London to Cape Town, taking over a year - no rushing. I'm doing the trip on a Honda Dominator with a few mods...

May 28, 2010 GMT
It Didn't Happen In Monterey

24.4.10 Monterey, CA

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At last! Microwave Cheese-On-Toast. *literally dies*
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Before we go any further, I'd like you to look at this photograph of a food product I saw in a supermarket in Arizona, and reflect upon the fact that civilization is wheezing its last.

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Stupid things to say to very attractive women who look about 28 and want to "bum" a cigarette off me, #1 of - oh - many:
Very Attractive Woman Outside "The Britannia" (a pub in Monterey): Excuse me - can I bum a cig off you?
Me: Sure! Er - mine are on the bar in there. (I'm smoking outside). Just grab one!
VAW: - I'm not old enough to go in there!
Me (here comes the stupid part - brace y'self against the wainscoting): Really? Reaaaally? You're joking!
VAW: Um, no. I'm 20.
Me (mumbling shamefully) Hmmaggghh... I'll get it...wait here... cough...
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Overheard: Classic High-Functioning Alcoholic Conversation In The Liquor Store (where else?), Monterey:

HFA: Good evening. I'm interested in purchasing - let's see - a half pint of vodka. What d'you carry?
Liquor Store Owner: Well, we have Smirnoff Red at $8.99...
HFA: I see.
LSO: ...Or Romanoff, $8.29...
HFA: Mmm-hmm.
LSO: ...Then Ukraina at $7.69...
HFA: Splendid. Any others?
LSO: ...Also Tajik at $7.29 and Potatski at $5.89.
HFA: I see! Thank you. *counts out coins on counter* I believe I'll plump for the Potatski - and why not make it a pint, since we're here! Thank you so much.
LSO: Thank you sir. See you tomorrow. *sigh*
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Posted by Simon Fitzpatrick at 03:22 AM GMT
Dork Of The Town

30.4.10 Mariposa, CA


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I'm sitting at the bar in the 49er Club, owned and run by the enigmatic, shades-indoors-in-a-good-way (i.e. "I did stupendous amounts of acid 40 years ago and I actually HAVE to wear them") Randy, when a fellow who might almost be Stephen King's ugly brother (same glasses and too-small features, more warts) sits down and orders - are you ready for this - a pint of Budweiser with a tomato juice in it.

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I look at Randy quickly - this is the kind of thing I suspect he may refuse to serve on the grounds that it's pathetic and embarrassing. He hesitates for a yoctosecond - and goes to pour the squalid linctus. I can't not challenge it.
"Sorry old fruit - no offence - but straight to the nub, eh? That is the single most disgusting preparation I've ever seen, or indeed heard of. Pray explain yourself!"
He waffles on for some little while in an otiose attempt to justify or post-rationalize his disgraceful order, finishes it, and leaves.

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"The only thing worse than ordering a Budweiser and tomato juice," I remark to Randy, "is only having one and then going home."
"Yup. There's a dork born every minute" observes Randy.

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I'm forced to wait a few days in Mariposa for the weather to clear in Yosemite, so there's no realistic option but to return to the 49er a couple of nights later. This time I run into Gary, Dave and Stephanie from TV's England (Southampton I think), and cheeky, irony-soused banter with a side-plate of wry, sarcastic irreverence is the order of the day. After an hour, a young fellow in what one can only assume is a joke cowboy hat approaches us.

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"Yew all frum England?" he posits, though it's meant as a question.
"Indeed! Which country are you from, friend?" we respond.
"America!" comes the proud, if unsurprising disclosure.
We sort of knew that - we're in America, you've got an American accent, and you're wearing an unforgivable American hat... Never mind! His chum (quite badly sub-par on any internationally accepted educational scale, as far as I can make out) brings up the Revolutionary War, and it is eventually revealed that neither are huge fans of Obama - information less shocking, if that's even possible, than the fact that Hat-Boy is an American.
The Hatster is a "veteran" - of Iraq, I ask? Well, he wanted to go to Iraq, but sadly he was posted to Oregon; ah well; but also somehow ended up in the Oregon Coast Guard. Instead of Iraq.


