Leaving Fargo meant leaving my initial plans of riding the southern route past the great lakes. Flash flooding washed out my original route and the weather for the south eastern states was heavy rain, tornados, and all around shit. no thanks. If I have to be wet and miserable, I’d rather do it at home.
Home was 700 km away as I was aiming for Thunder Bay. it’s been 16 years since I last experienced that route. I had mixed feelings. I felt like I was letting myself down by not following through with the southern route. But – the weather was nasty everywhere! So, with an eye to north, off I went. Again my phone took me on a round-a-bout way and was almost always in direct opposition with Gretta.
Gretta (my GPS) had clearly had her fill of adventurous routes. To be honest, I’ve lost faith in her sense of direction anyway. At one point my phone pointed me left onto interstate 71, but Gretta was harping about turning right. Not sure what Gretta’s issue is, but doesn’t ever seem to like what my phone has to say.
The rain had let up, so I went left. I’m so glad I did! The road narrowed and Jules and I sashayed our way around a pretty lake. Eventually I found myself back on the main road and Gretta and my phone were harmonized for another couple of hundred kilometres. The next time they were at odds, I followed my phone without hesitation.
I’m thinking my phone needs a name too. Now that we’re on good terms (read: I know how to use it finally), she needs a name. I’m thinking Petunia sounds like someone who needs things to be “just so” and my phone certainly fits THAT bill!
I took a pic of the Bemidji welcome sign as my only evidence I’d been there and continued on my way. I had a momentary lapse of judgement and followed Gretta’s instructions to turn left after snapping this pic. It was a premature left and, as we all know, no good ever comes from anything premature!
Stupid Gretta. She routed me through all kinds of fuckery and I eventually found myself driving under the Bemidji sign again anyway. I figured Gretta was jealous of Petunia given I typically favour her routes. I’d had enough of Gretta and I switched on my Lexin comms system so I could hear Petunia’s lilting instruction to turn left AFTER the Bemidji sign. Thanks sistah ;)
This leg of my adventure had me ride past a cute little country store in yet another lake-side area. I stopped right in front of the no-parking sign which, of course, I didn’t realize until I was ready to leave. I walked in and the four old folk (like really old this time – I’m thinking 70’s or 80’s) stopped talking and watched me stroll over to the dry goods. I realized immediately there wasn’t anything I needed, but with 16 eyes staring at me, I carefully examined the shelves. I figured I’d spent a dutiful amount of time perusing stuff I wasn’t going to buy and was ready to leave.
Before I could get out the door, a not-quite-Jim-Carrey-but-in-a-way-from-an-alternate-universe-sort-of-Jim-Carrey asks if he can help me. Now the 16 eyeballs are REALLY interested in me. “Have you got any stickers?” I ask. “I like to collect them for the trunk of my bike to show where I’ve been” I say. I could feel my face burning. On MY side of my very red face, I’m thinking “of course he doesn’t have any stickers, ya goof! Just stop talking”.
He raised his eyebrows and looked at me like that with his wide open not-really-Jim-Carrey’s eyes for just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable. Then with more energy than the task warranted, he started shuffling through the drawers behind his till. “Now where could they be?” He looked at me over his shoulder as he shuffled (like REALLY shuffled) stuff around and I swear it was like seeing Pet Detective all over again. “I used to have some stickers!” I started to feel hopeful. Maybe he actually had something with a state crest or something. I hoped it wouldn’t just be some random sticker like Hello Kitty or some dumb thing.
He had no stickers, but he DID have a plastic placard with his store logo. I graciously accepted and mentioned that I could scan it and get a sticker made from it. “Stop talking Deanna”. Now there are 18 eyeballs staring at me and I feel like I’m from some other planet and the locals are wondering if I’m going to pull out a blaster from my motorcycle jacket. It was all very weird.
Whatever. It adds to the adventure I guess! Not-really-Jim-Carrey probably thought I was weird too.
As I walked out, a pickup pulled up right in front of me. “Great”, I’m thinking, “Now I need to manoeuvre around him with my side case likely getting too close to his passenger door.” He watched as I put the placard inside my trunk, donned my helmet, turned on my comms, and tightened my gloves. THEN I finally look to the right and see the no parking sign. You know WHY there was no parking where I was parking? because it was the only way to access the gas pump. Good grief! lol! Oh well. Dude likely thought I was coming out after paying for my own gas.
