Rider profile: Howard Yegendorf

Name: Howard Yegendorf
Find me on Earth: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Find me online: www.yegendorflawfirm.ca
Interview Date: Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Interview Location: Laval, Quebec, Canada

Scootcommute: When did you start riding, how old were you?

Howard: I started riding in 2004 when I was 50

Scootcommute: How many motorbikes have you owned?

Howard: I've had two.

Scootcommute: What is your current bike, and is the current bike your favorite?

Howard: My current bike is a BMW R1200RT, and yes that bike is my favorite.

Scootcommute: Talk to me about the most challenging riding skill you learned.

Howard: I can name two: 1) Riding twisties in the rain; 2) Very slow riding.

Scootcommute: Are you a moto-commuter, a tourer, or a fair weather rider?

Howard: Mainly a tourer.

Scootcommute: Are you a solitary rider? How about riding in a group?

Howard: I prefer to ride alone or in a small group.

Scootcommute: I dare you to share an awkward or embarrassing riding moment.

Howard: Overwhelmed by a spectacular vista in Arizona, I forgot to put down the kickstand and I dropped my bike.

Scootcommute: What is the best place your bike has taken you?

Howard: Riding the Cabot Trail, in Nova Scotia.

Scootcommute: Tell me why you ride.

Howard: There are three things about riding I love: 1) the excitement; 2) the travel; and 3) the way it unclutters my mind.

Scootcommute: If I could grant you one riding wish, what would it be?

Howard: Safe travels. (And I wish you the same.)

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You can find other rider profiles on the Rider Profiles page

Still on a roll!

My luck with lobster was only going to get better.

Last weekend we went with good friends to Lucille's Oyster Dive.

Lucille's has to go straight onto my list of favorite restaurants.

It is the antithesis of the "Maître d'", jacket-and-tie, white table cloth, formal dining room experience. Well, maybe not the antithesis, they do have waiters, tables and chairs.

How to describe Lucille's?

The patrons were a 'with-it' bunch when we were there.  I hope we didn't detract overly from the vibe that Saturday night.  I think we're 'with-it', but our kids (who are definitely 'with-it') once famously told me that 'they' had changed what 'it' was, and now it was 'something else', other than the 'it' I was with.

Did I mention that the sound system was all blues tracks?  Yessir.  I love the blues.  Not just the blues, Jazz too, But the blues fit the mood of this place perfectly.

The restaurant has a bar, and the bar has oysters.

Then there's the scantily clad mermaid figurehead overseeing the goings on and staying abreast of the proceedings, as it were.

The most recent culinary offerings and libation options are scrawled on chalk boards.

The wait staff glide among the guests in the obligatory black, but rather than the usual spandex tube dresses, have opted for very fetching, shimmering silk, polka-dot, short, short, short skirts.

Sorry no pics of that attraction.  Come on now, this is a classy blog.  Use your imagination.

Now I will readily admit that the luscious scenery, though it sets the mood and matches the rhythm beautifully, does make it a tad more difficult for a guy to focus on the menu and make decisions.

Susan clearly wasn't distracted, and she casually snapped my mind back to attention with the usual 'have you decided what you're having?'

Oh, right...

The answer rolled off my tongue without a moment's hesitation.  "I'm having the Seafood Caesar".  Yes, yes, yes, I know that's not a suitable dinner choice, but it's definitely where I was going to start.  From there I was headed for the Surf-n-Turf.

I'll bet it's not what you're thinking.

Lucille's Surf-n-Turf is more of a Squeal-n-Roll.  Dry-rubbed babyback ribs, with sauce on the side, and a lobster roll.

That Caesar seemed to take forever to make its appearance.  I think it was the blues, the skirts, the steamy summer evening, and the slowly setting August sun that managed to stretch the wait in my mind.  When it finally arrived it immediately elicited oohs, and ahhs, from my fellow diners.

I was so carried away with it, that I forgot to take a picture until it was very nearly demolished, and its contents were happily adding to the intense pleasure I was basking in.  Let's just say that my Tommy Bahama silk Hawaiian shirt was the perfect uniform for my Caesar-induced, seafood-fueled, frame of mind.