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America is big 'n' busy; so much so that there are two or three things I meant to do that I've not had time for.
1) Visit Hunter S. Thompson's home town with sufficient automatic weapons, lysergic acid, dynamite, Wild Turkey, medical-grade cocaine, hunting knives, premium-strength beer, red meat, contraband cigarettes, prostitutes, hand-grenades, counterfeit $20 bills, psilocybin fungus, fake passports and hollow-point ammunition to start - and finish - World War III.
2) Visit Graceland - as in Elvis - stuff a deep-fried squirrel up my arse and shit it onto the porch in a hail of bloody, bone-studded faeces; then black up and hang myself from a tree in the front garden as a protest against Southern racism.
3) Visit Neverland - as in Michael Jackson - take an horrific crap on the doorstep and nail an anatomically correct doll with the face of Cindy Brady to an 8-foot rhinestone-studded cross on the lawn.


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2.5.10 Tracy, CA

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Two-and-a-quarter dollar pints of icy Bud; unlimited Rush on the jukie (live Xanadu now, anything I fancy to follow, cos it's an inkerneck jukebox and nobody's putting anything else on) and the promise of a box of Melancholy Fried Chicken on the way back to the motel. YOU HAVE GOT TO LUV THE MERRICKA.
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Posted by Simon Fitzpatrick at 03:26 AM GMT
A Burst Of Dirty Thunder

4.5.10 San Francisco, CA

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Yosemite, one last time. Amazoid.
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The Most Ridiculous Rumour Involving Mis-Casting I've Ever Heard, #1:
Someone on the internet says that, before Matt Smith was cast as The Doctor, one of the contenders was Catherine Zeta-Jones. I would LITERALLY have killed myself (by Aralditing my teeth to Her Majesty's exhaust pipe) if this had happened.
*insert segue here incorporating CZ-J, Michael Douglas, the movie "Falling Down", the concept of "falling down" due to having a dodgy hip caused by old age, the TV show "The Streets Of San Francisco" - which MD was in - and the fact that that's where I am. San Francisco, I mean.*


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The ride into SF through Oakland and across the Bay Bridge (from which you can see the Golden Gate Bridge) is a glittering highlight of the USA. The weather is blue and perfect and I'm bellowing with joy as we hit the Bay Bridge's peak at a legally-sanctioned and entirely appropriate 50mph. My motorcycling trousers fell to shreds yesterday so it's split-crotch jeans (bought in Chile) and Pacific breezes up the knackers a-plenty.


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SF is so groovy that I may apply to become a homosexual and come and live here. But before I get all excited about Frisco, there are some places I seem to have missed. Fr'example, Beatty, Nevada; Gateway to Death Valley.


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In short, Death Valley is amazement (and not too deathy in April), and Beatty, bless it, is not really much of anything at all. I use it as an opportunity to stock up on cheap smokes before hitting California, where they're bound to be twice the price. (Later I discover they're actually cheaper there.)


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It rains a bit in Death Valley before I arrive - and the desert blooms!


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Out the other end, and that bastarding wind picks up again. I'm gusted off the highway into Palmdale. The Motel 6 receptionist tells me there are "no bars in Palmdale"; it's "more of a family-friendly town". My family and yours would seem to be fundamentally at odds, I inform her.


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From here it's a short hop to Hollywood - hooray! etc. The Budget Inn on Sunset sits squarely atop the list of America's Filthiest Motels, but it's just close enough to the Rainbow for me to walk there and see if Lemmy's in. He's not, so I have a pile of drinks in his honour anyway, leading to a late-night impulse purchase of Motorhead tickets for Brixton in November.


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BTW: You can't use the aircon in room 209 of the Budget Inn - all it does is blow pigeon-shit dust into the room.

I like Hollywood for a couple of days, but you wouldn't want to live there unless you were already famous, since everyone that isn't is trying to be, which, when you boil it down, means that no-one is remotely interested in anyone else including you. Must be time to get outta town. Well, hello Santa Barbara!

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Her Maj and I roll in on a Sunday afternoon, and something compels me to trot straight down to the Tiburon Bar on State Street at 4.30pm. Call it booze-lust if you want. I'm so glad I did. It's dark, welcoming, peppered with friendly locals; I end up staying for upwards of an aeon. Fantastic spot, lovely folks - I wish I could remember their names.
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There's a huge billboard of Katy Perry looking very very attractive outside The Chieftain in San Francisco. So pretty and nice that it makes me want to boil her soil. Sorry - I've just made that expression up, and now it seems probable that I shouldn't have.

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North of Santa Barbara we're onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Wow! It is absolutely outstanding. Glee-laden motorcycling is eventuated. A thousand bikes (95% Harleys) thunder by on the other side of the road. At one of many, many viewpoints, I meet Mark, and his friend Other Mark.

