I thought about how to make today's entry applicable to being in a camper, and I successfully determined how...
As we were preparing to leave Huntsville we received terrible news: there was a death of someone we loved very much, and at some point we would be traveling to Florida for the services. It was my first encounter with death as related to a motorcycle accident, and it indeed hit very close to home.
Thursday morning found me in the car, loaded with kids and a dog, heading to Baltimore to make a "kiddie switch." Five hours later I was piled into my car with three "EOD techs with motorcycle problems" (aka bike club members) headed to Florida. It was a 14 hour trip. We drove from 1:30pm and arrived sometime around 4 am the following morning. Matters discussed during said car trip were as follows: work, bikes, and club shennanigans. Each of the three topics were discussed at full volume (techs are notoriously deaf) for a total of 6 continuous hours. No female input was necessary nor requested.
It was only three hours into the trip that I realized I had forgotten my school textbook that was absoutely vital to me finishing homework that was due that coming Sunday. Whatever. I read my book and tuned out the surrounding conversation. I also needed waterproof mascara, which took a total of three (yes three) seperate stops to stores for me to acquire. Because I kept having ADD moments and would subsequently enter the store, purchase items unrelated to waterproof mascara, get back into the car and only several miles later would remember what I originally needed from the store. I believe the actual mascara purchase happened in Southern Alabama around 2 am.
When we arrived at the clubhouse we noticed three RV's in the grass and driveway. When we asked about sleeping quarters, lo and behold please gander at where we were pointed: an RV. I suppose since we currently reside in one full time the powers that be figured we would have no problem staying in one for an additional two nights. And there is where the camper diary entry comes in to play. So for three hours the first night my husband and I shared the dining table/couch/leather seating thingy. I slept. TJ didn't. I awoke at 7 the next morning to several bikes being started right below the window where I was sleeping. It was a jolt, to say the least. I will say this: I would rather sleep in a camper than on a blowup mattress in a bike trailer. Poor Ariel. She's a trooper. And, might I add, the only person I know that can go to bed in a bike trailer and wake up looking like she just rolled off the cover of a magazine.
There were a lot of tears that day. And night. We followed (in a truck) the bikes to the funeral home, attended a heartwrenching service, and proceeded back to the clubhouse. There were around 175+ bikes in the processional back home complete with police escort. It's really a beautiful sight. I snuck away late afternoon and crawled up into the loft of the camper to take a nap. For the record it's not easy to sneak away and nap with 500 people around. Inevitably people will come in and ask what you are doing. I had climbed a ladder for this nap people!! So needless to say, we were able to find smiles in a time of sadness.
There was also a tatto artist at the clubhouse, etching nonstop for all of us who felt the need to ink the occasion onto our skin as a memorial. That's not the part that makes me smile. The artist was recently released from prison, and was a member of a questionable gang. When I told my girlfriend in Georgia about this she replied, "white flour!" Drink will absolutely shoot out of your nose if you are not expecting something like that to be said!
The next morning I piled back into my car with the three biker techs. Everyone was tired, which may explain the humorous conversation that ensued for two hours. We took off in the wrong direction. Things were off to an amazing start. Twenty minutes down the road we had seen: electricians working on stoplights with police directing traffic through the intersection, a car being jumped by another car on the side of the road, and a person being pulled over by a cop. "Does anyone else see the circus going on outside today?" was posed by our driver. There were movie quotes ("That is a juicy burger!"), reliving the previous nights antics (country two stepping anyone?), the works. At one point Truax (I suppose trying to make a point) asked, "You know that Michael J. Fox movie?" To which Slack and I simultaneously said, "Teen Wolf?"
Did Michael J. Fox do any other movies? Guess none too memorable!
We ordered at Sonic. I took the keys with me to the restroom, I'm not an idiot. My luck they would either pull around and hide on the other side OR leave me altogether.
Sonic got my order wrong, so when they came to check on us my husband says, "mustard, cheese, and pickles only" and he and Slack said "hold the spit." I guess you had to be there. They locked the car doors with the windows rolled down, all while leaving wallets and other unsavory items visible on the floor. Really?
For some reason, it took us 17 hours to get home. We did stop and eat at a Hooters, because no bike trip is complete without a Hooters visit. It rained. And Sunday afternoon we were back in the car bound for Baltimore. Kiddie swap time. 37 hours in a car for a visit that lasted 19 hours.
So now we are back home, back at the campground, back in our own beds. The world is short one amazing soul. But I guess time usually heals all wounds...unless, of course, you are hit by a clock...
...Tempus Fugit...
