"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.