Next Stop? The border!
Racing through the back roads of North Dakota singing along to the summer hits of the 70’s on spotify is pretty much the best feeling this old girl can have on a bike. Again, my phone told me to turn left, turn right, turn straight and on and on I went. I don’t know how many hours or how many miles I put behind me, but I started feeling a wee bit nervous about my shrinking fuel gauge. I’d been fighting head winds and cross winds since I hit the border, so it’s no wonder I seemed to be low on fuel so soon.
The roads seemed to get narrower and narrower at about the same pace. When I say narrow, I mean about 6″ of gravel between the pavement and the ditch. And the sky towards which I was racing was getting darker and darker.
I started planning what the hell I was going to do. There was NO shelter in any direction, no gas station, no road signs, no other travelers, and not even a farm houses in sight! I couldn’t park a fuel-depleted bike on these roads either without a shoulder to stop on. If that had to happen, I’d have to lay my bike in a ditch. And if that happened, I may as well just call that home ’cause I had no hope of continuing if I ran out of gas. The idea of weathering the oncoming storm in the middle of nowhere made me…well…nervous.
So what’s a girl to do? Keep putting miles in the rear view mirror until you can’t. Although there weren’t any road signs anywhere, there was soon a familiar white bulb looming in the distance. Thank Gawd! That’s a water tower. One thing is certain; where there is a water tower, there are at least some people. People is good when you’re about to be drenched and possibly living in a ditch in the near future. Ok maybe that’s a bit dramatic…
Hilsboro
Hilsboro had people. Hilsboro had a gas station AND a pull-off place to don my rain gear again. About eleventy two seconds after getting back on the road, that black sky opened up and the fire hoses in heaven pointed their might right over top of me.
That’s how I spent the next 90 minutes as I rolled into Fargo, North Dakota.
Fargo. So here’s the story there…Years ago my life took a turn. Part of my coping strategy for dealing with my new life circumstances back then was to binge watch the first season of the Fargo tv series with my very best good friend. Those nights were such great nights for me!
That was at a time when I was “taking back my power” as they say, and I grew leaps and bounds both professionally and personally. Now that growth was NOT due to the Fargo episodes, but it WAS due to the space my very best good friend provided in order for me to grow. Thanks Sharon <insert red heart emoji here>. I am currently in need of getting re-acquainted with THAT version of myself and heading to Fargo felt like a good direction for my first solo days on this trip.
Well holy pie batman was I challenged! That thunderhead that accompanied me into town was relentless! Several times I had to ride around what looked like the near equivalent to the Mariana Trench once I finally rolled into town. I stopped in a parking lot somewhere and looked up a hotel. About 20 minutes later, I was finally parked under the awning of the Fargo Inn and Suites.
Looks nice, right? Yeah. That’s what I thought too when I saw that pic on the interwebs. If I had their photographer, I’d look like a million bucks too!
Well I certainly got the full Fargo experience. The town looked nothing like the TV series, but my room sure smelled like someone died in it and the housekeeping staff couldn’t find the right chemicals to get the stink out! However, I WAS under a solid roof and I no longer had to plan my life in a ditch.
This swanky establishment had a tavern attached and that meant I didn’t have to venture far for grub. Things were looking up. I walked in, sat at the bar, and asked for a menu. The small pizza option was about the only appetizing thing, so I asked the bar tender how big it was. I figure if it’s big enough, there will be leftovers for my breakfast.
Thinking she was reaching for a plate to show me the size, I was a bit surprised when she pulled out a grocery store frozen pizza! “It’s this big”, she says. ummmmmmmmm – “Ok, I’ll take that one then, please”. “Do you want it to stay or to go?”
What? It’s a FROZEN PIZZA!
“To stay please”, I say. I’ll tell ya, friends, I was crossing my fingers in my lap as I replied ’cause I was a tad concerned she was going to just hand it to me across the bar right then and there! I guess the fire hose gawds decided to give me a break because 20 minutes later she placed my grocery store pizza before me. It was now molten lava and still on the cardboard it was packaged with. She dropped a tin box of plastic utensils beside me and asked if I needed anything else.