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Mark has a black 1994 CB1000 - exactly what I had before Her Maj. Bloody great bike, for which he paid $2000 - exactly what I paid in the UK for mine (give or take a few quid for exchange rate fluctuations).


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UK General Election tomorrow. It seems unlikely that David Cameron's going to achieve a clear majority, and just possible that El Gordo will end up forming a coalition with the Lib Dems. Facially, Cameron resembles a bar of cheap soap moulded into a death-mask of the Pilsbury Dough-Boy. His party is crammed full of embarrassing toffs, posh twerps, braying haw-haws, nanny's boys, bedwetting, spank-hungry, dull-eyed uglies, autoerotic-accident-victims-in-waiting, gum-diseased homophobes, dribbling, in-bred monstrosities, bankers, air-brushed hatemongers and vile, stale-smelling, syphilitic abominations from right across the spectrum of the massively rich.

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El Gordo, on the other hand, is an extremely unpopular, accident-prone, arguably unelected PM, dangling at the pizzle-end of a 13 year, 3 term Labour administration. Nick Cleggover seems OK - except the last time anyone with the word "Liberal" attached to their name was in power was about 100 years ago, and we're quite firmly ensconced in Crap Street at the moment, economy-wise. Vince Cable seems nice.

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If Cameron can't win a clear majority under these circumstances, it's tricky to imagine any under which the Tories could ever get in again. If I was a betting man, I'd have a quid (after El Gordo's gut-storming speech on May 3rd) on a Lib-Lab coalition. If Cameron gets in... oh, I guess it's back to "well, I didn't vote for him".


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Obviously, this will all be irrelevant by the time anyone reads it, but - hey ho! - it's the election, and this is what I thunk. S'all.
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*Note from the future - well done me. Finger on the pulse etc.*
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What Ray Ratto doesn't know about baseball isn't worth knowing. What Ray Ratto does know about baseball isn't worth knowing either. Baseball players are fat. Ray Ratto is even fatter. What Ray Ratto knows about Dunkin' Donuts is only worth knowing if you're a baseball player, you fat bastard. (Full disclosure - I am insanely fat after nearly six months of burritos, pizzas and buffalo wings. I look like a pig on stilts.)
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10.31pm. A feisty person calls me an "Irish bum" for not giving them either of their top two choices of free gift:
1) A cigarette (mine are inside, on the bar)
2) A dollar (no).
A miracle of self-control allows me simply to smile and nod, rather than respond with "rather an Irish bum than a raddled, homeless tranny!" (I have nothing against trannies, raddled, homeless or otherwise, but this one was just plain rude. Irish! I ask you!)
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High Def telly! Now, truly, we inhabit The Future. One might struggle ever to leave the house again. HD football - every blade of grass, every droplet of huffed-out nose-water. HD nature documentaries - every briny droplet arcing from an orca's tailfin, every wrinkle on the surface of every gnu shit.
Where it all falls down, of course, is HD fatty-porn. There are folds that were never - in Christ's name - meant to be illuminated; patches of hair that were banished, aeons ago, into invisible chasms by Yahweh himself; blobs, lumps and wetnesses that cry out across the yawning emptiness of the universe for concealment. Still - BRILLIANT, isn't it?
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I nip out of The Chieftain for a well-earned cig. A gentleman in shades and a hooded shell-suit walks towards me - backwards, mind - at 0.01 mph. As he passes, I offer a cheery "How you doing mate?"
Continuing his reverse toddle, he looks me up and down, then lifts the lid of a wheely-bin, gestures at me with ALL TEN fingers, and burbles something in Spanish. "Nice one!" I respond, deflecting his inarguably insulting if wholly abstruse volley of - who knows what?
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At this point, E stops me in my pen-centred tracks. I note curly hair, a saucy smile and bosoms.
"What're you writing?" she asks. I KNEW there must be a lady somewhere who found a bloke writing in a book intriguing! I KNEW IT.
She asks for a read, and within seconds looks up from the scribble with a cautious expression.
"What's a Code 55?" Poor, innocent child.
"I can't tell you. Your husband, or perhaps boyfriend, might not like it", I reply.
"Haven't got one" she says. FUCKING BINGO.


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We set to work, drinks-wise. When The Chieftain shuts, we're somehow transported to her office where we steal duck pate, salty crackers, half a gallon of OJ and a litre of Bombay Sapphire. Back to mine - somehow - and it's two tickets for the trolley bus to Lewd Street, stopping at Nudity Square, Boob Alley and Nob Hill. Sorry - but the last one's a real place in San Francisco.


