Henk has more rubber on his butt than ever before, and I’m loving rolling around on it. Jon at Yukon Honda replaced what turned out to be a construction-paper-thin back tire with a big fat Bridgestone Battleaxe. When I inspected the old tire, I knew I had done the right thing by getting a lift to Whitehorse with Sue. Jon said I’d have gotten twenty miles out of Dawson. The Klondike Highway would be a lonely road to break down on. I either have one incredible guardian angel working massive amounts of overtime, or god has employed an army of extras who otherwise would be assigned to people sitting at home on their couches and not much in need of their services until, perhaps, they choked on a popcorn kernel.
Now Henk’s in the capable hands of Rudy over at Yukon Harley-Davidson getting an oil change and an air filter check. He’s running like a dream, but with all the smoke in Dawson, he’d been getting little baby asthma attacks in the mornings. An air filter change will probably cure that. Henk’s medical program is definitely more expensive than mine. A handful of vitamin C once in awhile and a daily soy latte is all I need to stay healthy on the road. But then again, Henk’s doing all the work. He’s a star.
Henk attracts ogles wherever he goes. Mostly from men. No, correction. Entirely from men. I’d be parked in front of the Riverwest Bistro in Dawson sitting in the window sipping the best soy latte in the Yukon and within minutes, someone would be circling Henk, coffee in hand, with wonder and curiosity. I’d sit back and smile, enjoying from a distance Henk’s celebrity, like a proud partner.
A couple of days ago before leaving Dawson, I ran into Richard, the wandering Buddhist from Toronto. He’d hitched a ride into Alaska with a handsome New Age musician from England who wanted to practice “eye gazing” with him. He said at first he was uncomfortable, but after ten minutes something profound happened: the man’s face "transformed into light" and their "energies merged." He later hitched back to Whitehorse, then up to Tombstone for a night in the campground. He said he stood out on the Dempster the next morning for 45 minutes before he saw one vehicle. The first car to arrive out of the colored hills stopped and a nice British couple picked him up, drove him all the way to Dawson, and dropped him at the Riverwest. He was as surprised to see me still there as I was to see him back. He told me my reputation preceded me back to Toronto. Apparently he’s been writing letters home about the woman from Toronto on the funky motorbike “attracting men like flies.” He’s got it backwards, though—it’s the funky motorbike who’s magnetized. The woman from Toronto just happens to be along for the ride.
I don’t know how many times I’ve been in a group of women lamenting the fact that there are “no good men left out there. They’re either married or gay. Blah blah blah.” I’ve always thought that was a blanket excuse to avoid intimacy, but the next time I find myself in that discussion, I will make the suggestion that they head to the Yukon.
It’s true, girls. If you want to meet a man, go to the Yukon on a Silver Buell 1997 Lightning S1 by yourself. That’s it. No makeup necessary. No designer clothing, no eyebrow plucking or hair-brushing, no leg-shaving or underarm waxing, you don’t have to have a job or be even remotely interesting, or interested—enough projections will be hurled your way to elevate you to goddess status within moments of your arrival.
The men here are not wood ticks, either. They’re dynamic, adventurous, individual, strong, well traveled, intelligent, capable, social, spiritual, and interesting. Interesting, then, that I find myself thoroughly disinterested.
As soon as Henk’s ready, I’m going back to the Robert Service Campground to pack up my tent and hit the road south. I can’t wait. I’m still not sure whether we’re taking the Cassiar or the Alaska. I’ve heard the Cassiar is gorgeous, but there are several long stretches of gravel. Now that Henk’s got rubber, I’m ok with that. But the Alaska has Liard Hotsprings and it’s been awhile since I’ve soaked my bones… I’ll let Henk decide when we come to the fork in the road. Henk’s decisions so far have been brilliant.
Now Henk’s in the capable hands of Rudy over at Yukon Harley-Davidson getting an oil change and an air filter check. He’s running like a dream, but with all the smoke in Dawson, he’d been getting little baby asthma attacks in the mornings. An air filter change will probably cure that. Henk’s medical program is definitely more expensive than mine. A handful of vitamin C once in awhile and a daily soy latte is all I need to stay healthy on the road. But then again, Henk’s doing all the work. He’s a star.
Henk attracts ogles wherever he goes. Mostly from men. No, correction. Entirely from men. I’d be parked in front of the Riverwest Bistro in Dawson sitting in the window sipping the best soy latte in the Yukon and within minutes, someone would be circling Henk, coffee in hand, with wonder and curiosity. I’d sit back and smile, enjoying from a distance Henk’s celebrity, like a proud partner.
A couple of days ago before leaving Dawson, I ran into Richard, the wandering Buddhist from Toronto. He’d hitched a ride into Alaska with a handsome New Age musician from England who wanted to practice “eye gazing” with him. He said at first he was uncomfortable, but after ten minutes something profound happened: the man’s face "transformed into light" and their "energies merged." He later hitched back to Whitehorse, then up to Tombstone for a night in the campground. He said he stood out on the Dempster the next morning for 45 minutes before he saw one vehicle. The first car to arrive out of the colored hills stopped and a nice British couple picked him up, drove him all the way to Dawson, and dropped him at the Riverwest. He was as surprised to see me still there as I was to see him back. He told me my reputation preceded me back to Toronto. Apparently he’s been writing letters home about the woman from Toronto on the funky motorbike “attracting men like flies.” He’s got it backwards, though—it’s the funky motorbike who’s magnetized. The woman from Toronto just happens to be along for the ride.
I don’t know how many times I’ve been in a group of women lamenting the fact that there are “no good men left out there. They’re either married or gay. Blah blah blah.” I’ve always thought that was a blanket excuse to avoid intimacy, but the next time I find myself in that discussion, I will make the suggestion that they head to the Yukon.
It’s true, girls. If you want to meet a man, go to the Yukon on a Silver Buell 1997 Lightning S1 by yourself. That’s it. No makeup necessary. No designer clothing, no eyebrow plucking or hair-brushing, no leg-shaving or underarm waxing, you don’t have to have a job or be even remotely interesting, or interested—enough projections will be hurled your way to elevate you to goddess status within moments of your arrival.
The men here are not wood ticks, either. They’re dynamic, adventurous, individual, strong, well traveled, intelligent, capable, social, spiritual, and interesting. Interesting, then, that I find myself thoroughly disinterested.
As soon as Henk’s ready, I’m going back to the Robert Service Campground to pack up my tent and hit the road south. I can’t wait. I’m still not sure whether we’re taking the Cassiar or the Alaska. I’ve heard the Cassiar is gorgeous, but there are several long stretches of gravel. Now that Henk’s got rubber, I’m ok with that. But the Alaska has Liard Hotsprings and it’s been awhile since I’ve soaked my bones… I’ll let Henk decide when we come to the fork in the road. Henk’s decisions so far have been brilliant.
posted by Moira Nordholt | 12:23 PM
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