The World's Elsewhere

I got a call today. My mechanic found the part for my motorcycle. My bike is old enough that Yamaha doesn’t make parts for it anymore. It’s taken almost seven weeks to find a used part – third gear from the transmission. I visited the mechanic a few times and decided my bike’s name was Gladys. Things need names when they’re vulnerable. I would have visited more, but seeing her stripped down, her engine sorted into four different boxes… well… it just felt wrong, you know? I felt guilty for being whole and powerless. So I stopped going and waited for the doctors to find her a new heart.

After I hung up the phone, and I knew that Gladys was going to be ok, I went for a walk. I realized that the one thing that keeps me grounded and sane, the thing that keeps me writing and working, is driving… and I haven’t done it in nearly seven weeks. I’ve driven from point A to point B on the mechanic’s borrowed bike, but I haven’t driven without destination… just to see what the road holds. I haven’t driven to air out my thoughts and feel the wind on my skin. There is something zen about opening the throttle and hearing the world flash past.

Everyone tells me to sell Gladys off – scrap her and be done with it. But I can’t. I love things with stories. Every vehicle I’ve ever owned has been old – some older than me. I’ve had my opportunities to buy new vehicles, but always opt for the ones with history. I don’t want the new car smell – that chemical burn that makes most folks drool makes me think of a sarcophagus. New cars are built by machines, not hands – they have no spirit, only circuits. Give me the smell of engine oil and age; imperfections and sweat give breath to the lifeless.

I walked with crickets and frogs in my ears, ocean waves in the distance, and I remembered a conversation from years before – a puzzle piece from my memory. I met a Scottish woman one night, and she asked me where I was from.

“I’m from Canada,” I said, “But my family’s from Scotland.”

Her face turned inwards like she’d just sniffed new car.

“Why is it,” she said, “That every Canadian claims to be from somewhere they’re not. You’re Canadian for fukssakes!”

“My grandfather…” I began.

“Was your grandfather. And he might have been Scottish, but you’re a Canuck.”

She then explained what a Scottish kiss was. I’m not a fan of headbutts.

Her words stuck with me more than her skull, every Canadian claims to be from somewhere else , and as I walked and thought about Gladys I realized they were one in the same. I like history. I like stories. I look for them in the things I surround myself with. As a Canadian, I have a relatively short history. My family came from elsewhere, claimed what wasn’t ours, and settled for enough generations to count on one hand. My history comes from that elsewhere – a place that cannot exist because I’m Canadian.

The oldest structure I saw as a child was less than 100-years-old. The house I call home is now half of that, in a town older still, in a country that makes Canada seem an infant. I’ve met many Canadians abroad and we all seem to share the same mentality. Mine is a generation of nomads. After the immigrations, the settling, the boom, after the wars and the pride and the struggles… after the dust had settled around my nation, there was a need for more… for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Generations of immigrants followed by generations of ex-patriots.

What does it all mean? As I walked, with spider lines clinging to my face and arms, with sweat glowing beneath the tropical moon, with Gladys being removed from her respirator… I found that I had no answer. But on Monday I will. On Monday Gladys will shine and the highway will call. On Monday we’ll chase down the answers. We’ll unearth what it means to be Canadian and come from the world’s elsewhere. We’ll drive until it all makes sense.

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bike, canada, canadian, car, her story, his story, history, i once ate a golf ball sized chunk of wasabi it wasnt fun, motorcycle, my story, our story, stories, story and travel