I'll have to paint a picture with my words.  It came in a generous beer glass.  The edge was rimmed with fiery smokey embers, or so it seemed.  To fan the flames, there was a nice stalk of leafy celery, helping to maintain the vertical aspirations of a magnificent crab leg and claw.  A massive shrimp perched on the edge, and two Littleneck clams on the half shell nestled in the midst of the fantastic jungle, like surfers on hammocks at the end of a gnarly day at the beach.   The tumbler was full to the brim with the suitably kicky and clammy Caesar.

Now you can begin to understand why it only occurred to me to take the pic so late in this delightful game.

Susan ordered lobster rolls.  The helping was so generous, it yielded a take-home portion we shared for lunch the next day.

My Surf-n-Turf was a delicious distraction from my slowly dwindling Caesar.  The ribs were textbook samples, tender, and barely able to contain the bones.  They rested on some of the most perfect french fries I've ever had.  They were just the way I like them, with a deep rich potato flavour, a little limp, but retaining a hint of crispness, with nice caramel and cream colour tones.  I think they must have been fried in duck fat, or something equally decadent.

And then there was the lobster roll.  This was my second lobster roll in about a week's time.

I declare Lucille's lobster roll the winner over the Muvbox offering of a week earlier.

Please understand, you can't go wrong with either place.  In both cases the lobster is the undisputed star of the show.  Mayonnaise is only barely there, and definitely does no more than a cameo as a very discrete and retiring member of the supporting cast.  The roll at both Lucille's and Muvbox is the traditional hotdog roll, and it barely does more than serve as the utensil for moving the lobster from the plate to your mouth.

So what sets the Lucille's offering apart?  The flavour of the lobster itself of course.  Muvbox gets its lobster from the Magdalen Islands.  It's possible the frigid waters keep the flavour slightly in check.  Wherever Lucille's gets its lobster, they need to stick with it.  Yum!

If you're in Montreal and hankering for some comfort food and an all-around good time, make it over to Lucille's Oyster Dive in the Monkland village in NDG.

Oh, sorry, Montrealers have a nasty habit of turning the most fanciful place names into acronyms that only hold meaning for locals.  The Monkland village is in the heart of Notre Dame de Grâce, a 15 or 20 minute cab ride from downtown, but well worth the trip.

On a roll

A little while ago, on a Tuesday, I met up with Carl.

Carl used to be a Vespista, now he's a BMW R1200GS kind of guy.

Carl sold me my GTS last March.

He sure was happy to see me.  On second thought, was it seeing his first moto-love that accounted for the gleam in his eye?

We met at Mubox in the Old Port.

We traded touring stories over lunch.  Carl took the Maritimes by storm on his beemer last year... twice!  Once in September, and again in October.  He raved about the salt air, the empty highways, the charming folks he met.  He's likely to do it again.  He thinks I should do it too.

He wanted to know all about the 2013 Blogger to Blogger Tour, and how his GTS had fared on such a long and ambitious trip.  I was more than happy to oblige.

We also talked about GoPros.

Carl didn't yet have one, and someone in his circle of friends had some unkind things to say about it.  I explained how I use it, and added my two cents.  I'm a fan.  I believe the latest GoPro Hero has many features I would love to have.  Carl says he found a deal at $350 for the top-of-the-line GoPro.

All the chatter didn't prevent us from enjoying the excellent and very generous lobster rolls and New England clam chowder (as opposed to Manhattan clam chowder, or any of the other variants listed on Wikipedia).

When all was said and done, we shoved off and went our separate ways.

Yesterday morning I returned to snap a few more pictures of these shipping container transformer restaurants. It was the first time I saw them in their container shape. When they blossom and the bits fold out and the transformation takes place and crowds of hungry people surround them, it's not all clear that they can button back up into their container alter egos.

Montreal

This city has charm. Its charm runs deep. It has layers and textures. Montreal is a city of facets and contrasts.

It is old, and it is new.

It's French, and it's English, and Italian, and Portuguese. It is Greek, and Vietnamese. Chinese and German. It's proudly Jewish, and Catholic, Muslim and Hindu.

Montreal lives underground, and on a mountain. It's surrounded by water in the middle of a vast plain. Far inland, yet with an ocean port.

It can be steamy and hot, or bitterly cold.

It has passion, and culture runs very deep. It is strident, and gentle; boisterous, yet with dignity to spare.

Montreal loves food, and food loves Montreal.

