Name that Baby

It's been a long time since we played a blog game. Too long. So, we're going to play another game. Winner receives chocolate of their choice (as long as I can buy it in Vancouver)!

We've been told that our kids look alike. Particularly Anna and Eva. We agree. The similarities are strong. They're clearly sisters. But could they be twins? I guess we'll see...

Pleae "vote" in the comments field with number and corresponding name. Hint: there's one Caleb photo. He doesn't really look like his sisters.

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Fail. But kind of pass.

Fail? What have you done, Ben? On the surface, I spent yesterday morning at Children's Hospital with wee Eva, having the cut on her forehead glued back together. Before worry sets in too much, she's okay. The cut is small (and now glued back together). She is in good spirits and hasn't missed a beat.

However, walking into Emergency with your toddler, as a dad, in the middle of summer: I could sense the shaking heads and rolled eyes. I walked in, the stereotype of poorly conceived jokes. Yet, all I had done was go to work that morning. Eva had tripped, as she often does, and caught her head on the baseboard. Oma had patched her up amazingly well and I simply swooped in to take her to the hospital as it was a pretty good gash.

Arriving at the hospital, the staff at Children's were fantastic. They were professional and kind. They had videos and crayons. The only moment that was cringe-worthy was when I was commissioned to help restrain poor Eva whilst they cleaned the cut and held the skin in place for the glue. The doctor did advise me that it would be the worst 10 minutes of my life--and it came close. While she screamed, even the casual observer must have seen how her eyes told the tail of betrayal. Her own father holding her while these strangers fiddled with her "owie". I felt sick. And clearly so... when the ice lolly was delivered to Eva after all was said and done, they brought one for dad too. It was well timed. I needed a lolly. Eva was spent. She's quite good at goodbye these days and as I said thank you and goodbye to the nurse and doctors, she literally screamed "GOODBYE!" For all the betrayal in her eyes earlier, it was nothing compared to the tone in her voice that was one of hearty good riddance to the kind staff who had patched her up.

Despite having her buggy, I carried her back to the car as she collapsed into my shoulder and clung to my shirt. The two of us were shattered and, really, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't so bad.

So, apart from having to take my youngest little girl to the hospital, how has it gone? I think we're doing okay. Let's measure:

Melt-downs: Hmmm. Cut foreheads aside (which you can't possibly include in my definition), there weren't any yesterday. The day before, there was one... though, it wasn't the kids--it was me, on discovering pen marks all over Eva's carpet. Repeated pleas for Anna to keep her pens out of reach went unheeded and new rules were rushed through that involve "items whose primary use is to make marks on paper or the like," are now to be kept downstairs. Apart from the clean up, we got through that pretty quickly. The day before, it was Anna over the inherently unfair distribution of toys that pervades in our home. So, let's call it 2 over 4 days, giving us an average 0.5 melt-downs/day. Pass.

TV Time: There are some unavoidable TV times in our day. Dinner preparation ranks among them. I flopped down with the kids while the corn-on-the-cob was boiling for 10 minutes and became acutely aware of just how rubbish some of the kids' programming is. The kids (Anna and Caleb... Eva was arranging ever so tiny bits of play-dough around the living room in what might be an effort to make it seem like a beach) were watching a program called Arthur, which appears to be based on the books by the same name. What a completely crap show. As far as I can tell, all the characters are in constant conflict, name-calling, and one-upmanship for 99% of the show until the very end when they all make up and quickly establish some lame moral. Why isn't the moral inherent in the story? Like "be nice to each other" or "resolve differences kindly". I was so appalled that I dragged out Postman Pat and Kipper. Quality British programming where the characters are gentle and kind, even if the stories are ever so slightly pants. I believe I've already seen a change in behaviour... and if I see Arthur I'm going to kick his ass. I also took them to get a movie. In the instance it wasn't transparently obvious by the cover or childhood memories of your own, Alvin and the Chipmunks are really annoying. Overall, I declare a pass.

