Day 1 – Leaving Edmonton
N53º 18.505' W113º 34.764'
Even after several years of riding a motorcycle, I continue to be astonished by the degree to which they are the great social equalizer. Ride a motorcycle, and quite literally anyone will come up to you and just start talking. And I do mean anybody. I’ve been driving cars for the better part of 25 years (and of late, some pretty nice ones, thank you very much) and I don’t get people coming up and talking to me. Ride a motorcycle, however, and the number of conversations you’ll have on your hands is quite a different story.
The fascinating thing today, though, was that I wasn’t even riding a motorcycle. Tomorrow, I ride. Today, I have to get to Monterey.
The good news is that United has a direct flight from Edmonton to San Francisco, and Monterey is a quick jump from there. The better news is that the plane has a business class cabin. The even-more-superlative news is that United Airlines s a Star Alliance partner, along with Air Canada. And the best news is that, after more years of flying than I care to consider, I find myself endowed with more frequent flyer points than God. Or at least, a healthy enough sufficiency that getting upgraded really, really isn’t a problem.
Of course, getting from Edmonton to San Francisco involves first clearing U.S Customs. The United States, it must be understood, remains the only country on the face of the planet to be sufficiently insular as to make you do this before you leave your own country. This means that 5 minutes after arriving at the airport I’m confronted by a surly, dour and altogether far too serious looking person (unnervingly giving me a sense of how members of my staff may in fact regard me at certain times) who would like to know why I think I’m entitled to enter the United States, what I’m going to do there, and exactly how much money I’m carrying. Interestingly, the greatest emphasis is on the last question, for I get asked it exactly three times.
Having established that$300 doesn’t make me a fugitive head of an investment-firm-turned-Ponzi-scheme or a glorified pimp (and it’s really unclear as to which would be more offensive in this day and age) we get to what I’ll actually be doing once I get to the Great State of California (Go, Arnold!) Explaining the tragic tale of woe that cut short the last updates to this most beloved of blogs, I was quickly ushered through with a final parting comment of “Have a safe ride!”
From there came security. The X-ray technician looked at the various accessories coming off of the conveyor belt, and commented “Boots. Helmet. Jacket. Where’s the bike?” Once more, I explained the situation, only to be challenged with the interrogatory, “Well, what do you ride?” At the mention of a Ducati, the previously bored looking security dude with the magic metal wand opened up his eyes to their maximum dimensions, and declared, “Really? A Ducati? How much?” Cue discussion of the costs of motorcycles, their relative merits and the inevitable drain on one’s pocket book. Donning boots and jacket, collecting helmet and picking up bag, I head for the departure gate with a virtually unanimous call of, “Ride safe!”
Boarding the plane, I can’t get my helmet in the overhead storage bins. This again proves my point that engineers are not motorcyclists. Their roads are way too straight, and the overhead bins on their planes are way too tiny. Throwing myself upon the kindness of the flight attendant (there are advantages to flying business class) she finds a nice, safe place up front. But not before asking of the bag, “Is this a helmet?” And so begins another conversation. And an altogether attentive level of service. Yes, it’s business class. But my glass hasn’t been empty since we hit cruising altitude.
It’s good to be a motorcyclist.