If You Don't End Up on a Tow Truck, Are You Even Living?

No.

Every time. Every single time. My adventures always end up on a tow truck, a U-Haul, or a trailer. I try to avoid it. I religiously keep up with all recommended maintenance. But is there anything that says Canadian adventure more clearly than getting towed at a Tim Hortons? I can’t complain. All is well that ends well.

My chain continued to disintegrate on my roughly 20-hour ride from Whitehorse to Edmonton—the first place I could truly fix the problem. I had to adjust the tension a couple of times. (By the way, I went from never having done it to F1 pit-crew speeds.)

When I was about 175 miles from Edmonton, I adjusted the chain yet again, but it started to make a terrible noise. I called a friend for some advice, and we decided it was unsafe. Maybe I could make it. Maybe I would get really hurt. So I called a tow truck.

I waited a few hours at a parking lot in The Middle of Nowhere, Alberta. Finally, a young man showed up with the truck you see in the picture. We loaded the bike and got going. The drive to Edmonton took well over three hours. However, we had great conversation on the way. We discussed politics, religion, everything. Yup, all the no-no topics. I mostly listened. I love hearing the perspective of someone local.

He also shared the most fascinating story about finding Jesus. After his wife left him, he felt God (although he was not a believer) guiding him to hike the Appalachian Trail. He was already in his late twenties, and it all seemed insane. Providentially, he was able to go. He turned his emotional pain into physical pain (his words, not mine), and found believers along the way that guided him to Christ. It was an incredible tale. (I skipped over most details because I do not think it is my story to tell—at least not online.) It made the tow ride worth it.

I was dropped off at a hotel just 3 km from the motorcycle shop. I felt confident I could ride at least that far. The hotel was in the g.h.e.t.t.o. I feared for my motorcycle, but it was 2 AM and all I wanted was to crawl into that probably-bed-bug-infested bed.

As I walked towards the hotel entrance, a disheveled woman smoking a cigarette looked at me and said, “You are handsome.” I was surprised, probably blushed a little, coyly smiled, and walked in the hotel with a little extra pep in my step.

Oh yeah, she was definitely a hooker. But I didn’t immediately realize that. And, I’ll take my wins wherever I can find them. When I saw my face in the mirror later that night, I smiled at my handsome self.

The next morning, I slowly rode to a car wash and power washed my bike. (As an accountant, I do not want your shoe box of receipts. I can only assume that a mechanic similarly does not want to work on an oily, grimy, disgusting bike.) Then I slowly rode to the dealership.

The service department was cordial and professional. They installed a new chain while I secretly walked around the dealership pulling on every motorcycle’s chain. Now I have a great sense of proper tension. I may be an idiot, but I can learn from my mistakes.

With a new chain, it was a new me. I rode to Great Falls, Montana. I am back in the USA!

Now, I must decide on my way back. I can’t quite make up my mind.