Getting out of the house: I've got this one down. It helps that the weather has continued to cooperate. I've made it to the North Shore to take the kids on a walk 'round Rice Lake and swimming at our friend Jack's house. I've been to White Rock to the grandparents. I went swimming at the wave pool in Newton (cut a bit short for the safety concerns that maybe should have been more obvious before I went in with three young children). We've been to the water splash park twice. We've been out to rent movies and play at the local park. We've had friends over for a BBQ and played nearly endlessly in the garden with the new water table. We met friends at the Yacht Club (clearly we were guests) and had dinner on the beach. We've done really well on this one. We weren't even kicked out of the Yacht Club.

Eating Well: Mostly. They've definitely eaten vegetables and been hydrating. There have been times on certain days when I've been on the lookout for some sort of nitrate induced hysteria, but noting that melt-downs seem to be statistically normal, I shall assume that we've not yet tipped any internal balances.

Minimize sugar: Yeah. Not so good. There have been a lot of ice lollies. Caleb's lunch request for today was for a Wagon Wheel, Starburts, and a "treat". Clearly he believe the first two items to be food groups in their own right and not worthy of the "treat" moniker. I've turned my focus to brushing teeth thoroughly until Ange gets back.

Getting something non-kid done: it's been okay. The house is clean. I had a beer the other night. In the garden. By myself. Lisa came up on Sunday night and I got to go to the Safeway! Ummm... that is all.

So, we're half way. Thursday and Friday are the toughest because every kid has to get somewhere different for care on the Thursday morning (and Anna needs to move care at lunch) and then I have to get Anna to Maple Ridge and then get back to put the other two to bed and then I go pick her up the next day after work, having picked up the other two... fingers crossed!

Being Dad

When Ange is away, there really isn't any play. Or is there? I fear writing about my efforts at solo parenting when Ange is away because I have only just returned home. In my being away, Ange was alone with three kids. She didn't blog. No complaints have made it back to me. It was all very matter of fact. Ange is that way: matter of fact. I, however, have tendencies to embellish and exaggerate while keeping mostly to "the way it really happened."

Notwithstanding Ange's world view and demeanour, there's nothing matter of fact about 2 weeks alone with three young children whilst working. It's going to be chaos. I am sure it was chaos for her. It will be chaos for me. Ange will be quick to point out that it's not actually 2 weeks either. It's 12 days and my trip was 2 weeks. But if we're getting picky, mine was actually 13 days.

In mental preparation for this, I re-read some blog entries from the Spring of 2009, when Ange went to China for work for 2 weeks (14 days). For those who have any questions about my ability to cope, I submit Day 4 to you. Clearly it's possible (even probable) that I won't cope this time around. It may be a day shorter, but I've actually added a child to the equation. Sleep will be key. In fact, 6 years into this parenting thing and I think there's one fundamental truth to being a parent: you're a better one if you're getting enough sleep.

Interestingly, I established some "day success measurables". They are quite good actually. I'm fond enough of them to apply them again to this round. Copied in large part from April 2009, here they are again:

