Lochlan has abandoned both his man-bun and his razor and says he's going to become wild like the bears. He growled and chased me up the front steps and then told me to go dress for a bike ride. The sunbeam was parked on the front walk. This is a test run at a slow speed through the neighborhood. Yeah right. Half the time we wind up in Maple Ridge (and get to visit his mom, who makes us slushies and tacos) or Whistler (where we can buy tacos for mere hundreds of dollars) so I knew to bring all my stuff in my backpack and wear all the gear, not just the drive down to the Ferry Terminal gear (where you can get chowder! For hundreds of dollars. Damn. I used to buy hot chowder from a guy with a thermos near the public wharf. He charged a dollar a cup.)
And I am right. Seven hours later, two tanks of gas and we are back, with only eight near-misses and two missed exits thanks to Sunday construction and a decidedly distracted Juggler, who's now working on his unicycle skills, entertaining Ruth and her friends and Aurora too.
Because PJ yelled at him when we got home and then Ben did too but not too harshly, just hey, if I can't travel overseas alone with her, then fuck off with your amazingly poor motorcycle skills, okay?
Except that I'm sure Loch's skills are fine, he's just ridden enough in his life that the law of averages kicks in and his odds of drama increase due to miles logged.
Or something like that.
We didn't get any tacos today or any slushies. Just lemonade from the 7-11 and then a melted granola bar from his pocket that we shared before finding a little hole in the wall diner in Burnaby somewhere that I forgot the name of that had really great french fries just like the ones in Shediac.
Or maybe it was Halifax. Summerside? Martha's Vineyard. Brigantine? I can't remember anymore. I think the helmet is making my neck shrink, compressing my brain onto my shoulders. Just what I need.
(He just said the fries were just like the ones at that truck at Casino Pier. Yes. That's it.)