Archives: 10th September 2001

We checked out of the room and were back at the airport by 10.30am.  Now all we needed to do was to book ourselves a flight to Maui.  Aloha run half-hourly flights, and there was room on the next one.  By lunchtime we were in Kahului. 

The taxi dropped us at the Kihei Bay Surf ‘hotel’ (booked by Brigid over the Internet).  The manager had taken the day off, and the caretaker had no record of our arrival.  But the Kihei Bay Surf was no ordinary tourist hotel.  It was a complex of slightly seedy-looking condos, mostly occupied by long-term residents.  It became clear that even if there had been an available apartment, we did not relish the idea of staying there.  (One small problem was that, having had confirmation of the booking by e-mail, we had arranged for a couple of items of mail to be forwarded to us there.) The caretaker helpfully directed us to another hotel, half a mile up the road.  Grumbling, we donned our backpacks and tramped up the road to the far more appealing Maui Lu Resort.

No sooner had we deposited our baggage, than Kihei Rent-a-Car collected us, and whisked us over to their office in downtown Kihei, to pick up our slightly tired-looking (but very cheap) Nissan! 

Our next stop was the Post Office to tell them of our change of lodgings.  No problem.  They would simply ask the postman to bring the letters back if he spotted them.  While we were there, we posted the usual wad of postcards and ‘excess baggage’ back to the UK.  We had missed Monday’s collection, so the mail wouldn’t get away until the following day.

Back at the hotel, we asked the reception staff for a recommendation for dinner.  “Jock’s Beach Café is supposed to be good”, they said “but we have never been.  Perhaps you could bring us back a sample menu”.  And so it came to pass that, dressed elegantly in t-shirts and shorts, and sand in our shoes, we wandered into the swanky “Jacques on the Beach”.  Doh!  (To their great credit, the staff of Jacques couldn’t have minded less about our attire. )

Walking back to the hotel along the dark main road, John cautioned Brigid to stay to the left, out of the way of the on-coming traffic.  Suddenly there was a squawk, followed by much wailing and gnashing of teeth … The edge of the road had dipped away unexpectedly, and Brigid had stumbled onto the rough tarmac.  Ouch! There was a deep gash in her right knee, and her lower leg was badly scraped and bleeding.  It looked as though scuba diving would be out of the question this week.

With bleary eyes, we staggered up to Joe’s Café for brunch.  Our flight wasn’t until 8pm, but we planned to check in early and make use of the Business Class lounge at the airport.  We stocked up on reading matter at Chapters bookshop, and caught the airport bus. We arrived, exhausted, in Honolulu at about 11pm (local time) and caught the shuttle bus out to the Airport Hotel.

We took the opportunity to do some washing and, while it spun and tumbled, treated ourselves to a slap-up breakfast of bacon, eggs and pancakes, in Joe’s Café next door.

Later on we took a quaint little Aquabus to Granville Island.  Granville Market is good enough reason to visit Vancouver on its own.  An old warehouse complex houses row upon row of stalls selling the best fresh meat, vegetables and flowers.  There are small cafes selling a variety of delicious food: anything from stir-fry to pizza. There are stands with health foods and alternative medicines, gifts, fabrics, hats … In fact, you name it, Granville Market probably sells it. 

As the Market began to close down, we looked for somewhere to have a drink.  It was still relatively early, but the afternoon sunshine had taken its toll. Bridges Pub seemed to fit the bill nicely, with a terrace overlooking the river, and a view of the mountains.  We enjoyed it so much we decided to order something to eat.

Just before dinner arrived, Brigid spotted an unfortunate looking man …  How shall we put this politely … this individual (not exactly in his first flush of youth), was dressed from head to toe in black leather, had long curly hair (held in place with a slick of Brylcream), a large gold medallion tangling itself in his hairy chest (visible under his waistcoat – no shirt), and day-glo fake tan.  He was doing his best to chat up a succession of bored-looking women, and failing miserably.  Each one lasted about ten or fifteen minutes, before excusing themselves and disappearing forever.