• Melt-downs. How many in a day. And we're not talking incessant whimpering over some sugary candy or mild-but-insincere crying over leaving the park at a time perceived to be "too early". I'm talking screaming that makes you wonder if they might be doing permanent damage to their vocal chords; lying on the ground kicking; flailing about like a fish out of water; and, of course, feet being stamped. A good judge of the scale is when stranger, neighbours or people who would have no interest in your child's well-being feel compelled to as if "everything is alright?" to which, in a true melt-down, your only response must use your in-your-head-voice which goes something like, "No. It's not 'all' right. Does it look like it's f$#king alright?" 
• Today: 0. With three, that's unmitigated success.
• TV time. How much time is spent in front of the TV in a day. This is tough, because TV is the ultimate cheat with kids. Sadly, it doesn't do much for them and even a little bit too much usually leads to the melt-down described above. Back in 2009, I strove for none but seldom achieved it. So seldom did I achieve it that now less than an hour would be successful. I'm well happy to be past the Disney Princesses movies and onto Pixar movies and the like. At least I can indulge in the adult humour the flies over their heads. 
• Today: 0.5 hours. Caleb was obliterated from his World Cup Soccer Camp and needed to check out while Eva and I got our things together for a drum concert in the local park. Without Eva's help, it might have been 5 minutes of TV, but what do you do? It was less than an hour. Success.
• Getting "out of the house". This probably comes from my parents and I am pretty forgiving if the weather is pants, which it has been nearly without exception for the better part of two years. But it remains critical to a successful day, even if you only make it as far as the garden. Thankfully the weather has turned. It's summer. We've only had 4 days of it, so it's a novelty since summer didn't really happen last year. 
• Today: The park. It included the aforementioned drum concert of dubious quality, playing in the splash pool and time at the play park. Success.
• Eating well. In my mind this has a direct correlation to the quantity and diversity of vegetables consumed. Fruit is a close second. Chips don't count as potatoes and the greener the better when it comes to veggies. 
• Today: Hmmm. Pizza at the park for dinner. Augmented by vegetables. Carrots and broccoli and a few snow peas. The cauliflower was rejected out of hand. Lunches were pretty well balanced. There was definitely not enough calcium... which I won't point out because Anna is too clever and would use that as rationale for ice cream. Today was maybe a pass. Pizza always feels like a fail no matter what you coax them into eating with it.
• Minimize sugar. This, of course, ties into eating well. However, with Anna and now Caleb, it is a category in its own right. Those two devote more energy to negotiating for treats than I would have thought possible. They wear you down. It's never ending. I've gone from being somewhat indifferent about junk food to actually hating it, if only because it's the thing that is most discussed in my whole life. I feel particularly weak as a parent in this category. I have friends whose children have never had refined sugar cross their lips and some of the kids are nearly in kindergarten. 
• Today: a handful of sour candies and Twizzlers and one fruit leather each.  Complete success as long as you remove from your memory that they had pizza for dinner. And, I promise you, we discussed other treats extensively, including what and when they will be eating them tomorrow.
• Teaching and creative out letting. This has been dropped from my list of measurable objectives this time around. It was loosely based on those parents who do all sorts of amazing art and creative learning projects with their kids. You know the kind. The ones who manage to pull together bowls of different textures (rice and flour and sand and cat food or whatever) and the kids just spend time "exploring"... or the kids get time to assemble a dinosaur that's been pre-cut by mum or dad--the glue sticks out, armed with glitter pens and bobbly eyes (where the hell do you get those things?) and pieces of fabric cut out from old clothes salvaged from a trip to the Sally Anne. The other parent comes home and the 2 year old has made their own "That's Not My Dinosaur" book. Well I'm crap at it. Let's face it, if I had to make my own book out of materials salvaged from the recycling bin, it's going to look like a some kid in pre-school did it. Anna is already much better at anything like this than I will ever be. Caleb is only sort of into it and Eva is a third child, so seems bound to skip all sorts of stages anyway. Might as well skip creative out letting that your dad is rubbish at anyway. I read to my kids. I try to teach them things I know about, like riding a bike or kicking or throwing a ball. Maybe we'll build a birdhouse this week. Or maybe not. We can assume I will largely fail at this nearly every day so don't need to bring it up each day.
• Getting something 'non-kid' done. This was pretty random the first time around, but I believe my standards have dropped here too. I gave examples like throwing in a load of laundry or washing the dishes. It may feel like a bonus, but actually it is a necessity. I will also add going to washroom in peace and having a glass of scotch to this list. Hell, I've got another kid, the bar has been lowered. 
• Today: Three lunches made. Dishes washed. Load of laundry in. Kitchen swept. Plants watered. Scotch poured and I will get that visit to the loo in peace as long as Eva sleeps... something she's particularly good at.... so, Success.

In fairness, Ange left at midday today, so today's only a half day. But I've still pulled it off.

