“Southern Alberta. Freezing rain since 100 miles before the border crossing. We’re drenched to the quick. I hear Slyder calling out, ‘We need to find shelter!’ But we press on, the nearest town a good 30 miles out. I can’t tell if it’s Clam’s or Cobb’s cries I hear on the wind. At least it ain’t 115 degrees. All the same, Pincher Creek was a godsend.”

-Silver July 2015

“We had hoped to have Max join us on our ride up into the unknown Canadian wilderness. Alas, we parted ways at a crossroads where Uncle Silver’s brekky was stolen quite rudely by a dog that could have passed for a small bear. Onward we rode through the rain, crossing the border and stopping 100 miles later in a town called Pincher Creek.

I can’t say that I have ever been more wet than when I unstraddled Bri–er, my bike–at that last petrol station. The weather was less than ideal, so all I can do is assume that the valley we rode through and its prairie landscape was scenic. It starts to wear on a brotha, riding through rain for hours. So we called it quits and holed ourselves up at a nice little inn where we had some beers and watched Lethal Weapon Four twice in a row.”

-Excerpt, Toby’s diary July 2015

“Sequestered far to the north, hewn from the granite of the very mountains we were running towards, shining in the icy dawn like the last beacon of civilization, there lies a new hope. A hallowed bastion where you can get a breakfast sandwich, a box of donut holes, and a cup of tea as black as the rubber we burned getting up there–all for less than 10 loonies. Whatever a loonie is. A wise man on the road will provision himself whence he is able. And lord knows that morning in Pincher Creek, I was able.”

“The Shire,

This is no tale of myth. No tale of legend. Of dragons, gold, goblins, elves, or hobbits alike. Nay, this is a tale of truth, of adventure, a tale of pavement and rubber. This is a story of merriment, good food, good drink, and woman–god be willing. May this road have no end. May thine engines never stall. For this is a tale of a trio of gay Christian bikers finding true righteousness out on the road. May the tour last you a thousand lifetimes and may there always be more road ahead.

For at least a handful of moments out there on the plains of Southern Alberta, I could her calling my name. She speaks. I listen. Over the hum of the twin rumbling between my legs. In this most pure land of green and blue, I hear her above all else calling me home. Yet I wonder if this journey has not an end. As she beckons me further into the unknown, my heart quickens, knowing that forward is the only way. Follow the yellow line into the distance and farther even so.”

-If Toby had written ‘The Lord of the Rings’

“I’ll tell ya, Yellowstone looked like a dried up ol’ prune next to the epic panorama of jagged glacial mountain that is Banff/Jasper National Park. Despite heavy traffic and slow vehicles through the park, I’d have to say that the Canadian Rockies outdid themselves for us.”

-Slyder’s recollections

“Banff had been the destination in my mind ever since I realized it was where the picture from my poster of Moraine Lake was taken. It seemed the natural counterpart to our 2014 tour, which took us through the blasted wastelands of the Southwest US. Apparently 80% of Earth’s population felt the same way.”

“Acting on the recommendation of our dearly departed Maximus, we set out from the populous eastern shore of Lake Louise in search of the fabled mountain tea house. Images of a remote Samurai fortress. Piping hot Pu’erh served by a beautiful Canadian Geisha in her underwear. Each group we passed on the way up assured us that they served tea well into the evening. We took them at their word, our single water bottle running drier by the mile. How wrong we were.”

-Silver, retrospeculation

“Banff to Jasper. We’ve a long day ahead, and already the miles under our belt have held some of the most epic vistae this Christian biker has ever laid eyes upon. Jagged peaks, heaping shelves of glacial ice, fresher air than I’ve ever breathed. All it’s missing is a Crazy Horse.

Yesterday the bike was acting up a bit. Dying in the heat. Thinking the heavy weight summer oil I gave her before the trip might not have been viscous enough. Planning to baby her for the next few days, see if I can keep the engine light from coming on.”

-Silver, diary excerpt, July 2015

“Welp, better turn back around to fill up, there ain’t a lick a gas from here on out. Sounds familiar. The stretch of road from Jasper to Prince George BC was reminiscent of The Extraterrestrial Highway across the Nevada desert. Not due to the landscape so much as the feeling that there was most definitely extraterrestrials hidden amongst the desolate scenery. Not a soul for miles, not one of this earth at least. Makes the road quite peaceful, if not eerie. Best not leave the Clam alone, lest he find his way into the belly of some vile creature.”

-Slyder’s recollections

“The Highway of Tears. When we stopped for a smoke break alongside the stretch of the Trans-Canadian Highway between Jasper and Prince George, we were a might bit disappointed to find that it was less a provincial park and more of a scrubby overpass beside the creek. The untamed bracken edging in from all sides. Hundred of miles of forest in every direction. Not a fellow soul on the road for miles around.

Later that night, as we supped at a diner in Prince George, the young waitress would tell us, to our horrified dismay, that the road got its name after the decades of abductions of young women from alongside it. The women–some estimates putting their number in the forties–were never seen again. I suppose we were lucky–or unlucky, depending on your perspective–that when we left the Clam on the side of the road by himself when his tank ran dry, he wasn’t snatched up by any unsavory types.

Maybe next time.”