About half way through my dinner, a bar fight broke out in the parking lot. Yup. That tracks.
The gals duking it out took a break and came inside for refreshments. The fella sitting between me and the scrappers mentioned there’d been a gang fight downtown a couple nights ago. He’d moved my way to avoid the scrappers, then bugged out altogether.
Not loving the shrinking buffer between me and the champ, I paid my bill and retired for the evening.
After getting back on the road, I carried old guy’s words in my heart. Paired with my Spotify playlist (yup – got my phone working just as I watched that old white truck round a corner and disappear), I felt like I had the world by the tail again!
I was singing away with John Denver and as I rounded a sweet curve, the horizon opened up into a sea of yellow! Now anyone who REALLY knows me, knows how I love to ride past the bright yellow canola fields of Alberta in July. I missed out on that this year, so my heart was just about bursting with joy at the sight of this new flavour of yellow!
I hauled on the brakes, parked my bike, and snapped some pics. It’s very unlike me to stop on a highway if there isn’t an easy pullout that I see well in advance, an easy way to get out of the pullout after I get in it, or a REALLY good reason to stop. But at that moment, I just knew I had to stop and smell the flowers.
After I crossed the border, I figured I’d better stop for gas. I didn’t have to go more than a few minutes, thankfully. So there I am looking at the pump. At home, we have yellow handles to indicate a diesel pump. Here, I’m looking at one labeled “unleaded” and the other boasting a green handle. Now I was 99.941% sure the green handle was diesel, but what if it wasn’t? Unleaded? We don’t have that label at home. At least not that I’d ever noticed anyway.
I’m already feeling unsure about this journey and now I’m feeling like I need help with one of my first few decisions. As I stand there taking this pic to text to Brian for his input, I realized to what extent the fuckery of my last gig has impacted me. Its mark wasn’t something I expected: total uncertainty.
Ok Deanna. You don’t need to ask Brian. You’re a capable, competent, intelligent woman (who happens to say fuck. A lot). I deleted my text and walked inside. The gal at the til confirmed what I was already pretty sure about and I filled my tank from the unleaded pump.
Pretty soon my phone finally welcomed me to the United States, but it wasn’t showing my map anymore. I was passing through a little town called Walhala, so I hauled off into a gravel parking lot to remedy the situation. I can’t, for the life of me, find the roaming setting on my new phone. C’mon! this should be easy! So here I am sweating to death and getting frustrated. I peeled off my rain gear thinking I might then have a better frame of mind to figure this out.
Just then an older fella (like a whopping 7 years older than me, but he looked as old as dirt) stopped beside me. “Hey there! How’s the ride?” he says. “Pretty great” I lied. It’s been just awesome I say with my trade mark grin. He didn’t need to know I was ready to stomp the shit out of my stupid new phone. Another mark of that fuckery. Impatience with myself.
I put the phone in my pocket and had a little visit with the old-ish guy. He told me how he used to ride, but these days he rides a trike now because of his old bones and all. I told him I know what that feels like too! That led to learning he is 7 years my senior.
Before he drove off in is very beat-up old white pickup, he looked at me with his kind eyes and said, “You’re going to be ok, you know“. I couldn’t help the tears welling up in my eyes, just like I can’t help it as I write this three days later. Or any time I recall his kind eyes.
Old as dirt. Rode in on a white…truck. Delivered the words I guess I needed.
Thanks not-really-old-guy-who-looked-as-old-as-a-really-old-guy-with-really-kind-words. You had a massively positive influence on me and you’ll likely never know what a difference you made in my day.
*cover image: “Odin, in his guise as a wanderer, as imagined by Georg von Rosen (1886)” from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odin
Day five of my cross-continent tour has me shivering under the thin sheets in my Fargo, North Dakota hotel room. I got absolutely drenched in the last hour or so of my ride today. It was a sad, sogy end to a pretty awe-inspired day! More on that later.
