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Lessons from the road relearned

By G.D. Maxwell Firmly rooted to the clay soil of Smilin’ Dog Manner, I am missing what I don’t have. What I don’t have is aimless wandering, jumping in Mello Yello and spending long parts of summers on the road.

By G.D. Maxwell

Firmly rooted to the clay soil of Smilin’ Dog Manner, I am missing what I don’t have. What I don’t have is aimless wandering, jumping in Mello Yello and spending long parts of summers on the road. I still have Mello Yello – the aging but trustworthy Westfailya – but mostly it sits in its half of the garage, happy to be out of the worst of winter but no doubt wondering when it too will hit the road. What am I saying? It’s a machine.

When I spent summers traveling, camping at the edge of beautiful lakes or traversing long stretches of stinkin’ desert, I missed what I didn’t have – a comfy home on one of those beautiful lakes, a garden to feel hopelessly inept in, ambitious projects far beyond my humble skills, routine, certainty, mind-numbing ritual.

Now the first thing I see each morning and the last thing I see each night is the shimmering water of Sulfuric Lake. There is a garden larger than my ability to cope and yielding unexpected benefits, namely bloodlust. I find myself drifting into revenge fantasies involving dead crows, crucified gophers, field-dressed deer, all killed in retribution over the produce they’ve filched. And there are ambitious projects far, far beyond my skills, the most absurd of which involve the construction of not one, but two boats. Got a lake? Need boats.

It’s no wonder I embraced the chance to jump into Mello Yello recently, even if it was only to travel to Edmonton to attend my Perfect Partner’s brother’s wedding. This is his second marriage, the first having expired shortly after his 25 th anniversary, which I also attended, and his bride’s first. I’m not sure which is scarier, a 25 year mistake or reaching into your 50s and marrying for the first time.

But who would miss a chance to travel to Edmonton? Hit the open road in the great Canadian/American tradition? See the sights, eat bad food, be tailgated by big trucks with questionable brakes, wake up in strange places, discover towns where guest and service are rarely linked in the same phrase, and reaffirm the totally bizarre belief that life exists outside of resort municipalities.

I like to think of Edmonton and all of Alberta as The West. I know, B.C. is geographically more west but it just seems too poofy to be The West. Alberta is, let’s be honest about this, the Real West. The West where men are men and chaps are just funny pants. The West where seldom is heard a discouraging word unless, of course, you’re a Liberal candidate in a Reform riding... which is to say all of them. The West, where a firm handshake and a steely-eyed stare are the measure of a man’s true worth, regardless of gender.

Like a trooper, Mello Yello fired up all four cylinders on the first try. It was ready to travel; I was not. Having stayed home too much, I’d forgotten some of the more helpful tricks developed during long stretches on the road. McDonald’s for example.

Somewhere long before Jasper, my Perfect Partner, spotting the golden breasts, whispered, "I’ve gotta fries."

It didn’t register for a minute what the heck she was talking about.

"Huh?"

"I’ve gotta fries," she repeated.

"Oh, McDonald’s. Okay."

Normally McDonald’s doesn’t figure meaningfully in my life. I don’t eat there as often as I have birthdays, although I did go visit the drive-through of our local McDonald’s once just because I’d been told it was "trippy." The guy in front of me got his truck taken out by an avalanche of snow falling from the roof. That was pretty trippy.

But on the road, McDonald’s takes on a whole new meaning. No matter where you go, they’re a modern day oasis. I’m talking about bathrooms. Really clean bathrooms.

Bathrooms are important on the road. Bathrooms aren’t important off the road. Off the road, trees and bushes, oneness with nature, are important. But on the road, McDonald’s is the King of Bathrooms, le Roi des Toilettes in Quebec. Bathrooms at McDonald’s are, more often than not, as close to immaculate as you’re going to find outside your own home, often more immaculate than found in my own home. Earnest young people – except in Florida where it’s earnest old people – keep them spic ’n’ span.

During our extensive travel days, we developed a code to signal our most urgent needs. I’d simply forgotten it. "Hey, I gotta fries," was understood as a request to stop and pee. Likewise, "Oh-oh, I feel a Big Mac Attack coming on," was an imperative well understood, the details of which I will spare your sensitivities.

As we became more brazen and comfortable with the standard features found in most McDonald’s bathrooms, our repertoire of personal functions expanded. Requesting a Full-Meal Deal meant one of us not only wanted to stop and attend to our toilette, but desired to use the sink to wash our hair and the hot-air hand dryer to enjoy a little blow dry and style. Vanity on the road.

On rare but totally necessary occasions, particularly after prolonged camping trips and failure to find a wash-o-rama, we’d consider the ultimate stop, the Happy Meal. During a Happy Meal stop, we’d secret a box of laundry soap into the sit-down stall and do laundry in the whirlpool action of repeated flushings. If you weren’t quick, you could lose a T-shirt. But clothes came clean and we could usually get them pretty dry at the hand dryer before the fuse would blow.

Spending long enough in the bathroom to actually do laundry meant you’d probably be interrupted by some earnest young person wondering what in the world you were doing. But McDonald’s staff are well trained to provide a high level of customer service and after a semi-plausible explanation – "The soap dispenser splurted soap all over my clothes; I thought I’d rinse them out." – they’d often offer to help.

Once, after a Full-Meal Deal, I actually felt guilty about not buying anything. Weird, but true. So I strode up to the counter and ordered a club soda. The clerk looked puzzled. "Club soda?"

"You know, soda water. Coke without the flavour."

"Oh, carbonated water. No problem."

She returned with a large cup of club soda and said to me, I’m not making this up, "There’s no charge."

I am not exaggerating when I say I could feel tears coming to my eyes. Free? At McDonald’s? While it will never rise to the exalted place McDonald’s bathrooms hold in my heart, free club soda, either straight or as a mixer, certainly raised their status in my mind.

No wonder I miss the road.