Day 2 – To Ucluelet
N48º 55.313' W125º 32.584'
There are deeply twisted consequences to working a ridiculous schedule for an extended period of time. And there are ludicrous contexts that can quickly become normal. Take, for example, the concept of sleep. One would think, being tired, that someone would want to sleep in. And yet, on a morning when there are no commitments, no alarms and not even a working clock in the bedroom, when 5:30am rolls around I’m awake. And not just a little awake, mind you. Full on, brain whirring, cylinders coughing and chugging and spurting and lurching into life, thinking-about-what-needs-to-happen awake.
Only nothing needs to happen. There are no deadlines. Nothing has to be anywhere. There is nothing left over from yesterday that I was too tired to finish so I left it until this morning and now it needs to be done early before the commitments of today overwhelm the recovery of yesterday and leave me so far down a chasm of my own work that recovery seems impossible and futile and existentially questionable in ways that the normal human brain can’t begin to fathom. But that’s exactly the sort of thought process that ticks over in my mind, keeping sleep more than a little elusive. Even lying in a comfortable bed under a warm duvet next to the woman that loves me.
On a positive note, however, a pot of coffee and a croissant to start the day are no more than a phone call away. Sadly, I have not yet trained the cats to do that, and Dianne isn’t prepared to get up at the kind of time that I get up to make that happen for me, love me though she does. So if you’re going to get up really early, being in a hotel when you do does have its advantages.
I do have to say that I’m getting far more efficient at taking other peoples’ motorcycles apart. This is something that will probably either reassure Breton, or inspire eye-rolling and a statement of ‘Sure, now he figures it out. When I’m not waiting around for him to finish…’ This is also coming with an affinity for figuring out where Japanese motorcycle engineers hide the motorcycle batteries. Certainly, they don’t locate them in the logical place. Under the seat would be easy. Of course, under the gas tank would be cruel, but apparently this is a trait restricted primarily to BMW and Ducati engineers. But I digress…
On the FJR, the battery is located under the right front panel, between the fairing and the speedometers. This requires removal of not one but two panels in order to gain access to the battery terminals. A matter of 3 minutes to get to, followed by another 20 arguing with the screw terminal on the battery as I try to connect the leads for my tankbag and heated vest (having decided to forego the GPS this time around. There is only one road there and back, after all…) But music and heat are still manadatory, as well as being able to talk to Dianne.
Still, overall the exercise was far more efficient and effective than what Breton witnessed last year. Within an hour, everything was assembled and put together and the bike was ready for the road. We had breakfast in the room, packed up and checked out. Easier than it sounds, of course, because travelling with motorcycle gear still apparently requires a 32” Pullman. Which is, on the whole, incompatible with the trunk space of a Ford Mustang. At least, it is when said Mustang is in convertible form… Any loading and unloading of my bag requires first lowering the roof. Given that rain is forecast for the entire weekend in Ucluelet, I predict that further challenges lie ahead.
There are more conservative ways to travel. But they wouldn’t be this fun…
It feels great to be back on a bike again. Even if it’s on a bike travelling up highway 1 on a long weekend. Once again, the traffic around Nanaimo is hostile in its intensity. A plethora of RVs, minivans and badly driven cars awaits anyone trying to navigate north. Apparently everyone wants to be in Nanaimo for Easter. Fortunately, they don’t want to go further north, so the road opens up considerably once we get past.
The fact that it is the Easter weekend, though, really sinks in once we get to Qualicum Beach and try to find a coffee. The cafe I found last summer is closed. So is the roastery just west of highway 1. Resigned to our fate, we decide to see what Port Alberni holds. Fortunately, there really is a Starbuck’s everywhere. And the Starbuck’s in Port Alberni makes a damned fine latte.
Traffic west of Port Alberni is wonderfully light. A clog of pickups collectively chooses to leave the highway at the same time, pretty much opening up the road save for a couple of SUVs that we run up against a little way further west. I have to say, my opinion of the FJR at the outset was fairly similar to that of the Honda ST 1300 I rode last year — competent, but not overly impressive. Passing the two SUVs forced a recalibration of that assessment. Dropping a gear and hammering the throttle saw the bike leap forward once I hit a passing lane, launching itself from 80 to something north of 140 without really thinking about it too hard. This could be fun.
An ocean awaits, just a few steps away.
Impressively, the Mustang has some serious horsepower under the hood as well. Dianne dropped the top in Port Alberni, and she was pretty much glued to my tail the whole way to Ucluelet. We seem to have found a car that can actually keep pace with the bike, which is saying something. With only a couple of hold ups for slow minivans, and a brief but pleasurable opportunity to terrorize a Tercel that failed to appreciate how many other drivers they were holding up, the ride into Ucluelet was a thoroughly enjoyable ride. It’s good to be back on two wheels.