When Brian and I parted company in Portage la Prairie, I was a pretty sad lady. I wanted to ride the first few kilometers with him. It looked like that was the case when we looked at maps, but my GPS (Gretta) told me to turn right while he turned left out of the parking lot.
We waved goodbye and I was vibrating inside. Was I ACTUALLY going to take off on my own and head east? The plan was to go to Prince Edward Island, but that was a hell of long way away! But wait. I was following my GPS which was still programmed for the hotel we were JUST leaving. I looked at my phone, and yep – I WAS supposed to turn left with Brian. I felt a bit frantic as I tried to get turned around so I could catch up with him. When I realized that wasn’t happening, I just got settled in for a lonesome ride to Fargo. The first decision on my own and it was not the right one. Sigh.
It was weird. It was windy. It was unexpectedly calming. I’d be ok though, right? My phone told me to get off the highway and head down a secondary road. I was happy to do so too because four lane highwas are no way to ride a bike!
I don’t remember which direction I was pointed at that point, but it was definitely in the direction of thunder heads. It was nice to just stop and don my rain gear without anyone thinking I was too early, to wussy, or too anything. To be clear, I highly doubt anyone ever thinks that, but that is the story I typically tell myself. All geared up, I was hot as hell, but I would be dry!
I carried on feeling like the Michelin Man in my bright orange getup, but like I said, I wasn’t about to get wet. Keep this in mind for later in my tale! So off I went and I followed my phone’s directions down some pretty boring roads: turn left, turn right, turn left, turn straight. Finally I get to the border. I rolled up to the door, hopped off to dig for my passport, and chatted with the border dudes. They checked out the stickers on my bike and then handed me my passport. I know they don’t stamp any more, but I asked anyway and flashed my old lady smile. I was quite pleased with my freshly stamped page, and loaded back on to my bike. “That wasn’t too bad” I thought. I pulled over to the side so I could make a few adjustments to my helmet and gloves when I hear a VERY LOUD “Ma’am”. MA’AM!” My heart kind of stopped a bit. I looked over my shoulder to see the border guy jogging towards me.
Gulp! What did I do wrong?
“Your sunglasses!” he says.
Oh for crying out loud! The number of times I forget my freaking shades, or lose them off my trunk, or just forget them is too many times to count on one hand! I get off to accept my shades from his hands. “Have a safe ride” he says. “I sure hope so” I think to myself!
Sitting at the Dublin gate for my flight to Toronto, I felt a struggle building deep inside. Well maybe struggle isn’t quite the right word…it was more like melancholy I suppose. Maybe it was that I missed my kids dearly and was excited to share all my stories with them, but I felt like I still had one foot on my bike peg. The other foot was itching too, but of course I missed my kids!
My kids are the sunshine of my days and the starlight of my nights, and I couldn’t wait to wrap my arms around them again. But this journey has opened my eyes to how much I have neglected myself and I didn’t feel ready for it to end.
Over the intercom I hear “Calling Sarah Kane Deville to gate 304. Last call for passengaer Sarah Deville”. I wonder where she is, I thought. Will she come racing around the corner with a frntic look? Will she walk sadly toward the gate checking her boarding pass? Will she even make it? I wonder also if perhaps she isn’t coming at all. Has she fallen in love with Ireland? Has she decided to Stay? Will anyone miss her if she doesn’t get on that plane?
And then I wonder if they’ll be calling my name next.
I wrote this August 8, 2016 while sitting at my gate, but only rediscovered my notebook today, nearly nine years later!
It’s been a very long while since I revisited my Irish memories. I was looking over my leather-bound journal just now and came across the following entry:
——-
“I am not the woman I was three weeks ago. Three weeks ago I would have told you that I knew who I was, that I loved who I was, and that I was happy with the person looking back in the mirror. But if the “today me” met myself three weeks ago, I’d know that wouldn’t really be the truth.
I have been a great pretender of sorts up to this point. I carried myself with confidence virtually always, but there was always that niggling little feeling inside that maybe I just wasn’t good enough. Not good enough to go after the contracts I wanted, not good enough to try the things I wanted to try…just not quite good enough in some way.
