-18 ground attack fighters from that huge parking lot in Arizona being used for "Speed Enforcement". "There's one!" says some eager State Trooper as he rolls in on some guy in a pickup truck towing a trailer with a couple of bikes on it at a high rate of speed down the highway. He touches a couple of buttons on his fire control system, centers the box over the target on his heads up display, and when he gets a solid tone in his headset telling him the target is locked he fires a radar guided missile at the offender. I think it's time to pull over and sleep.

I finally pulled into a rest stop in South Carolina after 17 hours driving.

I was dead-beat, exhausted, ready to collapse.........but I had to know what the hooch tasted like.

When I opened it and smelled the stuff it seemed like a cross between Vodka and Acetone.

Screwing up my courage, I took a tiny sip, no more than a thimbleful. And almost went into convulsions. My throat locked, my chest felt like it was being crushed, I couldn't breathe, my eyes were squeezed shut so tightly they hurt, and there was a roaring sound in my ears. It took several minutes for my breathing and heart rate to return to normal. The second shot wasn't anywhere near as bad. The third one was kinda nice. And the cab of the truck seemed to be getting awfully warm. I mixed some into a bottle of cherry flavored Gatorade, and it went down really good. I think. I'm not really sure. It had only been 5 minutes since I first tried it but already things were getting confused. I put it aside to curl up in the drivers seat and go to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of a construction crew complete with earth moving equipment and jack hammers working right outside the truck. But when I finally managed to pry my eyelids open they were no nowhere to be seen. It seemed the hammering was all in my poor assaulted brain. That stuff must have been pure alcohol. I still have some left, I think I'll save it for Nathalie.

Arrived at Skydive City around 4 o'clock, got fixed up with a trailer from Judy, waivered and gear checked just as they started calling the last load of the day. I thought about it, briefly, but when I looked across the parking lot I thought "I dragged those motorcycles all the way to Florida, the only thing I really want to do is get on one and go."

15 Minutes later I'm on the FZ sitting at the intersection of Skydive Lane and the highway, adrenaline pumping from having just screamed down Freefall Avenue past Tony Suit and the old Sunpath Factory building and almost skidding sideways off the road at the end when I locked up the rear wheel.

Heeheeheehee! Now where? I look at the clock next to the speedometer, then over at the sun. I figure it's about 2 hours until sunset, the sun is over that-a-way so that-a-way is west, come to think of it the Gulf of Mexico isn't far, it's to the west, sunset, Gulf of Mexico........ and I'm gone. No map, no GPS, no directions, no plan other than chase the sun that-a-way.

And I caught it.

 

Off and Crawling Like a Herd of Turtles

March Break.
Speed Week.
Bike Week
8-way.
Z-Team.
Sun.
Beaches.
Lots and lots of Beaches.
Motorcycles.
Lots and lots of Motorcycles.
No Snow.
Two weeks with my Honey.
Did I mention Beaches?

How many reasons do you need to go to Florida in March? Any one of the above
would do it, add them all together, and there really is no choice.

"Go South Young Man." She said. "Take the Bikes with you, and I shall meet
you there!" Well, that's not really what she said, but I have enjoyed
telling people that Nathalie is sending me ahead with the toys so she can
just fly down, get on her BMW, and ride off into the sunset. Truth is I
volunteered.

I'm leaving a few days early, dragging a trailer with the bikes on it, and
will drop them in Skydive City before picking the Redhead up at the airport.
The only luggage she is bringing with her is a purse, I'm bringing
everything else. 6 Days cruising on two wheels through Florida and the Keys,
4 days jumping with a carefully selected 8-way team, 4 days with Z-team, and
then drop the Girl at the airport before I begin my drive back home.

There will be a minor detour on the return trip. Deals Gap, "Tail of The
Dragon", rated the Best Motorcycle Road in North America. 11 Miles, 311
Corners. As long as I'm passing by (It'll only be a few hundred kilometers
out of my way) and I happen to have my Bike with me, it would be a shame to
pass it up. Check it out on YouTube.

