Day 2 – To Spokane
N47º 39.412' W117º 25.423'
Friday dawned bright and sunny to find me in front of my computer, desperately trying to finish off my work before the start of my vacation. Which, of course, has already started. But really, when you get down to it, there is no well founded reason why this vacation should start any differently. And so we shall adhere strictly to tradition, which means that it’ll be at least Sunday before I’m caught up.
At 10:30, impatience finally got the best of Dianne, and we packed up, checked out, loaded up, got dressed (or at least, put on my riding gear) and hit the road. At least as far as the nearest gas station, which was all of about half-a-block. Helmet off, tank bag off, fill the tank, tank bag on, helmet on and we’re finally set to go for real, if only the line of RVs blocking the exit would actually turn left on a green light. This was about the point in the process where I renewed my vow that when I become supreme ruler of the universe, all RVs will be banned from the roads in any month other than January and February.
The ride through Calgary was typical of rush hour traffic, recognizing that rush hour has now expanded to encompass the entire period from dawn until the martini hour. Shortly after we passed Spruce Meadows on the (really, really far) southern edge of Calgary, we finally hit open country and open road.
After that, the ride got amazingly fun. I will admit to seriously questioning the wisdom of taking the Ducati while we were riding down to Calgary yesterday. The fuelling was extremely inconsistent, the bike kept lurching and bucking like a seriously pissed-off bull and maintaining any measure of consistent speed seemed an exercise in futility. Today, we’ve either cleared the cobwebs in my head or the carbon in Alessandro’s cylinders. Of course, both of these factors may be an influence.
The sun in my face, the wind in my hair…
Look, white boy, this is my fantasy. Get your own.Ω
By the time we get to Crowsnest Pass, however, I’m finally starting to have some fun. The scenery is gorgeous, the RVs are staying out of our way and the most significant challenge encountered thus far has been a Volvo driver that’s incapable of colouring between the lines. Moreover, the travel gods demonstrated their extreme munificence when we got to the border to find a single guard station open and a line up of — wait for it — two cars. Apart from a warning that there were no hotel rooms available in Spokane, we crossed over without a hitch.
Look, white boy, this is my fantasy. Get your own.
That brings us to Spokane. This was not a planned highlight of our trip, and there was no pressing reason why we should want to spend the weekend there. When we called to make a reservation, though, we were advised that because of an event in town they wouldn’t even give us a room unless we stayed for two nights. Having weighed our options, however, we came to the conclusion that the only four diamond hotel in spitting distance of where we were looking was just too good to pass up. If we had to stay for two nights then that’s what we’d do.
Now this is more like it…
Of course, we weren’t really clear on what special event we would be encountering. Our only promise to each other was that if it was a convention of the Promise Keepers or any other pseudo-religious pseudo-cult then we would face the weekend by hiding in our room and downing an endless supply of martinis. John and Yoko, eat your heart out. Of course, nothing in our wildest fantasies (and to be clear, our wildest fantasies stretch to some pretty broad horizons) could prepare us for what was actually in store. In a word… Hoopfest.
Yep. That’s right. For 20 years, Spokane has been home to one of the strangest traditions in basketball: a downtown core closed to traffic and open to dribbling. For those that think every downtown core involves dribbling, I’m not talking about the winos or the stockbrokers. Instead, we are talking about the many thousands (and I do mean thousands) of people that descend on Spokane for a little 3 on 3. To put this in context: 6,700 teams, playing 13,000 games, on 428 temporary basketball courts. In one weekend.
Those that know me well will instantly recognize the special place in my heart held by basketball, and by team sports in general. An entire weekend dedicated to nothing else? In a downtown closed to vehicular traffic? I really, really hope that the hotel is well stocked on gin. Because, in the immortal words of the great Hunter S. Thompson, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” And damn it all, I’m a professional.
Hoopfest in all its glory. Check the leggings…