This trip has changed me in so many ways, but perhaps the greatest change is coming to understand that I AM good enough. I don’t have to necessarily be better in any way, or shape or form because Deanna IS enough. This realization is life changing and I can tell you that I have fallen in love with being Deanna.
That might sound a bit arrogant and self-centred, but it’s the truth. I love and appreciate myself in ways I never dreamed possible before this trip. It’s like a veil has been lifted and I don’t have to pretend that I believe in myself. For years I held on to so many ridiculous notions; things I thought I had to think, say, or do because society expected it. I feel so free from the bondage of complying to false norms.
Embarking on this adventure seemed like a bit of whim in the beginning, ‘It’s no big deal – I like to talk to people, so touring Ireland alone will be easy’.
Well, it hasn’t been easy at times, but I pushed on. I found a well of resilience and tenacity within that I only ever pretended existed. Now I know it really is there. After conquering Healy Pass at dusk on my own in a near state of terror that I’d fail, I knew there was nothing I couldn’t do. After getting back on the bike when the lorry came within inches of my side bags, I felt stronger. OK, I admit I wasn’t stronger that day, but by the next morning, I recognized I’d morphed yet again.”
——-
I wrote that note four months ago already. When I think back to my pre-solo-road-trip self, I recall how I lacked authenticity. Those who know me likely wouldn’t say that, but deep down I knew it. Relying on no one but myself for that trip was kind of like breaking out of a shell; a buffer zone between my authentic self and the rest of the world. It was like I was afraid if the rest of the world caught a glimpse of the “inside me”, I’d find myself alone. What if I was too….Deanna?
So here I am. Loud and proud of my goofitude as much as my smartitude, and saying yes to every experience or adventure that comes my way!
Nearing the half way mark of my time in Ireland I really started to notice changes within myself. The pre-Ireland Deanna, for example, would have rather died than admit defeat in pretty much any circumstance. The new me, however, just laughs at the “Deanna-ness” of the circumstances in which I often find myself. For example, prior to landing in Dublin I would never have allowed a veritable stranger to turn my bike around for me! But when I told Ruben I couldn’t keep up with him and his pals he looked at me for a longish moment and said, “You be careful turning around right here. It’s pretty tight”. I looked, for the first time, at the stupid spot in which I’d pulled over and just laughed. “Yup! It sure is!”
My “knee-jerk-and-almost-out-loud-but-thankfully-held-in” pre-Ireland thought when Ruben offered to turn my bike around for me was, “no damn way buddy!”. But the reality was that it really was a tight spot and it would likely have been an eleventy-four point turn for me to get my bike pointed back in the right direction. Thinking back to my spill outside Kinsale was enough encouragement for me to accept.
So I hopped off, Ruben hopped on and in 3 seconds my bike was pointed in the right direction without incident. I marveled at how I wasn’t flustered over admitting his assistance was appreciated. I marveled at how he did what he did. And I marveled yet again over learning WHAT he did. It turns out that constant, but slight, tension on the throttle while using your back brake leads to glorious ease of maneuvering in tight situations.
I need to work on how this applies to life off the bike too….
I rode on and eventually felt fatigue and cold settling comfortably into my weary body. I don’t know how many hours I’d been on the road at this point, but a hot coffee would have been perfect about now. Seemingly immediately after this thought floated to the universe a large hotel loomed in the distance. When I saw another biker out front holding a “pink-cup-of-probably-hot-something“, I hauled on the brakes. He was smiling in my direction as I strode up to say hello. Tom was a beacon. Whether it his warm smile, or the pink cardboard promise of a hot drink, I believe I was meant to find him.
As though friends for a long while already, we fell into conversation about biking, the love of the road, and timely hot drinks. I excused myself to navigate the crowd inside and when I rejoined Tom, my own pink-cup-of-definitely-hot-coffee in hand, we discussed the clear signs of torrential downpour ahead. Now I had enjoyed nothing but sunshine and unicorns to this point, my friends, and I wasn’t about to disrupt that perfect record just yet. So when Tom told me he was also headed to Westport and was also looking to avoid the rain, I had a look at his map too. We looked over the route, sipped our coffee, and talked some more about biking and staying dry. It was nice to be in Tom’s company; just hanging out and laughing like we’d been here many a time before.
