Travels with Pops

DO WACKA DO WACKA DO....

I knew the day was going to be different when I woke up and heard a strange song by The Great Lakes Swimmers that set the mood for the day. The gameplan was to endure a day-long meeting  about purchasing new text books for our department, textbooks that nowadays average over 1500 pages and weigh about ten pounds apiece; then take the doggies for a run in our little scared place; then do a 2ton ride that evening in the cold rain and snow, rain and snow.

Unfortunately, I got some bad news: my father called and told me of the passing of my Uncle Mike. Now, my dad comes from an unusual family: 15 brothers and sisters, which made for enormous family reunions when I was young, in which the entire clan would basically take over a campground and do crazy things like have Willie Nelson lookalike contests in honor of Uncle Mike, who looked and acted like a combination of Willie and Roger Miller and Mark Twain. Uncle Mike was one of the funniest, least serious people I have ever known. He used to pedal his bike around the small town I lived in, commuting back and forth to work, and generally just enjoying himself. As kids we thought that was a little weird, but looking back on it now, I realize how cool that must have been for a grown man to enjoy messing around on a bike. Hmmm.....

 Well, You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd....

Cool memories of ol' Uncle Mike include:
- the aforementioned lookalike contest that produced a roving band of Willie Nelsons in an otherwise peaceful campground.
- the time he said he saw my brother, Al, fly past his second-floor bedroom window as he was napping. Granted, Al did fly several feet and land on his head after being struck by a car in front of my uncle's house, but it is highly dubious that Al remained airborn to the extent and altitude our tall-tale-telling uncle would allege
- or the wish to be propped up on a chair at his funeral with a recording that said, "Welcome, glad you could make it."


I hadn't seen him in many years, but the childhood memories are still vivid and have contributed to the odd ball person I have become. I hope everyone has an uncle like him.


Then...

Dogs were walked:

 

The rock was consulted:

And the ride began:

Normally, one proceeds to ride when rides are begun. But sometimes one has to wait for a wayward lamb to arrive, so that all 5/7ths of the 2ton contingent can partake in the tomfoolery as a carefully choreographed unit. Therefore, the above shot captures one of many, many laps done in a real Marathon gas station parking lot. Do wacka do wacka do...

Ya can't take a shower in a parakeet cage....

This is a hole.

It's one of 18 that were abandoned at a golf course in the southeast range of 2ton territory. Riding the 9 miles of cart paths was at once fun and spooky, but made us damn thirsty.

Ya see, not only is this abandoned golf course a great place to ride in the middle of the winter, but it's also surrounded by high-end homes, which gives the place a weird "The Worst Hard Times" feel to it. (The Worst Hard Times is the book I'm currently reading. It's about the events that led to the Dust Bowl, and the people who didn't get all Grapes of Wrathy and hit the road, Tom Joad. Entire towns were abandoned and people suffered in unbelievable ways.) This ghost golf course kinda gave me the creeps, honestly.

So did this:

And while were were hanging out at the Mel-Gibson-Movie-Version-of-Hamlet hunting lodge (not really a hunting lodge, probably a lawnmower garage, but it certainly has potential to become a true 2ton outpost/hunting lodge someday), the Cult of the Singulator made an appearance:

 

Ah, the hunting lodge. We shall bring some wild boar to roast on the spit and feign madness:

When I returned to my estate, my trusty Wolfhound was waiting:

Well, ya can't go a-swimmin' in a baseball pool
 Ya can't drive around with a tiger in your car
 Ya can't go fishin' in a watermelon patch

But you can be happy if you've a mind to



R.I.P. Uncle Mike
This ride was dedicated to you.