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A new front tyre (Avon Distanzia! Nice...) and an oil and filter change at Golden Gate Cycles, and we're off up the coast (me and Her Maj, that is). Riding across the Golden Gate Bridge is ridiculously good. I start humming the theme tune to "Taxi", although obviously that was set in NYC and the title sequence was a film-loop of Brooklyn Bridge. I think. Great tune though. Doo doo do-do-do, do-do-do-do-do-doo do-do etc.


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North of SF, the Pacific Coast Highway (the "1") is maybe the best motorbikin' road ever. Rollercoaster hairpins, deep green (red)woods, foaming waves, rock-scuttered sea and roadsides quilted with flowers, for - so far - 150 miles.


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The hotels are three times normal price, so I pull inland at Russian River looking for something cheaper, and end up at Monte Rio, and the Nicest Place In The World. I plan on one night, and stay four. The Rio Villa Resort - God almighty it's good. Hey Ron - Thanks! Hey everyone else - go there now! It's not a budget motel, but it's worth every cent.


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Posted by Simon Fitzpatrick at 04:26 AM GMT
June 09, 2010 GMT
A Distant Overture

24.5.10 Seattle, WA.

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What in tarnation...?
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Her Maj and I roll into Frazier-town at 5pm on Sunday. She's as frantically enthusiastic about everything as the day she was born; I've got damp knickers, and not in a good way. My new motorcyclin' loons are nowhere near as waterproof as the accompanying literature would have you believe.

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My cheeky little netbook thing (stupid Windows, unfortunately, chosen for price and the inevitability of it getting broken or nicked) allows us to set up a randomly-positioned roadside office downtown. Thieving wireless from the Swedish Health Centre across the road provides the means to locate, book and GPS-erize a reasonably-priced motel. (Days Inn! Hoorah! Usually a good call among the top five or six chains. Motel 6 - cheap but infinitely depressing; Knights Inn - cheap and either horrible or good, depending on when it was refurbished; Econolodge - nice but poky and overpriced; Travelodge - always good, sometimes expensive; and Rodeway - as average as it gets, but usually good value.

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Seattle is a serious microbrew town, so why not take my hand and join me for a stroll down to the Duck Island bar for a cold 'un or three?


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Wailua Wheat: Clearly a lady's beer. Alright, but a bit lacking in PUNCH or indeed BITE, and with an effeminate logo.


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Slane's Irish Red: NOM NOM NOM. Like a sort of pale-ish ale, with a porter-y toast finish (excuse me - I'm so not a beer critic. I like PBR fer Gawd's sake.)
Mudshark Porter: OOH YEAH! As above, but more so. More stouty, more toasty.


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(Meanwhile, the last ever episode of "Lost" is on TV in the bar, and there's a sign on the door saying "Come in, sit down, shut up". Fair enough - I've never seen an episode of "Lost" - imagine the hilarity when I ask the bar lady to give me a 30-second rundown of the last six mystifying years as the titles roll. "RUBBISH!" I yell at 10 minute intervals. "ACCORDING TO THE INTERTUBES IT WAS ALL A DREAM!" I shout with an increasing sense of entitlement as the drama peaks in parallel with my inebriation. Except - quite clearly - I don't.)


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Iron Horse Brewery's Rodeo Pale Ale: - more hops than Kermit on a pogo-stick in a sack-race with Douglas Bader. YUM.
Steamerglide Stout: I was told by the bar lady that it was "thin". Thin stout! Nobody wants that.
Upright 6 Rye Saison: not quite as exciting as it either looks or sounds. I call it "Lost - The Finale".
The Dissident: a "sour ale" from the Deschutes brewery. OMFG. It's not cider, but it tastes like the best cider you ever had, with a triple shot of vitamin C. Not sure I could do a whole pint.


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(I've thought of a new joke which I will now bandy around the "Lost"-rapt congregation [at least an hour into the show]. "Hey everyone! I've *air-quotes* LOST *close air-quotes* interest! Ha ha ha ha ha!"
Another great joke that doesn't seem to fly around here is going "HUH?" really loud at each ad-break. Ah well!)


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Finally, and before I get punched, Russian River Brewery's Pliny The Elder: stiff, bollocks-out beer; tangy, no-nonsense ale. Fuck-off booze for men and women who couldn't give a fart about you or your glass of apathetically post-nouveau weevil puke. It's a slap in the ear with a turgid farmer's penis. OWCH.