Now it could be said that Brigid was just being uncharitable.  However, two women on an adjacent table had also noticed this charade, and also found it amusing.  Needless to say, we all got talking.  It turned out that Kurt (a retired policeman) and his wife, Marilyn, were entertaining a British friend from Manchester.  A great many beers later, we got on to the subject of our hotel, and its unusual bar …

Kurt kindly suggested that they give us a lift back into town, which we gratefully accepted (strangely having lost all enthusiasm for the long walk over the bridge).  Once outside, he further suggested that we should investigate the pub … Take it as a measure of how much we had already had to drink, that we thought this might be a good idea!

On our second visit, the pub did not disappoint.  The same men were still kissing under the disco lights and a constant traffic of ungainly ‘ladies’ trouped in and out of the Ladies’ restroom.  We formed ourselves into a tight defensive circle around the only vacant table – outside the restrooms.  John drew the short straw, and ended up in a particularly vulnerable position, opposite the Gents’ restroom, with his back to the main bar area … Suddenly feeling a pair of hands running themselves down his hips, he moved swiftly to a more strategic position between Kurt and Brigid (putting his arm around Brigid’s shoulder, just so there could be no confusion …)

From his vantage point on a settee nearby, one of the ‘regulars’ approached Marilyn.  “We think you are very rude”, he pouted “keeping yourselves to yourselves …”  Thinking quickly, Marilyn put on her most serious expression and said “There’s been a death in the family.”  The man went away and sat down, but never took his eyes off our party.  “Liar!” he spat.

We were up excruciatingly early to catch the train to Vancouver.  Seattle’s mainline railway station could not match Portland’s marble grandeur.  Notices posted around the main hall promised that the false walls and ceiling would soon be removed to restore the station to its former glory.  But for now the station had considerably less appeal than Woking or Basingstoke.  John went round the corner for some coffee and Danish, while Brigid guarded the luggage.

Once on board, things improved dramatically.  We thoroughly enjoyed both the trip from Portland to Seattle, and the trip from Seattle to Vancouver.  The scenery was fantastic.

We caught a taxi to our hotel in ‘downtown’ Vancouver.  It seemed a pleasant enough place, though the room was sweltering in the midday heat.  Conveniently, there was a pub on the ground floor.

The first thing we had to do was locate a motorcycle assessory shop selling Joe Rocket clothing.  Clare’s in Ontario had promised that there would be no problem in getting a refund, so long as the jacket was returned to a shop in Canada. (A batch of Joe Rocket jackets was known to have had the waterproof membrane installed inside out!) It was a warm sunny day, so we chose to walk across the bridge to Carter Honda. 

To give them their due, Carter Honda were as helpful as one could possibly expect anyone to be to two Brits with a faulty jacket that they hadn’t sold … After a couple of phone calls to Clare’s, they agreed to hand the jacket to the Joe Rocket agent the following week.  As soon as Clare’s received confirmation from the agent that the jacket had been accepted, they would issue a credit.  Simple.

We took our time wandering back into town.  The view from the bridge was a treat.  Vancouver really is a very attractive and individual city – so much cleaner than many US cities, no doubt benefiting from the cool air from the surrounding mountains. 

We bypassed the hotel, and walked all the way across to Gastown, where we stopped for a bite to eat in one of the many trendy restaurants. Back at the hotel, we thought we would stop in the pub for a quick ‘nightcap’ before bedtime …

Before we even reached the bar in the dimly-lit Dufferin Pub, it became apparent that this was not your average pub.  Men kissed and canoodled on the dance floor, and the few females in the joint seemed unusually tall and muscular!  We left quickly.

We loaded Gina’s car with our luggage, which by now included a large packing case containing our motorcycle kit to be returned to the UK.  Our first call was at the station to buy tickets to Vancouver (via Seattle), and then to Portland’s main Post Office. 

We said our goodbyes and were now, perhaps for the first time, on our own. Having surprised the Post Office clerk with our packing case, we headed back towards the station.  The train wasn’t due until late morning, so we had some time on our hands.  We treated ourselves to a slap-up breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup at a frighteningly trendy eaterie, and then visited the Portland Leather Company.