Montreal strolls, it rides bikes. Traffic never stops. It gets around. Once or twice a year cars scream at hundreds of miles an hour, in Montreal.

We work hard, and play hard. We ski and we sail. Politics and controversy are a way of life here. We are discrete. Possessions and social standing are rarely a topic of conversation.

It's hard to be indifferent here. Over-stimulation is a risk.

So it's nice to shift gears sometimes. To coast into one of the city's layers, stop for a moment. Sit in the sun. Savour a rich impossibly perfect café au lait and croissant, leaf through a morning paper. Listen to children chatting as they make their way along the sidewalk.

Croissanterie Figaro is one of Montreal's Parisian oases. Fifteen minutes from the skyscrapers, yet a world away.

Ten minutes here lasts all day.

PS: I returned a few days later to indulge again.

Raising the roof, again

It's one of those semi-rare events, when the Blogger stats break another level.  For months on end the graphic box stays the same, and then signs loom of a coming change of ceiling.  For a few weeks I wonder 'will it, or won't it'.

Well, the bubble was set to burst, with less than a day's pageviews before the ceiling would pop up, and I couldn't just let it go unnoticed.  Without a pic, it just didn't happen.

Stats-guy, with his latest stick-figure exploit, helps to provide context.

He started his trek way back in January 2012.

He reappeared back at the end of March 2012 and we didn't see him again until...

... we caught up with him two years later, again in March, earlier this year.

And now here he is again, helping to raise the roof once more.

I need to take some drawing lessons from fellow blogger Stephanie Yue, because this little game of mine is only barely workable now. Stats-guy keeps shrinking.  Next time he shows up, he'll be a fly speck.

Tokens of appreciation

A while back Bob reached out to me. "iPhone 5 Vespa cases,  $10, do you want one? - Bob".

That's Bob.

If I were in a teasing mood, I'd accuse him of trying to even the score.  Although the truth is, the match is already so heavily tilted in Bob's favour, that I have only the faintest hope of catching up.

He sent along evidence of his find.

'I'll be in Vancouver on August 18' I told him. "I'll be out east on August 18" he replied.  Ha! Wouldn't you know.

A couple of days ago Canada Post delivered the case to me in one piece. The box it came in was mashed, but Bob explained that he mashed it. Apparently if you pre-mash the mail for them, Canada Post gives you a discount on the postage.  I suppose they see it as a win-win. Less tedious time-consuming work for them, so they split the savings with the sender.  Quite thoughtful. And delivering it in one piece, now that's a nice touch.

When I'm at work in a meeting, sipping coffee and checking my mail, people will know I'm a Vespa groupie for sure.

But wait, there's more.

I dropped in to Vespa Montreal on my lunch hour to browse and chew the fat with Paul Brunette the sales director.

Paul and all the staff were sporting Vespa Montreal T-shirts, and beaming smiles.  Good things and good vibes are happening there for sure.

I was wrapping up my visit when Paul asked if I had a Vespa Montreal T.   When I answered that I didn't, he promptly offered me one.

I really appreciate these tokens of appreciation.  They may be tokens, but the appreciation I know is very sincere, and it is truly nice to be appreciated. There's not enough of that going around in the world.

I think I'll tear a page from Sonja's book and indulge in a little bilingualism.

PS: Apologies to Paul, I managed to confuse his family name. Sorry Paul!

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C'est bien la première fois que j'écris un mot de Français ici, vous l'aurez constaté j'en suis certain.

J'écris en Anglais car c'est la meilleure façon d'atteindre le but que je me suis fixé il y a maintenant quatre ans: de retourner la faveur pour tous les conseils venant d'un peu partout via internet, conseils dont j'ai eu le bénéfice à l'époque que je me proposais, bien témérèrement, de voyager quotidiennement au bouleau en Vespa.

Vespa Montréal, et particulièrement Paul Brunette, ont figure de proue dans la réalisation de ce rêve. Sans les conseils de Paul et sa patience en souffrant très gentillement toutes les questions de néophite que je lui posais jadis dans la boutique Vespa de la rue St-Laurent (depuis disparue), je doute fort que j'aurais pu aboutir où je suis rendu aujourd'hui. Tant d'aventures, tant de nouveaux amis, tant de voyages, tant de bonheur, tous insoupçonnés au point de départ.