Proof of sleeping child before 11pm. Anna is the most unlikely to sleep too. 

Dill Pickles

Today was customer appreciation day at Safeway. Every first Tuesday of the month, Safeway extends an olive branch to loyal customers (and any other customers that happen upon the store that day) by offering them 10% off or 10x the Airmiles on their purchase. The net result of Safeway Customer Appreciation Day is that I use the opportunity to buy things that either I don't need (because I wasn't paying attention and bought them two days previously) or that I could practically get cheaper at Costco, even with the 10% off.

Their ploy to rope people in is clearly directed at individuals like myself. Individuals who, when walking the aisles of Safeway, feel the need to seize the moment of this extraordinary savings event to purchase condiments, junk food, overpriced cheeses, and pickles. I can rationalize that this savings event is neither extraordinary (only 10% off) nor particularly rare (monthly). Yet, I am invariably compelled to buy more ketchup. We have ketchup. The posh cheese already in the fridge requires sections of mould to be cut off before one can eat it already. And yet I buy more. I kick myself for eating those confounded Bits & Bites, but not only are they 10% off, but there's a two-for-a-special-price deal on. I buy more.

The pickles. Well, I avoided buying pickles today. I bought the much more consumable cousin, the cucumber. Thankfully, no more pickles. Still, the pickles haunt me. All the new refridgeration-required food needed a place on arrival home. I was about half-way through this process of positioning the new food next to the old food in our entirely reasonably-sized fridge that my spacial awareness kicked in. It clearly was not going to fit seamlessly. Rearrangement started in earnest. Packages of this and that were removed and placed on the counter. Left-overs in their precariously stackable containers were removed and placed on the counter. Milk was removed and placed on the counter. Anna was convinced that she was thirsty and given a pint of orange juice so that the large container that once held it could be culled. Despite plans for a meal of fresh food, left-overs were bumped up the priority chart and served for dinner. And, after much re-packing, it all fit.

In my moment of smug organizational satisfaction, I turned around to find the large dill pickle jar staring me in the face. Seriously? Where the hell are these going to fit? I open the door and just stare. I go to move the margarine but am suddenly confronted by the potential knock-on effect of such a brash move. I hesitate. The permutation and combinations are too vast to thoughtfully consider. Perhaps I could move the impossibly large ketchup squeeze bottle? No. Whilst not loved by us parents, its frequent use by the kids and diminishing contents means it has to sit upside down and it has been balanced between the sour cream and the humous. I am keenly aware that I now have new ketchup, but it remains sealed and doesn't require refrigeration just yet.

I am left with few options and consider the fate of the pickles. No one but me actually eats them. I don't particularly like them. In fact, these ones were bought some time ago. There's no obvious best before date, but I consider whether I would even eat them at this point without giving serious consideration to their suitability for consumption. Can you just throw out a nearly full bottle of pickles though? It doesn't seem right.

"Who eats pickles anyway?" I find myself asking. My step-dad does. He really likes them. In fact, he's probably responsible for the few that have been eaten. They get pulled out at every BBQ to be overlooked by everyone but Opa (Rick, my stepdad). Indeed, I recall as a teenager a pickle incident. Being what I believe to be a typical teenage boy, I would often eat vast amounts of food. I didn't often bother with the niceties of preparation and, on many occasions, would consume large amounts of single items for the simple ease of having to only deal with one set of packaging. On one occasion, I reached for the pickles. Rick got unreasonably upset (or so I felt) over the rather sudden disappearance of what he must have assumed were his personal jar of pickles (being that it was basically only him that ate them). Being a parent and having a great deal more perspective now, I look back and realize that Rick was probably saying, "Why don't you clean up after yourself, you lazy SOB?" or "why the hell can't you help out more around the house?" or "did you seriously just spend the little bit of money you make on beer and CDs?" But Rick's string is too long and his generosity nearly without bounds, so in the end, I got mildly chewed out for cleaning the house out of pickles.