Brigid had long admired Gina’s fringed leather chaps and jacket, and had only recently disposed of her ancient leather motorcycle jeans.  Some shopping seemed in order.  In the event, she rejected the fringed chaps in favour of some plain ones (looking forward to seeing how these will go down in London …) and a fringed leather vest, decorated with the Portland rose design.

The train journey was a revelation.  Even in ‘coach class’, it was extremely comfortable.  A film was shown on video, and each seat had access to an electric socket for laptop computers.

We arrived in Seattle a little to late to visit Hendrix grave.  But our (rather seedy) motel was only a few minutes walk from the museum.  It was just about to close, so we made do with a quick tour of the gift shop.

We had a disappointing dinner in an Irish bar/restaurant, a sister establishment to the excellent Kells in Portland.

The morning consisted of much running around chasing the two FedEx packages.  FedEx confirmed that the Brighton package (the cheque) had arrived.  But the other package (the Title) had been accidentally redelivered to Econolodge, who had accepted it.  Eventually, after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, John returned to Sunnyside, Triumph-antly (sorry!) bearing both the Title and cheque.  Now all we had to do was dispose of the two bikes.

We rode out to Beaverton, where, in their shiny new showroom, we met Janice and Kelly McCarthy.  Being in the opposite position to Portland Motorcycles, in that they had reduced their stock prior to the move, they were happy to take our bikes on consignment.  Indeed, only the day before, someone had been enquiring about a Triumph Trophy!  Fuelled with optimism, we arranged to come back around closing to fill in the paperwork.

That evening, Brad and Gina had friends over to watch the Mother Road Rally video.  At last we felt able to relax.  Somehow, watching the video again served to remind us that we had reached the end of the road for this part of our tour.  Our relief at having found an outlet for the bikes was offset by more than a tinge of sadness to be leaving the States.

In the morning we had a couple of important telephone calls to make. First to the Econolodge motel, to find out whether the Triumph’s Title deeds had been delivered, and secondly to the FedEx office, to see whether the settlement cheque for the Tiger had arrived.

The owner of the motel apologised. He had forgotten to tell his wife that we would be calling for the package, so it had been refused. Not to worry, perhaps we could collect both from their depot. We called FedEx. No, the driver had not returned with the package. No, they did not have any other package for us. Did we have the consignment number?

Henry Klim had taken the cheque to the FedEx office in Brighton before leaving for the airport, and was now away in Europe. Luckily Deborah was able to find the waybill. However, even with the consignment number the cheque was still untraceable owing to the Labor Day weekend. We would just have to wait.

So, with nothing else to be done, we were ready to meet the dealer at Portland Motorcycles.

The news was not good. The dealership had recently been taken over and had something of a surplus stock. A brand new 2001 Triumph Trophy was standing unsold in the window, and we discovered that there had been a ‘cash rebate’ offer of $1,000 on the BMW in June (effectively reducing the sale price). The dealer would take the bikes ‘on consignment’ but the asking price would be well below what we had hoped.

We adjourned to Starbucks to mull over our options.

That evening Brad did some research and made a couple of phone calls on our behalf. His Harley dealer recommended Cascade Moto Classics in Beaverton, who also dealt in Triumphs.

It was Labor Day in the States, which (although no motorcycle dealer worth his salt is ever open on a Monday anyway) meant we had to wait another day before contacting the Triumph people. Still, it gave us time to thoroughly clean the bikes and make sure that they were in apple-pie order.

We packed up our kit and checked out of the Econolodge … leaving word that an we were expecting an important delivery via FedEx, and we would call to collect it tomorrow.

As we pulled up outside the house, Brad and Gina were in the process of packing Tony’s car … with as many of Natalie’s childhood toys as they could cram in. Tony’s two kids were sad to have to say goodbye to ‘Grandpa’ Brad and his Harley … “oh, and you too Grandma”. Gina was left in no doubt as to who was favourite! (Better get yourself a Harley, Grandma!)