I was about half way through my pink cup when another group of bikers smoked past us. The biker bringing up the rear made an impressively short stop and called out to make sure I was o.k. It was Ruben! I gave him the thumbs up to let him know all was well and off he went. Given that I started out my day feeling a bit low, it was warm and fuzzy to feel part of the biker community.
Tom invited me to follow him in to Westport and the ride was beautiful. I didn’t realize as we rode through the valley that I was entering County Mayo; reportedly the county of my ancestors. Although Tom was far ahead, it felt good knowing that I was with a friend as I entered a new phase of my journey. Leenaun was breathtaking and as I watched the shadows of the clouds graze along the hillsides I felt that familiar sense of peace and joy permeate my being. Once again I felt like I was home.
Being the cautious rider I am, I watched Tom disappear over the horizon as he cranked on his throttle and passed the slow pokes meandering along the twists and turns through the Sheeffry and Mweelrea mountains. I considered following suit, but you need to remember something, my dear readers. I’m an Alberta girl; the bulk of my riding is on endless, bendless roads with nary a twist like you see in Ireland! So I watched his tail lights disappear and wondered if that was the last I’d see of my new friend.
I was happy to discover Tom waiting on the side of the road just as I pulled into town. We had a chuckle over my ‘patience’ (his word…so kind! ha ha ha ha! ) and agreed to find some coffee before I hunted down my hotel and he turned around for home.
The Happy Canuck and new best pal, Tom
And as per almost always….I parked in a not-so-awesome manner. I advised Tom I wasn’t into parking on sidewalks just yet so when he found a premium sidewalk spot right next to an open street spot, it was quite perfect. Well…almost. You see I never think of backing in until I’ve already pulled in nose first. So Tom pushed me out and I backed in. Ok so it’s not like it was an incline that I would have had to back out of, but backing into traffic is just not so awesome.
Ruben snapped a pic of my bike before we spotted him in Westport.
Just as Tom and I were saying ‘so long’, you’ll never guess who pulled up beside my bike. Yup! it was Ruben. He saw my bike before he saw me and was surprised that I’d beat him to Westport!
Tom suggested to me that day that I was born under a lucky star. I don’t know about that, but I think I was certainly guided by one. And it twinkled down on me with an affinity for motorbikes and pink cardboard cups! I made a good friend in Tom and feel as though my soul grew ears that day.
More on that later…
Solo travel. It’s a funny thing. One minute it feels exhilarating, freeing, adventurous, and full of wonder. The next, however, it can feel lonely, isolating, and maybe even a bit scary. I think my trip from Doolin to Westport encapsulated all of those feelings!
From the near-death ride up a sketchy path heading to the Cliffs of Moher, to meeting new friends, then bidding them farewell and realizing how relieved I was to be alone again resulted in quite a roller-coastery day for me! Riding with fellow bikers was fulfilling, but getting back to my own skill level and stopping when I wanted was much better. So, after saying goodbye to Ruben I went back the way we’d come to pick up my missed turn. I felt lighter at heart and more confident in the saddle at my own pace. I stopped along the way for a few photos and just really enjoyed the day.
Shortly after we parted company I stopped at “Murrooghtoohy”; a limestone beach strewn with boulders as far as the eye could see. It reminded me a lot of the beach on the Bay of Fundy in Clare, Nova Scotia. Granted the boulders there are rounded from rolling up and down the shore and not as flat and craggy as these, but the feeling deep in my soul was similar.
I carried on towards Galway. It was the weekend of the Galway Races, so I have to admit I dreaded the potential heavy traffic ahead. Thankfully Paul and the gang at Celtic Rider set up the GPS so I just skirted the city. There was still some slow going here and there due to the vast number of people attending the races, but all in all it was just like any other city traffic. I couldn’t help but smile as I recalled my own win on the races a few days ago!
I didn’t get too far out of Galway before my heart leapt into my throat, I felt the blood leave my extremities and the overwhelming “I’m-hiding-in-the-best-spot-ever-and-having-so-much-fun-playing-hide-and-seek-that-I-could-just-scream” urge to pee my pants flooded over me. I made a four-point stop in the middle of the road and felt my chin brush past the mic inside my helmet as my jaw fell open.
