Peenie Wallie: Day 24 - Cache Creek, B.C. to Vancouver, B.C. (Mon 8/11/14)

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August 11, 2014

Day 24 - Cache Creek, B.C. to Vancouver, B.C. (Mon 8/11/14)

Above: Driving down BC Highway 99, the "Sea-to-Sky Highway".

Additional photos in the Extended Entry.

(Mon 8/11/14)

Update: I am alive and well and resting peacefully in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada.

Starting Odometer: 23,051
Ending Odometer: 23,333
Miles Driven Today: 282
Miles Driven This Trip: 8,680

Here's a map of roughly where I drove today.

The light turns yellow and I open the throttle...you don't want to give those red light cameras any reason to be snapping pics. I've just got my 3rd citation for the trip by some woman motorcycle cop with a radar gun....So I'm blowing through the intersection when the guy coming at me decides to make a left turn in front of me, not realizing that I was going for it. Now, I'm going to smoke the side of this car hard, and it's going to suck in a big way. I stand on both brakes, brace for impact, and sort of aim for the tail end of the car, hoping he'll floor it and get out of the way. By the grace of God, I miss hitting him broadside by a few inches.

But I should back up a bit.

In the morning, my alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m. Last night, I figured out when the tire store opened (7:30 a.m.) I set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. At 7:15 a.m., I'm walking across the street to see what's up. At 7:20 a.m., I realize the building is open, walk inside, and plead my case.

At first, there is some confusion. He thinks I'm a driver for some business.

"No...I have a motorcycle with a flat tire. Can y'all help me? I had it towed here yesterday. It's out back."

We go outside to look at the bike. I've never changed a tube on a bike in my life. I tried once. It's not easy.

"Dude...here's the thing...we work on car tires...we don't work on motorcycle tires. And if we do, then the customer has to pull the tire. We just don't do motorcycle tires...."

"Who does?" I ask innocently.

"Well, we don't stock tires or tubes for motorcycles. We'd have to go to Kamloops to get anything done..." His voice kind of trails off.

I've learned that, in these situations, silence is golden. Just shut your mouth, and try to keep moving the ball forward.

But the help shows up, and we roll the bike into the service bay number 3. The small one.

He's apparently injured his back, so he's not moving like a spy teenager.

They're trying to figure out how to get the bike's tire up in the air.

"It has a center stand...hang on...." and I proceed to roll the bike up onto the center stand, a trick Nick showed me. Now, I did get it up on the center stand, but it's insanely hard to perform this feat on this bike. On the later models, it was radically changed, and much easier to accomplish.

So now, the front tire is in the air. The mechanic starts fiddling with tools, and acting like he's going to pull it off. I've mentioned before that I'm trying to be more assertive in voicing my needs, and this is not a joke. I tell them this:

"I'm going to go next door. Here's my cell phone number. Call me."

Like, I mean, it is what it is, right? If we've got to fly in a tire or a tube from Austria, then so be it. But I'm going back to the motel to get in bed.

So, I go back, lie down in bed, and crash in a big way. I wake up at 9:00 a.m., and theres a missed call from KAL Tire. I call them back.

"Dude...what's up with the bike?"

Like, I have no idea if this is something inherently flawed in the bike that will require it to be dismantled and shipped back to Austria in boxes, or something he can fix in 30 minutes.

"You're all ready to go. I tried to call you...."

"I'm on my way."

I walk across the street from the Bonaparte Motel to the KAL-Tire place.

"What was wrong with the tire?" I ask the guy with a bad back.

"It rubbed a hole in the tube," he offers.

"There wasn't a nail or anything?"

"No. Probably just a little piece of sand in between the tire and the tube finally rubbed a hole in the tube..." he offers.

Like, I really don't know how these things work. I really have no clue. But he's sitting there telling me the bike is ready to go. I pay the bill...it's like $50.00 Canadian, which is like three U.S. dollars.

I eye the bike suspiciously. I put it off the center stand, and drive it back to the Bonaparte Motel, on the banks of the Bonaparte River.