J'espère que mes lecteurs français n'ont pas trop de peine à suivre mes exploits, et à profiter de mes conseils.

Un grand merci à vous, et continuons de profiter de ce très bel été et de belles randonnées sur nos jolies bêtes italiennes.

PS: Mes sincères excuses à Paul, j'ai commis l'erreur inexcusable de lui avoir donné un nom de famille autre que le sien.  Il devait s'intérroger sur l'identité de sa sosie.

Making an impression

All life is ephemeral.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

Billions of men and women, many more billions of house pets, have come and gone.

Most of us leave traces in our wake. We live on for three or four generations in the memories of our loved ones and descendants.

One hundred years after our passing is my best estimate of the time it takes for the memory of us to dim to the faintest trace; to be barely discernible; perhaps only perceptible to the committed genealogists, and only if we are blessed to have one of those lunatic arborists in our extended family.

Of course there are exceptions.

There are those among us who have dared to be truly vile specimens in their lifetime. Their memory lives on for a while longer, in infamy, like the Boston strangler, or Jack the Ripper. Some particularly despicable miscreants, Caligula to call out an odious example, can persist in our collective memory for century upon century.

Those who, by dint of their singular will and charisma, have become towering political figures and commanded legions of us in their lifetime, conquering millions more, whether for good or ill, have clawed their way into the history books where their memory seems to be safe, if not for eternity, then at least for thousands of years. The Pharaohs come easily to mind.

But say, for instance, that subjugation, tyranny, and, to put it more simply, murder on an industrial scale, is not your thing.

What can simple, ordinary, loving, caring humans do to strive for immortality?

When an interviewer asked Woody Allen how he might achieve immortality, he replied “I don't want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying. I don't want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.”

Well this, dear reader, is your lucky day.

The secret for good people who strive to be remembered, is art.

Artists live on. Their memory is safe for as long as their art survives.

Authors live on as long as their words are remembered: Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Shakespeare,  Julius Caesar, Aristotle (OK, yes it's true, Julius did murder hundreds of thousands of his contemporaries, but, in his defence, it was more acceptable back in his day, and his memory lives more potently because of his writings - "... veni, vidi, vici!" - how poetic and succinct!).  These are the examples that come easily to mind without the aid of Google or Siri.

But if you really want to leave an impression, forget dancing, acting, or singing.  Nobody remembers those artists for very long.  Quick, name a hit tune from the 900s, 1100s, or even the 1460s (and I don't mean AM radio frequencies)?  See?

To achieve relative immortality, you've got to make a good impression. By that I mean, make a mark. Like a scratch, or a dent, or a chip, or a smear. Now we're talking the real deal.

Those who became serial smearers have left their mark: Picasso, Monet, Vermeer, Da Vinci, Tintoretto, and those graffiti taggers who defaced the caves of Lasceaux.

The scratchers, chippers, and denters may, just may, have done better: Hank Moore, Alex Caldwell, Louis Tiffany, Fred Remington, Augie Rodin, Bernini, Donatello (no, not the Ninja Turtle, the sculptor dude), and Alex of Antioch, to name a few.

Those who dared to cross platforms, to smear and to chip or tinker, just may be eternally immortal, like Leonardo (no, not Di Caprio or the Ninja Turtle, Da Vinci) and Michelangelo.

Don't get me started on the mudders, all those boys and girls who threw pots. They are among the oldest denters.  The more famous ones both dented and smeared.  In fact, it's the potters (no, not Harry) who really made their mark.

Makers' marks (no, not the bourbon). Don't believe me? Go no further than any episode of the Antiques Roadshow.

So what's a moto blogger to do to live on in popular memory?

We are artists. That's a decent start.

It's much too soon to tell how long our words and photos will persist. But there is definitely more than faint hope. Bits and bytes might just, in spite of their fragile nature ("my computer crashed!?!?!? I lost everything!?!?!"), be the cockroaches of all art media, virtually impossible to eradicate. Folks who suffer as victims of embarrassing content on the internet, have to resort to the highest courts to have the offending data expunged.

That said, there may be no substitute for making or leaving a mark.

I'm hedging my bets.

As a moto blogger I have made the bold move. I am a cross-platform artist. I have left a mark (many marks actually, truth be told). And now I'm recording it (them) right here, in this blog.

 

There, done.

Well at least it's a start.

Stop laughing.