Back in the early stages of planning this trip, my goal was to find family. Growing up Jordan meant I had the privilege of hearing all these amazing stories about mysterious men travelling from Ireland during the potato famine to find a better life in Canada. Stories of stone houses, hard living, and ties to Ireland were tales I held on to like they were gossamer threads connecting me to something better… something… more. If I held on too tightly they disappeared and I had to struggle to find them again. If I let go, I’d never know how they were connected; how I fit in to everything.
With a growing lump threatening to close off my breath and huge tears promising to breach my lids, I eased off the road and parked my bike. My hands were shaking as I pulled the helmet from my head and fumbled out of my gloves.
Only seconds earlier I’d been toodling along lost in my own thoughts when I saw it. Even now as I type this I feel the surge of joy and excitement I felt in that moment as I skipped across the road toward the front door. Smiling so hard I thought my face might ACTUALLY split in two, I pushed through the doors and found myself standing inside Jordan’s Bar!
I wondered if the two patrons at the far end of the bar or the bartender serving them could hear the relentless “whoosh-whoosh-whoosh” as the blood pounded in my ears. Now, you have to realize how critically important finding Jordans was for me. It was just something I needed to do and there I was. Standing IN JORDAN’S BAR!
So it kind of went like this:
People at the far end lazily, and disinterestedly, glance my way.
I say, a little too boisterously, “Hi! I’m looking for Jordans!“
The bartender looks up and without moving hesitantly offers, “I’m Jordan.” This is quickly followed by, “What do you want?“
My grin broadens and I chuckle to myself thinking, “Yup, you are TOTALLY Jordan!”. But I say, “I’m Deanna Jordan from Canada and I’m here on a bit of an adventure looking for MY Irish Jordans!“
By this time he is on my end of the bar, but keeping his distance. I’m sure the crazed, manic look in my eyes gave him reason enough. I asked him his name and how long his family had been in this area. Noel Jordan said he bought the place about ten years ago. I asked if he was from the area, or if he’d moved from elsewhere in Ireland. He was not really keen on this discussion, but I was so damned excited to meet him that I wasn’t letting him get away on me just yet.
It turns out that Noel’s family had been outside Galway there for about the last 100 years. Not long at all by Irish standards, and he didn’t know where they might have been before that. When I told him I was hoping to find my family tree in the Crossmolina area he didn’t seem too hopeful for me. He said he didn’t know of any other Jordans outside his own family and even then there weren’t that many.
Not to be discouraged I asked if I could take my picture with him and put it on my blog to show my family. He didn’t seem too eager, but I very excitedly told him he was my FIRST IRISH JORDAN! Well old Noel FINALLY cracked a smile and agreed to the picture.
Clearly it was way more fun for me than it was for Noel ;)
I didn’t stay long because, well, frankly I think I freaked everyone out. Besides, at this point I still believed I was going to find MY Jordans in Crossmolina.
He He He! Had to snap one more before hopping back on the bike!
It’s been almost two months since I stopped in to Noel’s. I wonder if my spirited entrance, goofy grin and big laugh pop into his head every now and then. If they do, I’m sure those memories are also accompanied by a full-body-shudder and a dash of gratitude that I didn’t stay long ;)
Solo Motorcycle Tour of Ireland: Doolin to Westport
I left Doolin and headed back to the Cliffs of Moher. I’d missed them on the way in to Doolin the night before, so I turned back the next morning to see what all the fuss was about.
Not sure if it was because I faced yet another meal alone, or the fact that I’d been looking at pictures of home, but I was feeling a bit…low…that morning. I watched the steam from mugs of piping hot coffee rise and mingle with the loving gaze between a couple at the table across the room and longed for a hug from…well…just about anyone really! I was getting pretty comfortable with my own company, but it had been a long time since embracing my family at the Edmonton airport almost two weeks ago! After loading my gear I noticed the couple had moved outside with their coffee so I sauntered over to say hello and wondered what they’d say if I asked for a hug. Back in Killarney I considered getting a t-shirt done up with “I’m far from home and need a hug“. It would have come in handy right about now!
