Not Speaking To Each Other Any More

It rained all night in Dawson. We could here it on the metal roof of the B&B. It was raining when we went next door for breakfast. Our hostess was ready to make us just aboot anything we wanted. The 5^th avenue B&;B in Dawson is my new headquarters next time I visit. Large room, private bath and breakfast! Anyway it was raining.

We waited to load the bikes, we lingered. When we got around, to getting around the rain was slowing down. We got the bikes loaded, we got all geared up and then the drama happened.

Now if you are not a Harley rider you will not know that the most important thing you need to ride is…The Fob.

The Flirtatious Fob

The fob electronically locks your bike and un locks it by transmitting its code to the security system when you get on.

Well the bike was having none of the fob this morning. She with no trunk had been out in the rain all night driven 1200 miles on mud, and potholes, and was having nothing to do with a fob that rode all them miles in my pocket and was up in the room flirting with the other keys.

I pulled the bikes main fuse hoping to reset some problem, but the bike was having nothing to do with her fob. They were on non-speaking terms.

The fob had been riding fairly high so perhaps her battery was gone?  Huckleberry had seen a hardware store, would they have a battery? We walked to town, a few blocks, HUMID to the max, and heavy riding pants help? Across the roped off gas station, where Huckleberry got yelled at for crossing the yellow tape. At Maxamilions Emporium I opened the fob for the pierced and tattooed girl at the counter. She popped the battery out with a tiny screwdriver that came out from nowhere. Sure we got that one she said went around the counter, brought one back, put it in, charged $4.34 Canadian, and showed me that if I need to open the fob again instead of using my pocket knife, the fob has a spot for a screwdriver.

As we approached she with no trunk our hearts were racing! No lights were flashing and when I turned the switch the lock light went out and She Who Has No Trunk roared to life.

Off we went to the ferry. Our timing impeccable   me port, Huckleberry starboard and behind a motor home major large. The 66 mile er to the border was wet. We passed everyone from the ferry then the mud and rain slowed us down. One large motor home passed us throwing mud. I signaled to them YOU ARE NUMBER 1, off they went. Across the border and back in amerika. The border guard knew me and still let us into laska.

The Taylor was the worst we have seen. Mud calcium chloride, slick. We ride as one.

Rounding a turn I see flashing lights. It’s a Trooper in the middle of nowhere all lights a going. The motor home that splashed mud on us earlier in the day has gotten to close to the edge of the road and is precarious   perched on the edge. Further along another large motor home is sucked into the muck. Chicken ahead. Coffee, food. Pavement. Dancing in the wind all the way to Tok. Does it get any better than this? No that’s what pot smoking girls in Dawson said.