In true teenage fashion, I chose to remember it. The irony is that now I shake my head at myself for feeling indignant. So, 25 years later, the jar of possibly off Bick's pickles cannot be thrown out, if only so I can offer one to Rick at the next BBQ. I determine that they can be delicately balanced on top of the two, stacked egg cartons and just fit under the light. It's not a perfect solution, but we'll have omelettes or scrambled eggs tomorrow morning and see if we can't reduce that to a single carton stack.

Gratuitous Eva photo. Fan of many things, but not pickles.

The Trip's Laphroaig

Isn't it always the question: What was the best part of the trip? Frankly, I have no idea. A good part was not falling off a motorcycle in a strange country at very high speeds. But that's so glass is half-empty. Indeed, I've always struggled with the question, regardless of what it's applied to. Unless it's applied to scotch. Then, it's definitively Laphroaig with all its extraneous vowels. So, here goes my attempt to capture the best of my trip across Europe with my dad on motorbikes:

10. Dachau. I first went to Dachau as a 19 year old on a day trip from a field hockey tour with the Junior team. I've since visited so many WWII sites since then (including Oświęcim and Oradour-sur-glane) that I had forgotten its power to completely grip my consciousness. Dad and I walked about in a trance at the horror of it all. It was emotionally exhausting. Again. I shouldn't think I'll ever go back, but I don't regret seeing it again. And I was glad to see it with my dad, who was clearly touched by the shocking scene that you literally stumble into.

9. First World War History. Sure it's vague. But really, I spent two years immersed in the tiniest details of WWI. People see Vimy as a coming of age. I see it as the small-scale application of new techniques and the revelation of a new artillery fuse. Yet, for all the detail, I hadn't really explored the sites. This time, I did. Was it ever poignant. Verdun. St. Quentin. Cambrai. We drove nearly the full length of the Western Front. It was absolutely extraordinary. From stopping at small cemeteries to major battle sites, the topography and sense of space can not be conveyed in books. Beaumont-Hamel and its intact trenches to the majesty of Thiepval's Memorial to the Missing at the Somme to Verdun's fortresses or the simple eeriness of the rows of black German crosses that contrast the white headstones of the allies.

8. French. Why the hell didn't I pay more attention in the various French classes I was subjected to? I love France. I love the French. I love speaking French. I remember the first time I went to Paris and, quite literally wandered around asking people for directions to things that I already knew the way to. I just wanted to speak French with people. I remember playing cards with kids in campsites (with Ange): it was quality French time because the kids lacked the needless courtesy to let my mistakes go uncorrected. Nothing like an 8 year old to let you know your verb tense is rubbish. I so enjoy speaking with people. At dad's friend's chateau, one of the locals were by to help out and I got to speak French for more than hour, using the full extent of my feeble vocabulary as I tried to tell her about my family, our current adventure, and let her know that I knew about--and cared deeply for--her country. In the end, she knew that I had a wife and three kids, was on a motorbike and it was likely I had been to France once before. Or maybe Belgium.

7. 115mph. On a motorbike holiday, it shouldn't be surprising that speed has to enter the equation. Dad got his bike to about 120mph, but my bike had been hammered before I got it. The bikes we were riding are reproductions of a bike built in the 1960s. I have to say that dad was disappointed not to get the 130mph he was promised on purchase. For me, the ton is usually satisfactory. But, show me a silky smooth bit of autobahn literally empty of vehicles and I can be tempted. Absolutely to the stop, the Triumph Bonneville T100 pulled 115mph (~185km/h). I was pinned to the tank, madly buffeted by the wind and feeling quite exhilarated. The only speed limit was my bike's limit. And then, I was overtaken by some sport-bike that passed me like I was standing still.

6. Coffee. For dad it was always a cappuccino. Sometimes that meant a cappuccino. Occasionally that meant a coffee with whipped cream on top. It was nearly always good coffee. Often it was inexpensive. Regardless, it was our time to chat. On the bikes, you spend a lot of hours in your own thoughts. Coffee is the time to make sure some of those thoughts are aired. Dad and I are different. We see the world very differently. Those differences are less meaningful when you're peering out over a medieval town centre in the heart of Europe.

