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From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:30:13 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-4
NORTHWEST PASSAGE
#4 in the second online CAA series
by
Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
Bainbridge Island, WA
September 11, 1986
Hello from Puget Sound! For a place so close to Metropolis, this wooded
island is about as calm as can be imagined: the ferry to Seattle may just as
well be transoceanic. People around here amble; they move slowly and stop to
watch the sunset. A New Age coffeeshop called Pegasus offers classical music
and interesting reading materials to go with its fresh Costa Rican. The
Streamliner Diner conjures robust spicy omelettes of fresh veggies, and days in
the fern-carpeted forest become nights, and then days again. Manana outside
the Caribbean? Haven't been this relaxed since Key West.
The setting is appropriate. This is the month of final preparations
(always more final preparations, eh?), a time of wiring and debugging,
programming and tweaking. We came to the island in our well-travelled van,
ready to move once and for all to the bikes and head south properly -- under
our own power.
Much has happened in the weeks since my Granby, Colorado update. We glided
west, too smoothly, joining the throng of lumbering campers fouling the beauty
of Yellowstone and motoring on -- over mountains, deserts, farmlands,
wastelands. The scenery passed as video, stripped by our metal cocoon of its
smells and textures. By the time we rolled into Vancouver, I was so sick of
the van I was ready to dump it in the ocean.
We spent a week in that town -- doing Expo to the point of exhaustion.
The motive, of course, was not to gawk; this is not one of those dutiful
pilgrimages of what Edward Abbey calls industrial tourisim. It was a chance
to display the Winnebiko in the energetic company of over 150 other bizarre
vehicles... and, more importantly, their creators.
There are a lot of strange ways to put together wheels, pedals, and a
seat. High-speed humans zipped around town all week, grinning back at the
gaggle of confused touroids stopped in their tracks by the weirdness. Dave on
his sprightly Vacuum; the Swiss team in their flawless Trivia; the tatooed punk
smoking cigars inside a full fairing; the Humboldt County blondes laughing in
their kinetic sculpture dubbed the Bionic Taco. All shared the delight of
invention and speed -- the week was a celebration of creativity. *This* is the
essence of competition: not muscle against muscle inside the conceptual
straitjacket of traditional bicycle racing, but brain against brain, concept
against concept, human against human. Cortex and quadriceps alike were
involved here, and the atmosphere was electric.
Of course, Expo went on in the background, a mass of roiling humanity,
bright color, street music, pavilions ranging from the deeply philosophical to
the blatantly commercial, and overpriced food. Curious behavior emerges in a
place like this: in our "scoring" culture, numbers are more in demand than
experience. Tourists gripped their "passports," queing impatiently to have
them stamped at every attraction, seemingly more interested in the trophy than
the game itself. Public address systems directed the masses, food smells
tickled the nose, groups of Japanese tourists stopped randomly to photograph
each other, and the scream-punctuated whooshes of rides were ever-present in
this state-fair-turned-city. But here and there were pockets of brilliance --
the roller-skating khaen-player who travels the world to learn native
instruments, the Spirit Lodge of GM, the videography behind Discover BC, the
nonverbal message in the movie "Rainbow War," the occasional spark in an eye in
the crowd. Always from the mundane emerges magic, if you're willing to wait
long enough.
We left with relief, fleeing to the unselfconsciously picturesque town of
Victoria for a few days, wondering soon if the journey would become a
succession of painful goodbyes. New friends already, and we don't even live on
the bikes yet... but it won't be long.
A strange phenomenon is the border: any border, from county to country.
If you view the world from an incoming starship, the imaginary lines separating
kingdoms are of no interest -- there's one species down there, citizens of one
planet. It was with this attitude that I drove casually though US Customs,
mildly annoyed at the delay but thinking it no more meaningful than waiting for
a driver's license renewal. But the scowling agent squinted past me into the
van's cluttered cargo bay.
"What the hell's *that*?"
"Oh, just a bicycle."
"What's all that junk on it?"
"The usual. Computers and so on."
"Where'd you get it?"
"I built it in Ohio -- had it in Canada for Expo."
"I need to see some registration."
"You don't register bicycles."
"Around *here* you do."
"Look, I just took it to Exp--"
"How would you like to have that thing impounded until you can come up
with some proof that it came from the US? Would you like that?"
The agent, in his grim way, was obviously enjoying this. Before I could
answer, he told me to pull around to the office. Within minutes, the chief
came out, nodding seriously at the explanation given by my tormentor.
"I built this in Ohio," I told the guy.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's see the papers."
"It's a *bicycle*," I told him, feeling that quaver in my gut that comes
from total powerlessness in the face of ignorance. I handed him a flyer for the