We chatted about economies, history, and the oil and gas industry. We chatted for close to an hour over coffee before we said our goodbyes and I plugged the Cliffs into my GPS and set off. You know Gretta and I have had our differences, but that morning gave me reason to give serious thought to ending our rocky relationship for good. I thought she was taking me back the way I’d arrived the night before, but nope. The stealth (read as “winding-road-of-firey-crashes”) route was on her agenda.
She took me up the narrowest, scariest road I’ve been on YET! I was squeezed way over next to nothing but a crumbling cliff edge marked with a single fence wire on a very steep incline. A car headed down the hill towards me and a pedestrian strolled uphill ahead of me. I heard stones tumble down the cliff beneath my back tire as I hollered out repeatedly, “I can’t stop! Get out of my way!”
“Holy crap balls Batman!” I thought, “this is it for me!”
The pedestrian leapt out of the way, the car squeaked by, and I lived another day.
After sweet talking my way out of paying for parking again (I actually paid the night before, but didn’t go up), and with feet as heavy as my heart, I trudged up the many steps to see the Cliffs. I took some photos and even managed a selfie and a conversation with a fellow from France. My French sucks and his English wasn’t much better, but we tried :)
As I packed up my camera three bikers also on BMWs pulled in. The lead guy called out to me and asked if it was worth it. I told him I was glad I’d seen it; wouldn’t always wonder what the Cliffs were all about now. They pulled in next to me. Ruben decided to hang back and visit while his two buddies hauled out cameras and headed up to see the Cliffs.
Ruben and I chatted about what brought each of us to Ireland on motorbikes and what awaited us at home. He’s from Belgium and was on a mad-dash kind of whirlwind tour of Ireland over the course of about 4-5 days. I told him my trip was 19 days on this solo adventure and I was coming up on two weeks. He was astounded; “That’s too many days. You’re riding with us today. You shouldn’t be alone that long on a motorbike!” Finally someone who GOT it! When you’re travelling on a bike, you’re alone. When you’re travelling ALONE on a bike…you’re completely and utterly alone!
All hugged up and still chatting with Ruben at the base of the Cliffs of Moher.
When I repacked my camera after sharing some photos with him I answered his questions about this, that, and the other. At one point I’d mentioned how much I missed my kids. He rose off the stone wall upon which he’d been perched and I figured he decided to see the Cliffs after all. With my eyes welling up I could almost hear “crazy lady” alarm bells screaming from his ears and I assumed he was bugging out before my tears over flowed. Instead, he strode up to me, closed my top case, put his arms around me and just hugged me.
And it wasn’t even weird!
I lowered my head onto his shoulder and just let his humanity and warmth wash over me.
He didn’t let go until I raised my head and laughed. God how I needed that! Again he insisted I ride with them, so when his buddies returned we set out together.
Well holy macaroni Batman! We were about 3.no minutes into our ride from the Cliffs when I realized I had no business trying to keep up with these guys! They ride hard and they ride fast. I’m a cautious rider (remember my first few minutes on the road today?) and I imagined how annoyed Ruben must have been with me! He owns a motorcycle rental company in Belgium so he rides for a living. I can barely chew gum and ride (just kidding, I can TOTALLY do that), so when he shared pics of me he’d taken on the road, I was duly impressed!
There I am – just a little spot on the road!
How Ruben must have chuckled over my cautious riding!
Anyway, after about 30 minutes or so I figured I’d put him out of his misery and hauled off to let him know I just didn’t feel comfortable trying to push to keep up with them. He tweaked my nose, said goodbye and we rode off in opposite directions.
It was kind of bittersweet to say goodbye; I really loved having the company for that short while, but I was REALLY glad to not have to feel obligated to ride outside my skill level too. I mean c’mere! This guy owns a bike touring company! A) He likely was ok with my ability BECAUSE he’s seen all levels, but B) They were on a “hollerday”, so me slowing them down was pr’olly not a bonus. Anyway, I Googled him and after checking out his website at http://www.motoduro.com/ I soooo wanna go there!
Maybe Belgium will be my NEXT motorbike adventure ;)
The Happy Canuck 