***R.I.P. Noah "Flatliner" Sarvis***
As we were preparing to leave Huntsville we received terrible news: there was a death of someone we loved very much, and at some point we would be traveling to Florida for the services. It was my first encounter with death as related to a motorcycle accident, and it indeed hit very close to home.
Thursday morning found me in the car, loaded with kids and a dog, heading to Baltimore to make a "kiddie switch." Five hours later I was piled into my car with three "EOD techs with motorcycle problems" (aka bike club members) headed to Florida. It was a 14 hour trip. We drove from 1:30pm and arrived sometime around 4 am the following morning. Matters discussed during said car trip were as follows: work, bikes, and club shennanigans. Each of the three topics were discussed at full volume (techs are notoriously deaf) for a total of 6 continuous hours. No female input was necessary nor requested.
It was only three hours into the trip that I realized I had forgotten my school textbook that was absoutely vital to me finishing homework that was due that coming Sunday. Whatever. I read my book and tuned out the surrounding conversation. I also needed waterproof mascara, which took a total of three (yes three) seperate stops to stores for me to acquire. Because I kept having ADD moments and would subsequently enter the store, purchase items unrelated to waterproof mascara, get back into the car and only several miles later would remember what I originally needed from the store. I believe the actual mascara purchase happened in Southern Alabama around 2 am.
When we arrived at the clubhouse we noticed three RV's in the grass and driveway. When we asked about sleeping quarters, lo and behold please gander at where we were pointed: an RV. I suppose since we currently reside in one full time the powers that be figured we would have no problem staying in one for an additional two nights. And there is where the camper diary entry comes in to play. So for three hours the first night my husband and I shared the dining table/couch/leather seating thingy. I slept. TJ didn't. I awoke at 7 the next morning to several bikes being started right below the window where I was sleeping. It was a jolt, to say the least. I will say this: I would rather sleep in a camper than on a blowup mattress in a bike trailer. Poor Ariel. She's a trooper. And, might I add, the only person I know that can go to bed in a bike trailer and wake up looking like she just rolled off the cover of a magazine.
There were a lot of tears that day. And night. We followed (in a truck) the bikes to the funeral home, attended a heartwrenching service, and proceeded back to the clubhouse. There were around 175+ bikes in the processional back home complete with police escort. It's really a beautiful sight. I snuck away late afternoon and crawled up into the loft of the camper to take a nap. For the record it's not easy to sneak away and nap with 500 people around. Inevitably people will come in and ask what you are doing. I had climbed a ladder for this nap people!! So needless to say, we were able to find smiles in a time of sadness.
There was also a tatto artist at the clubhouse, etching nonstop for all of us who felt the need to ink the occasion onto our skin as a memorial. That's not the part that makes me smile. The artist was recently released from prison, and was a member of a questionable gang. When I told my girlfriend in Georgia about this she replied, "white flour!" Drink will absolutely shoot out of your nose if you are not expecting something like that to be said!
The next morning I piled back into my car with the three biker techs. Everyone was tired, which may explain the humorous conversation that ensued for two hours. We took off in the wrong direction. Things were off to an amazing start. Twenty minutes down the road we had seen: electricians working on stoplights with police directing traffic through the intersection, a car being jumped by another car on the side of the road, and a person being pulled over by a cop. "Does anyone else see the circus going on outside today?" was posed by our driver. There were movie quotes ("That is a juicy burger!"), reliving the previous nights antics (country two stepping anyone?), the works. At one point Truax (I suppose trying to make a point) asked, "You know that Michael J. Fox movie?" To which Slack and I simultaneously said, "Teen Wolf?"
Did Michael J. Fox do any other movies? Guess none too memorable!
We ordered at Sonic. I took the keys with me to the restroom, I'm not an idiot. My luck they would either pull around and hide on the other side OR leave me altogether.
Sonic got my order wrong, so when they came to check on us my husband says, "mustard, cheese, and pickles only" and he and Slack said "hold the spit." I guess you had to be there. They locked the car doors with the windows rolled down, all while leaving wallets and other unsavory items visible on the floor. Really?
For some reason, it took us 17 hours to get home. We did stop and eat at a Hooters, because no bike trip is complete without a Hooters visit. It rained. And Sunday afternoon we were back in the car bound for Baltimore. Kiddie swap time. 37 hours in a car for a visit that lasted 19 hours.
So now we are back home, back at the campground, back in our own beds. The world is short one amazing soul. But I guess time usually heals all wounds...unless, of course, you are hit by a clock...
...Tempus Fugit...
***R.I.P. Noah "Flatliner" Sarvis***
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