There's a few problems with the plan. The first one is the idea of doing
60-ways. That is 56 more people than I'm usually in the air with. I figure
the level of complexity and the stress and danger level increases
exponentially every time you double the size of the formation. But that's
not the big problem.

Problem number two is towing a trailer loaded with a pair of motorcycles all
the way to Florida when the only thing I've ever towed was a wagon with my
little brother in it behind my first bicycle. It ended badly. There are no
brakes on a wagon. Come to think of it, there are no brakes on this trailer.
I swore at the time that I would never tow anything ever again. That's also
not the big problem.

Another problem is my bike. My FZ6S, my lean, mean, high-performance,
high-speed machine, capable of accelerating fast enough to reverse the
direction of a persons blood flow. Even sitting still it looks like it's
going 200 km/h.

Or I should say, it used to. To prepare for this trip I made a few
alterations, most of them minor and not readily discernable, like the
addition of a gel seat and a slightly higher windshield better suited to
highway driving. And saddlebags. It's now sissified, turned into a geek by
the addition of the saddlebags. They look as out of place as a roof rack
would be on a Ferrari. A necessary evil for this kind of trip, but at what
cost? My Street Fighter has become a Commuter Sport. We're going to arrive
in Florida at the height of Bike Week, the entire state awash in some of the
fastest, coolest, most up to date customized one-of-a-kind motorcycles on
the road, and me with my Geekmobile. It's like taking one of the cool kids
and sending him off to his first day at a new school dressed in a shirt and
tie, wearing a pocket protector and carrying a briefcase. I can picture it
already. The other motorcycles will surround us as soon as we arrive,
teasing and taunting like a crowd of children at recess. "Who dressed you
this morning? Your Mommy?" Before I know it I'll have a "Give me a parking
ticket" sign stuck on my back.They'll probably make us park with the Mopeds.

I spent last summer learning how to lean that thing over so far in the
corners that I had started scraping the foot pegs (they make those things
spring loaded for a reason), the more you lean, the faster you can go. If I
tried that now I'd be grinding on the luggage long before I got it over to a
decent angle. I know I'm probably reading too much into it, but the first
Harley that looks at us sideways is going to have a problem on it's hands.

Needless to say the saddlebags will be removed by the time I show up at
Deals gap.

But that's not the real problem either. The one thing that has me more
worried than towing a trailer to Florida, Big-Ways, or the state of my Bike,
is getting across the border. I'll be driving my truck which is registered
to my business, a numbered Ontario company, towing a trailer registered to
me, loaded with a pair of motorcycles one of which is registered in Quebec
to someone who isn't with me. I'll have four ownership slips with three
different names on them. This shouldn't raise any red flags at all with a
guy who has the power to order me to submit to a body cavity search and have
all the vehicles with me disassembled. The icing on the cake will when the
border guard asks the purpose of my visit. They never seem to believe me
when I tell them I'm travelling thousands of miles to go skydiving. "You're
goin' where, to do what? Who owns this numbered company? Al-Qaida? And you
say the other Motorcycle belongs to your girlfriend? Would that be the
imaginary girlfriend I can't see with you? Pull it over there sir, step
inside to room number 3 and strip." he'll say as he snaps on a pair of
rubber gloves.

Every trip brings a whole new adventure.

Just in case I have brought every single piece of paperwork I can think of.
My passport and drivers license, photocopies of Nathalie's passport and
drivers license, ownerships and insurance slips for everything, a printout
of Nathalie's plane ticket, and a note from her giving me permission to go across
the border with her bike. I'd have gotten a note from my mom saying I'm
allowed to go on a field trip 'cept she's on a field trip of her own and
can't be reached.

I promise to drive slowly and take no chances on the drives down and back,
but once I'm there I make no promises. I will keep in mind that there are
two miles of ditches for every one mile of road. Except in the Gap where
there are no ditches at all, just rocks and trees. I really do need to buy a
full set of leathers.

The thing I can't get over is that I finally own half a trailer and I can't
even sleep in the damn thing!

Wish us luck!
Larry (and Nathalie, in a few days)