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Me, writing this, closing time
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Posted by Simon Fitzpatrick at 06:20 PM GMT
The End Times

2.6.10 Vancouver, Canada

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Oof! I forgot to mention that Yosemite National Park is AWE-OID. For future reference, some of it remains closed (i.e. snowbound) until sometime in May, but if you have to pawn your teeth to see it before the awful black silence of the universe engulfs you - do it.
The Grand Canyon - a large thing which I've forgotten to mention altogether - is also quite good.


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The Oregon coast is absolutely bloody extraordinary, even in the relentless grey dribble of a Pacific North-West springtime.


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*NB - heavy-handed Doctor Who reference ahead*
Her Maj urges me onward, twin headlamps ablaze, through Redwood forests and silver-slicked coastal towns, unaware of the impending horror of the Parting Of The Ways, and the possibility that she's going to be stranded in a parallel world (Vancouver to be exact) while I travel back to "reality" (Britain) in the Tardis (an Airbus A300).

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The cost of flying a motorcycle - however ethereally fabulous it might be - from The 'Couv to London is so crushingly immense that I'm forced to think the unthinkable, and (without telling her, obviously) pimp the old gal out on a couple of internet forums. Shady types begin to sniff around. My sense of shame twitches, but I chew back the tears and harden my heart until it's a scarlet biscuit. Business is business - though, right now, I can't look 'er in the eye.


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Just to hammer the point home, imagine you're driving your terminally-ill but morphined-up labrador to the vet, 300 miles away. The beloved pooch, dog-drugged into a living paradise, sticks its head out of the window and coughs with rapture, unaware that the next stop is its last, the vet's needle and the incinerator await, and that The Master - food-giver, stick-thrower, partner in adventure and Best Friend - will be travelling home alone, sick at heart and barely able to see through the windscreen through the veil of tears. Excuse me - I've got something in my eye. *sniff*
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A massive quantity of weather, encroaching from the pewter-coloured unknowable that is the Pacific, forces us inland north of Lincoln City to Portland, where bizarre deja-vu action takes place.
I spent quite a lot of the early-to-mid-Noughties playing Grand Theft Auto III. It's a game that's close to perfect on many levels - thrills, music, sheer size, "Daily Mail"-baiting amorality - and so playable that you get to the end and immediately want to revisit levels, to mow down more pedestrians in stolen ambulances, shag, kill and rob more hookers, bazooka more police helicopters out of the sky; or just go for a Sunday drive and appreciate the scenery.
We arrive in Portland and find ourselves in Chinatown, and suddenly the mental rug is pulled from under my brains. Oh now! I've been here before! It's too weird - and then I remember that some of GTA3 is based on Portland, Oregon. Suddenly I love that bloody game even more. There's a slight urge to hijack a taxi and flip it into the river, having packed it with screaming customers, but that passes as the need to find a motel increases.


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The threat of weather becomes reality, and we're stuck in the arse of Portland like an awkwardly fallen-on shampoo bottle for a few days. Luckily Phil's Old Time Pub is a short hop over the road.


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The rain slows down on the chosen morning and we hit it hard towards Seattle, about which facts have already been supplied. Grey skies bully us all the way to Ferndale; the Last Town In The US. Like all good bullies they don't follow through and we arrive dry and thankful.


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Someone, in every country on every continent in the world, will warn you, when you tell 'em you're heading for the next country, that it's "a nightmare", and that "you'll definitely get killed". You'd think - wouldn't you - that the exception would be Canada, coming from the USA. But still I get "watch out up there! Canada's a disaster!" from a person I later imagine to be quite badly mentally disabled.

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In Vancouver I'm to be billeted with my old chum Neil - a Sheffield boy, ex-vegetarian and ladies man, dismisser of God myths, "Withnail" lover, Joy Division fan (with a willingness to download "Moving Pictures" when I start hyperventilating while trying to explain the appeal of Rush), sitcom junkie and Vancouver Ambassador.
I'm looking forward to it - it's the finish line, which is bad, but several nights of rib-stressing hilarity will most certainly be on the cards. Bittersweet, as these remarkable images will show:

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(At this point, I want to mention Neil's current euphemism for sexual intercourse. It's based on a mis-heard line in a movie, and I love it, and want to spread it far and wide:
"I punched her apron".
Glorious! Apron! It's slightly unsettling, while being utterly innocuous.)

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So there it is. Her Maj and I arrive in The 'Couv and it pisses with rain for five days. A damp visit to the racecourse - money is lost, laughs are had - characterises the first night. A superb party ensues at Neil's house. On the next night, we "do" a pub crawl. 3am arrives, and we stumble out into a brightening city centre.
Look over there though! Two lovely gals! It's been a long night, and I decide to employ the Vic Reeves thigh-rub method of flirtation, in order to get to know N (22 yrs old) a little better.