No sooner had we arrived, than Gina suggested we do some sight-seeing and told us about theArts Fair happening in downtown Portland. We spent a very relaxed couple of hours wandering among the artist’s stalls, admiring the weird and wonderful works on show. Brad and John also spent a few minutes admiring a troupe of belly-dancers on stage.

But we weren’t going to get away without cleaning our bikes. So, before it got dark, Brad produced all the necessary cleaning materials (and a couple of beers) and all three of us set about cleaning our respective bikes. Nothing but concourse condition would do, naturally!

We contacted Brad and Gina first thing, and arranged to go over to their place for a BBQ in the evening.  This gave us the day to get the washing done, find some distilled water for John’s battery, and check out the Triumph/BMW dealership.

We asked directions at a gas station for a Mall with a decent bookshop, and ended up travelling miles out of town … coincidentally arriving in Brad and Gina’s leafy suburb a few hours too early.   Conveniently, this also brought us to the street where the dealership was.  It was closed.  We found a laundromat which was open and, for the hour or so while the washing was doing, we called at every gas station and hardware store, trying to find some distilled water. 

We soon discovered that distilled water is something that Americans drink.  It is therefore sold in gallon containers.  Car (and bike) batteries are generally sealed, and do not require topping up.

We arrived at the Dunillo/Chirillo household in Sunnyside relatively promptly to find Brad giving rides on his Harley to their two new ‘grandchildren’.  Both children were decked out in doo-rags, and Brad was definitely the hero of the hour!

Over dinner we mentioned how hard it seemed to be to find distilled water … and how every gas station in England sold litre bottles complete with a plastic tube, especially for topping up batteries.  Brad’s son-in-law, Tony, started to laugh.  He and his mates were on shore leave in Portsmouth several years ago, and were thirsty. They called at the nearest gas station to find something to drink (in the US every gas station has at least one chiller cabinet full of soft drinks and beer).  Needless to say, being England (and several years ago), apart from chewing gum and cigarettes, there was very little to sustain a tired or hungry motorist.  However, on a shelf near the spare fuses and fan belts, there were some bottles of distilled water with plastic straws. Tony and his mates could never understand why everybody laughed at them as they strolled around town, sucking their bottled water through the straws …

Natalie and Tony were due to leave the following day, and Gina kindly suggested that we stay with them.  An offer which we quickly accepted!

Today was to all intents and purposes the last day of our US tour. Portland was to be our last stop, as we would be parting with our bikes sometime in the next few days. We just had to make it safely there.

There were, indeed, times on the journey south down I-90, when we had our doubts. Brutal side winds knocked us flat, sending us swerving into the off-side lane of the Interstate. We slowed to almost walking pace. More than once we stopped, exhausted, in the lee of anything we could find, before battling on.

South of Pasco, we could have hoped that the wind would ease as we changed course to head west along the Washington shore of the Columbia river on Rt. 14. No such luck.

Still the wind seemed bent on unseating us. Spotting a sign that said ‘No gas for 84 miles’, we stopped at an unmanned gas station in the middle of nowhere … and took advantage of the facilities (a revolting chemical loo).

Somehow we survived the worst the weather/road could throw at us. We were amused to pass another imitation ‘Stonehenge’, and felt obliged to stop. This one, at least, had a serious purpose. It had been built to honour victims of the First World War. As a memorial, it was certainly more emotive than Rolla’s perplexing version.

By Stevenson, we felt we deserved a rest and a bite to eat. The little town is a Mecca for windsurfers (can’t think why!). Hundreds of them were out on the river today, though initially all we could see of them was the flash of spray against the setting sun. From the cliff top road, they looked like a shoal of silvery jumping fish.

The wind had dropped by the time we crossed the Columbia into Oregon, and we were able to give the bikes one last blast on the Interstate. We checked into the tiny Econolodge in Portland. For dinner we walked into town and found the excellent Kells Irish bar. We enjoyed a great meal, washed down with the best pint of Guinness west of Boston (praise indeed from one who doesn’t normally touch the stuff outside Ireland).