Best of Barc's Chair - A Sampling of Lines

 

WANTED

A publisher or patron to commission an article, a series of articles, or even a full-fledged tome, chronicling this winter's Middle Child Tour, beginning February 3, 2016.  The MCT is a fully-sustainable, organically-grown sequel to last winter's selectively-successful First Born Tour. I speak of bike tours, of the two-wheeled, human-powered kind. More specifically, a father and son, Barc and Emer, cycling (cheerfully, uncomplainingly) from San Diego, California to St. Augustine, Florida.

 

PUBLISHER'S WHY?

Because you want this guy Barc providing content for your readership, if he does say so himself.  Please peruse the samples below, culled from last year's trip, to form your own opinion. 

 

BARC'S WHY?

Because if you spend two months straight with your child - 24 hours a day, every day - they may come to the conclusion, all by themselves, that saying bye to Mom and Dad and leaving the nest really isn't such a bad option.  Case in point: Seb is now in British Columbia.  Coincidence?  I think not.

 

 

Barc’s Chair - The Sample Edition

 

Barc and Seb, a Canadian father and son, cycled across the Southern U.S. last winter.  They began, but didn’t end, by pulling a giant chair behind them.  Barc wrote about the experience – hilariously.  Here are some samples…

 

On sleeping in a sketchy city park in Florida…

“When last we spoke, an anxious night had been passed - a night where a father's concern for his own welfare was unnecessarily complicated by qualms about using his own child as a human shield.”

 

On the fitness regimes of Alabama women…

 “The startlingly pretty wife of the proprietor had both Seb and I a little tongue-tied when ordering, as we'd encountered precious few Southern Belles who hadn't chosen The Waffle House to cater for their wedding.”

 

On crossing a Louisiana train bridge…

“So rather than detour 3-5 hours, Seb and I sauntered across the bridge - if you can call ten minutes of epileptic quailing on a narrow metal catwalk sauntering.”

 

On getting lost in Texas Hill Country…

“But, just pass the henhouse or the outhouse or the doghouse, the little-lane-that-could kept farting along, passing through yet another rusting gate, looking like the Yellow Brick Road ten years after the Munchkin Party repealed taxation.”

 

On being given a free cabin to stay in…

“Our benefactress is a true Good Samaritan, with no apparent ulterior motive. If I survive the night, I’m going to be a better person tomorrow. The rotting smell under the floorboards isn’t worrisome. I mean, you wouldn’t store bodies under the Killing Cabin itself, would you?”

 

On blog entries…

“That was two days ago. Like crash-test dummies hitting a brick wall, let’s move forward.”

 

On agricultural techniques outside of El Paso…

“Turns out you harvest pecans the same way you discipline wayward children - grab them by the neck and shake the idiocy, or pecans, out of them.”

 

On breakfast at an RV Campground in Hope, Arizona…

“For $3.50 we gorged our physical selves but, more importantly, scratched the spiritual itch that can only be reached by bad coffee in styrofoam cups, an announcement of memorial services for Edgar, a $12.00 jackpot on a 50/50 raffle, and the soothing white noise of loose-dentures slipping over shrivelled gums.”

 

On finally crossing Texas…

“Texas was interesting in parts, in LARGE parts, but so was Mama Cass, and I expect most guys were glad to be done with her too.”

 

On camping at a closed-for-repair rest stop in the desert…

“Everybody has private jets these days, but who among the 1 %-ers are pitching a tent beside the "Not All Cacti are Pricks" display at their own private rest stop along the Interstate?  Damn few that’s who.”

 

On soliciting stories for Barc’s Chair at a San Diego Hostel…

“Seb, on the other hand, has that whiff of a used car salesman on an unusually-long crystal-meth jag, jittery, rambling, possibly well-meaning, but ultimately toxic and on the edge of sticking a knife in your eye.”

 

On pre-trip planning…

“Apparently I don't handle stress well.  I've been standing paralyzed in the dining room for the last ten minutes, surrounded by Barc's Chair detritus, staring blindly and making little rhythmic mewing noises, like an endless loop featuring the Top Ten Therapist Sounds of Acknowledgement.”

 

On parenting skills…

“Full night had fallen as Seb, who's never pedalled a fully-laden touring bike, followed me out into blackness, like the only-surviving duckling of a really bad mother duck.”

 

 

Should you wish to reach Barclay Dowd, please email:  dowdfamily@sympatico.ca