Lean Mean Red Machine

Had some unexpected fun at CFB Crow Lake today.

My dad and I were planning a trip to the dump to get rid of an old couch, a bed, the carpeting we pulled up a couple of weeks ago, etc (this isn't the fun part).  Dad joined us early in the afternoon in his van.

I'd forgotten that dad hauls my old bike around in that van.  This is the beast I used to ride on (for the most part) da mean streetz of North Bay when I was about 10-12 years old.  It's somewhat shocking that it's still in one piece in light of the extreme levels of punishment I put that thing through back in the day.

How I've never broken a bone is unexplainable, though I did think I'd busted ribs one time when I accidentally found myself trying to go UP concrete stairs on it.  Physics don't work that way, dawg.

I'd come home and dad would look at its bent tire rims and handle bars and ask me if I ever used my bike to jump off stuff.  I would respond in the negative, which was borderline...well...complete bullshit.  But in my own defence, I never did this kind of thing:

These things need to be properly defined.  There are "jumps" and there are "jumps".  I don't read minds.

In any event, Christine and my pappy were about to head to Sharbot Lake to buy quarter-round for the master bedroom.  That gave me a golden opportunity to terrorise Crow Lake on my rad wheels for a while.

"Eastern Ontario 4 Life, yo!"

A short while.  Turns out I run out of breath significantly faster now.  Not sure how that happened.  Must be some sort of lake effect.  Whatever.  It's...not important.

I did have a pretty intense flashback moment though.  I'm so used to the brakes being on the handlebars on my current bike, that when I started down the cottage ramp, I actually forgot how to stop for a  second.  I thought I was going to plow into our deck fence.

Here's the one set of skid marks I can show you.  Trust in my judgement on the other ones.

I'm sure a little lemon juice and baking soda will get that right out...

There was a dirt bike under the cottage that the previous owners left behind.  Dad's decided to make that one into a recovery project, meaning that "my" bike and I are now reunited after about 30 years.  (30??  The math can't be right on that...I'll work it out later...).  It'll have a pretty mellow retirement.

Mind you, with a good head of steam, I'm pretty sure I know a really fast short cut to our beach...