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What do you know! It works!

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Lovely N joins us in the taxi home, and, after a certain amount of flip-flopping, Canadian dessert is served. (NB - "N" and Neil are two different people. Honest.)


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My whole five-day stay in Vancouver is hilarious, comfortable and eye-opening, where it could be sad (end of trip), grim (some awful motel) and depressing (grey skies and constant rain). We drink when it's appropriate and watch "Black Books" when it isn't. A very very good holiday indeed.


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It becomes apparent that the gentleman who was going to pay me money to "own" Her Majesty - an indecent proposal if ever I sensed one - can't do it, because of Canadian import laws. Financially, it's bad. Emotionally, it's brilliant.

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A long time ago, in Patagonia, I looked her in the eye and said "sorry about the wind old girl, but I did tell you we were going on an adventure."
She took it on board, we went on an adventure - and now she's coming home; and there's no amount of money anyone could offer me now to separate us. Below 4500.

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The finish line
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Posted by Simon Fitzpatrick at 06:47 PM GMT
 
 

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"Your website is a mecca of valuable information and the DVD series is informative, entertaining, and inspiring! The new look of the website is very impressive, updated and catchy. Thank you so very much!" Jennifer, Canada

"...Great site. Keep up the good work." Murray and Carmen, Australia

"We just finished a 7 month 22,000+ mile scouting trip from Alaska to the bottom of Chile and I can't tell you how many times we referred to your site for help. From how to adjust your valves, to where to stay in the back country of Peru. Horizons Unlimited was a key player in our success. Motorcycle enthusiasts from around the world are in debt to your services." Alaska Riders

contest pic

10th Annual HU Travellers Photo Contest is on now! This is an opportunity for YOU to show us your best photos and win prizes!

NEW! HU 2014 Adventure Travel T-shirts! are now available in several colors! Be the first kid on your block to have them! New lower prices on synths!

HU 2014 T-shirts now in!

Check out the new Gildan Performance cotton-feel t-shirt - 100% poly, feels like soft cotton!


What turns you on to motorcycle travel?


Global Rescue, WORLDwide evacuation services for EVERYONE

Global Rescue is the premier provider of medical, security and evacuation services worldwide and is the only company that will come to you, wherever you are, and evacuate you to your home hospital of choice. Additionally, Global Rescue places no restrictions on country of citizenship - all nationalities are eligible to sign-up!


New to Horizons Unlimited?

New to motorcycle travelling? New to the HU site? Confused? Too many options? It's really very simple - just 4 easy steps!

Horizons Unlimited was founded in 1997 by Grant and Susan Johnson following their journey around the world on a BMW R80 G/S motorcycle.

Susan and Grant Johnson Read more about Grant & Susan's story

Membership - help keep us going!

Horizons Unlimited is not a big multi-national company, just two people who love motorcycle travel and have grown what started as a hobby in 1997 into a full time job (usually 8-10 hours per day and 7 days a week) and a labour of love. To keep it going and a roof over our heads, we run events (22 this year!); we sell inspirational and informative DVDs; we have a few selected advertisers; and we make a small amount from memberships.

You don't have to be a Member to come to an HU meeting, access the website, the HUBB or to receive the e-zine. What you get for your membership contribution is our sincere gratitude, good karma and knowing that you're helping to keep the motorcycle travel dream alive. Contributing Members and Gold Members do get additional features on the HUBB. Here's a list of all the Member benefits on the HUBB.


Books & DVDs

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All the best travel books and videos listed and often reviewed on HU's famous Books page. Check it out and get great travel books from all over the world.


Motorcycle Express for shipping and insurance!

Motorcycle Express

MC Air Shipping, (uncrated) USA / Canada / Europe and other areas. Be sure to say "Horizons Unlimited" to get your $25 discount on Shipping!
Insurance - see: For foreigners traveling in US and Canada and for Americans and Canadians traveling in other countries, then mail it to MC Express and get your HU $15 discount!

Story and photos copyright ©

Sorry, you need a Javascript enabled browser to get the email address and dates. You can contact Horizons Unlimited at the link below. Please be sure to tell us WHICH blog writer you wish to contact.

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Editors note: We accept no responsibility for any of the above information in any way whatsoever. You are reminded to do your own research. Any commentary is strictly a personal opinion of the person supplying the information and is not to be construed as an endorsement of any kind.

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