I’m like an owl on a mole tracking the bike’s movement to Anchorage. I have never been to Troutdale, Oregon. If anybody inlooking lives in Troutdale, Oregon, perhaps you landed here by googling “Troutdale”, would you do me a favor and stop by the FedEx facility and snap a reassuring picture of my bike, and send me an e-mail? It’ll be the one dressed down in doubly reinforced cardboard.
Which reminds me, I need to establish a name for “The Bike”. I’m flirting with Otis (pronounced: Oh-tee) given the model name of my Serotta is Ottrott (Oh-troh). Ottrott being the name of a region in France, puzzling given Serotta is Italian inspired. Anyway, around our house we tend to anthropomorphize a lot. Examples: The Espresso machine isn’t “The Espresso Machine”, no, he’s Geppetto. The oldest Siberian Larch in the yard is Laura. Our Outback is Roo. Etc.
Not like it’s a lovely day for a debut ride. Overcast and sprinkly right now. By the weekend, though, lookout — supposed to be 65 ‘n sunny! I know what you’re thinking, but recall this is 61.2 degrees north.
My fish car, ala author Robert Travers, which is actually an ’82 Jeep, is named Woodrow. Oh, and it’s a she.
Holly came from Miami FLA
Hitch-hiked her way across the USA
plucked her eyebrows on the way,
shaved her legs and then he was a she
– Lou Reed
Walk on the Wild Side
Ol’ Woodrow hasn’t shaved her legs, but she has shed all her old emissions equipment, preferring straight pipe and a Cherry Bomb to enhance her throatiness.