Now, it's time to get rolling. I've got to make it down to Vancouver today to catch up to Ben. Pack up all my gear, and roll across the street for gas, gatorade, and food. Without these things, one won't survive long in the arid canyons.

For clarification, "Hell's Gate" is just south of Cache Creek. I never technically went through Hell's Gate. I head back north to Highway 99. This is the same path I took last time I came through, in 2011, exactly 3 years ago.

Only now, I have the bike all loaded up, and we're rolling down into the canyons. But now, the bike has shown me its true colors. It's like if a woman has cheated on you, and you catch her, it's hard to trust her again.

The bike is the same way. This bike scared the living daylights out of me yesterday. And now, every time I go into a curve, that's what I'm thinking...I wonder if the patch will hold...I wonder if I'll make it through the turn. And I'm afraid of the bike. For the first time in my life.

I tell myself that I don't need the front tire. I can make it through the curve without leaning over. And, in truth, I'm scared to lean into the curves any more. You just can't know what that feeling was like. There aren't words.

Now, I make it past the Marble Lake Park, where my trip ended yesterday. Now, I'm rolling through the canyons, taking pictures, and trying to keep it together.

Trying not to fear the machine. Trying to take in the view. Shooting like mad with the Canons and the GoPro.

The nice thing about the incident yesterday is that I stopped, and swam across Marble Lake. And there's no chance I would have done that otherwise. So, something good did come of it.

Now, I'm at the town of Lillooet B.C., "Guaranteed Rugged". It's this sort of hard-scrablle indian village in the desert, with a little river running through town. I pull over, and roll down to a suspension bridge across the river. They're down there beating the drums in some Indian ceremony. Remembering our experience from yesterday, I decide to not get involved.

I head back down into the canyon. One of the best parts of traveling, IMHO, is going to places you've been before, and sort of filling in the gaps of what you recall, and what's actually there.

Parts of this I remember. Parts I don't recall at all. But it's a spectacular drive, with narrow little one-lane wooden bridges, railroad trestles, desperate canyons, and then I'm in Pemberton. Stop for gas in Pemberton, and now the road leads to verdant mountains, and eventually to the ski resort of Whistler.

Just before Whistler, I remember the mountains here from the last time through. It seems like I always remember the places where I took pictures. I'm not sure if it's because the places are so stunning, or if it's because I'm remembering the picture that I took. It's hard to know.

Eventually, I roll down the coast and on into Vancouver.

Vancouver is funny because, just like the last time I was here, I enter town the same way, and follow the exact same path I took last time. Only this time, I'm shooting with my GoPro. Trying to capture some of the mystery of the city. When I roll into town this time, however, it's not at sunset. So, the high-rises aren't all lit up like they were last time. But it's still a magnificent city, of course.

I find Granville Street, the major artery/pedestrian mall. And I drive around for a bit. Stop to eat dinner down at the marina.

I'm looking all over for a place to spend the night that won't cost a fortune, but eventually, I decide that I'll go to a place in the suburbs...a little place called the Hurricane Grill.

I'm rolling south out of Vancouver when this battered old house-wife runs into the street right in front of me. "Christ what's wrong with these psychotic housewives? only now, I realize that she's a pig, and is motioning for me to pull over. Great. They wanted equal rights, and this is what we got. Serves us right. Women flock to the public sector like bears on black berries.

She's clocked me with a hand-held radar-gun for whatever reason. So I pull over, and she writes me a ticket for doing something in a something. It's all just kilometers, so I have no idea what she's talking about. For some reason, my radar detector wasn't even plugged in.

At the next intersection, when the light turns yellow, I open the throttle, and some jackass turns left in front of me. Now, I'm going to hit him going about 50 mph and it's going to suck in a big way. I lock up both brakes, and he floors it. How I missed him, I'll never know. But I miss him by inches. Maybe the purpose of this adventure was to make me glad to be alive and, after the last two days, I am.

Photos in Extended Entry.