5. Switchbacks. After spending days seeking out specific sites, we came to an understanding that everyone was closer to nirvana if we just sought out the most ridiculously bendy roads. Off the motorways and onto roads that you could slam through every gear on the bike in under a mile became the goal. Bavaria you were wonderful. Austria you were dreamy. The French hills were sublime. Switzerland.... well, Switzerland, you were simply unparalleled. The insane climbs and sudden sharp turns that throw sparks as the foot-pegs bounce you around the corner. It was all I could do to keep up with dad. Often I didn't. But there were no cars--even the exotic ones--that were keeping up with either of us. Our top end might have been low, but the bikes are nimble and quick. A few sport bikes with riders seemingly unconcerned about what might be coming around that blind bend pulled away from us, but there were several hundred miles where we were like kids in a candy shop.

4. Being destination-less. One of the beauties of having no particular destination is the lack of disappointment if one doesn't make it. It never would have worked with dad, but I like the idea of a poll-based choose your own adventure. As we sat in a cafe in Dachau, I wanted desperately to go to Cesky Krumlov simply because the votes said to go there. Rather, we opted for the roads and our route got complex. The truth is, we simply pulled out an old-fashioned map and looked up roads that were lined with a small green accent. This meant beauty. This meant small roads. This meant bendy bits and it almost certainly meant lots of motorbikes. Bikes to chase. Bikes to ride with. Bikes, bikes, bikes. It meant cheap places to stay and it meant places I've never been before. In the end, the strongest appeal to me was a different experience of places to what I had done previously. It was the road less traveled, which has always been the option most palatable to both dad and I.

Part I:
 

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Part II:


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Driving across the Ardenne:

The other thing about being direction-less is the unexpected surprises. My dad's friend, "Seb", was onto my keen interest in history and sussed out a couple of German gun encampments from WWI. Knowing the German army had moved in a couple of naval artillery guns, they had built full concrete bunkers, replete with underground railways to supply ammunition. So, with GPs coordinates, we set off to find these bunkers. And found them we did. Literally in the middle of farmers' fields, the gun fortifications still exist. So too do all the tunnels, rooms and railways that made them one of the most extraordinarily interesting experiences of the trip.

When the road runs out:

The 380mm naval artillery gun pivot:

Down to the tunnels:

The entrance to the underground railway:

3. My dad's friend's chateau. In the interest of Seb's privacy, I won't do it justice. I will say, we stayed with Seb and his wife on the way out. We went out of our way to see them on our way back, having the pleasure of staying with them again. Their generous spirit and hospitality were simply highlights of the trip. The opportunity to meet and get to know an old friend of my father was a highlight. The house, a chateau that had once been the German HQ in WWII, was also a highlight for a Canadian boy from the suburbs of generic Canadian cities. Lovely food, impromptu musical concerts, fascinating conversation. Really I couldn't have imagined how much I would enjoy myself. I will go out of my way to see Seb and his wife again.

Le chateau:

If your house was once German HQ in WWII, it was probably in a firefight. So, it'll have the machine gun damage that comes with this sort of history:

2. My dad. He's not getting any younger. You can put these sort of things off your whole life. We've done it for years. My dad is a good person. I didn't really know him well after he had to head back to the UK. But I've always cherished the days we used to spend in the foothills of the Alberta Rockies riding our dirtbikes. While I am sure we spent other time together, those memories are the most vivid. Now I have vivid memories for my adulthood too. Sitting by the river in Lucerne, having a coffee. Contemplating the horror of war in the carpark of the Dachau concentration camp. Sharing the excited laughter of a mountain pass road that made you tingle with excitement. Enjoying an ice cream cone in Nancy's Baroque square. Meeting his childhood friend... and launching off on an excursion to find a lost WWI bunker. Having a beer and solving worldly problems in the shadow of the Bavarian Alps. Sitting on a curb in carpark a bleak French discount supermarket, enjoying a yogurt and pondering the mechanical condition of my bike. We don't see eye to eye. We lead profoundly different lives. But he is my dad and I got to spend 10 days with him.

1. The little things that only happen on a motorbike. I had forgotten. They made this trip special and they brought back the nostalgia of the trip I took with Ange more than a decade ago. They seem so small, but they resonate with me. The fear of departing on the bike for a big trip. It's not the same fear of driving off the side of a mountain road in pouring rain. It's more apprehension. Last time it was intertwined with an overwhelming sense of freedom. This time, the kids and Ange were on my mind and "freedom" was neither desired nor particularly present. Nevertheless, the anxious moments of driving off. The heightened awareness. Is that a rattle? Should I filter traffic now? How fast is safe on the bike? And then, rather suddenly, the confidence and comfort overtake and you can enjoy the subtleties. The immense pull and acceleration of a bike. The smells are unbelievable. London's diesel and petrol. The sweetness of the fields. Every fields smells slightly different. Exhaust. Manure. Flowers. Forests. Every one is so distinct and some can nearly knock you off the bike with memories and feelings from the past. There's the shock of feeling like you've been shot, having a bug hammer you in the chest at 80mph. How big is a bug that stings through motorcycle gear as you take your hand off the clutch to rub your chest? Or the itchy nose. How do you scratch your nose in the middle lane of the motorway at 80mph? Then there's my favourite: the temperature changes. From the heat of the day, you can crest down a hill into a wooded area and get the shivers from the sudden chill and freshness of the air. And, at that point, you throw open your visor and literally gulp the air. I guess you could stick your head out the window of the car, but one never does. It's only on a bike that you find yourself literally gulping air, like you'd gulp a cool drink on a hot day. So, you ask, what was your favourite part of the trip? Swiss air. French air. German air. Austrian air. Lichtensteinian(?) air. Luxembourgian air. Gulping air. Heck, it took my breath away.

So tired...

It's late. We're in Arras in northern France. We've been exploring First World War sites all day. From random German gun bunkers only identifiable with GPS coordinates to the Newfoundland Beaumont-Hamel memorial, we really packed it in today.

We've now traveled over 1700 miles in a week. That's a lot of riding. It's been good fun and it has been brilliant to see so many new places and revisit some old favourites... I hope to update on some of the stories in the next few days, but for now, I'm simply too tired. I need to sleep.

A lovely evening in Arras was a fitting end to the continental part of the trip. Off to Blighty tomorrow...

It's suddenly all about the ride

It's the nature of holidays with someone else that it takes a day or two to sort out what each person expects from a holiday. We started with my preferences. Stopping and exploring a castle or a war site. In the past few days though, it has become all about the ride.

We've essentially had the most fantastic backdrop to a giant riding frenzy. Bavarian hills. Swiss Alps. The rolling countryside of Alcase-Lorraine. Our sole focus has been to find the roads that are lined with green on the map of Europe. They indicate beauty, are often small and, as soon as the bikes start to outnumber the cars 10 to 1, we know we're onto a good thing...

We've covered some absolutely outrageous miles. In some instances, we've essentially forgotten to eat. Lunch is missed. Dinner is missed and suddenly we're scrambling to find a place to sleep before the dark sets in.

Meanwhile, I'm coming to terms with the fact that that I seem to attract bike disaster. Let's not overstate the state of my Triumph, but there are developing similarities to the BMW we took around Europe those years ago. I hadn't expected this from a rental bike, which I had anticipated being, functionally, new. Indeed, it's not old, but the riders before me have clearly abused this poor bike. The same might be true of old Fred (the name we had for our bike). Like Fred, I'm contending with oil not staying where it is meant to. In this instance, it's just a weeping valve cover gasket, instead of oil spewing out of the shaft. Nevertheless, we feel compelled to check the oil at nearly every start. I reckon it's just easy conversation for dad and I. Filler: so rather than saying "um", dad will say: "We should check your oil before we get going again." Or, "Let's remember to check you oil before we get going in the morning."

We diligently check the oil, confirming that it is, in fact, fine. We've got a routine down too. I hold the bike level (because there is no centre stand) and dad crouches down to check the oil level. He can't find it and informs me I'm not holding the bike level. I jiggle the bike and dad confirms that, actually, it is level but he couldn't see it clearly for the dirty window. I should really just clean the window, but never remember until I'm holding the bike slightly "off" level again.

The check engine light came on about 400 miles ago too. That was very exciting. A light indicating trouble! This was too good to be true.... a clear cause for concern with no apparent symptoms. This was all the worry with none of the work! Brilliant. We've hit bike trip gold with this. Of course, by comparison, Fred had no check engine light but if it did, it probably would have blinked outrageously and very, very brightly at me. In fact, Fred had no lights at all by the end. No headlight. No taillight (or, worryingly,, brake light either). No indicators. In fact, nothing that required electrics worked. So, those wonderfully amazing heated handlegrips never worked when I needed them most. The Triumph has no heated handlegrips to go wrong or I am sure they would. In the end, the check engine light was probably just a vacuum tube that had rattled loose. The check engine in cars has to do mainly with the fuel injection and a loose vacuum hose would do it. We pushed it back on and... nothing. Still a check engine light. Now, there was no telling what was wrong. The possibilities were seemingly endless. We discussed most of them. And then, in moment of horrible anticlimax, it went off. I suspect the computer did its check on a timed cycle and it went off on the next sequence... or, possibly, like Fred it simply fixed itself. Fred often fixed himself. Very relieved when these things happen, as they do. Mind you, if it was fuel injection, Fred shared another similarity with the Triumph. Fred actually had carburetors, but they would randomly cease to contain petrol and it would spill all over everything until the caps were removed, cleaned and replaced. Either way, the fuel-air mixing device on both bikes seem to have propensity to cease to function as they should for no apparent reason.

Early in the ride, we realised that the rear tyre on the bike was well worn. Too well worn. Probably illegal. Fine, dad pointed out, if it doesn't rain. For the most part, it hasn't rained which is good because rain makes me overly nervous at the moment. That said, we did get caught in one particular onslaught of rain. It happened at the best possible time too. We had just climbed an impossibly high pass in the Swiss Alps. For a couple of miles across the summit, the road was carved out from the snow on either side. We were riding with 10 foot walls of snow on either side. It was surreal. Then, on the way down, it started to rain. My inner sense of vertigo already makes descents a little nerve wracking. Add to this one the fact that it was a true single track all the way down, owing to slight traffic that bothered with this tiny, steep pass. The single track just hung to the side of the mountain. With no barrier, the drop was sickening. Hundreds, maybe thousands of feet. And, every few hundred yards a shrine to some traffic fatality. And then the rain and the lightening. Heavy, alpine rain. Drops that seemed to explode on my helmet. You could see the water start to stream across the road. And was it ever dark, though only at about dinner time. Well, the fear was tangible. I had to summon some inner energy to force myself to drive down. Thankfully, despite me going very slowly, we came upon a car going more slowly. It was the perfect excuse to go more slowly... until he thought we wanted to go more quickly and pulled into a lay-by. My heart literally sank when he did. But, I re-summoned the energy. I've followed my dad on motorbikes since I was a kid and did it again on this occasion.

At the bottom, we arrived at Altdorf. This little town seems to have some connection with William Tell. I know this not because of my knowledge of Swiss history but because of every second building having some reference to him. In fact, we stayed at the Tell hotel. It was rubbish and I most certainly would not recommend it. That said, it was warm and dry. I got in, ate some schnitzel (no kidding), had a beer and went to bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Which is good, because today we hit two more passes. Thankfully, without the rain. Today, it was just the 22 mile run to the nearest open petrol station... all on a low fuel light. Another feature Fred went without.