Wiarton Foodland

Had to take the farm manager into town the other day for a spot of shopping.

She's perfectly capable of driving herself into town of course, but it seems to be a point of honor among Jewish women to never drive themselves if they can corner somebody to drive for them.

So I endure this ritual several times a week, which raises another question.

How is it possible to spend an hour in Foodland on a Saturday, and then need to return on Sunday because the orange juice and the milk are running low?

Could that not have been forseen on the previous day?

But I digress.

By mutual agreement I don't ever actually enter the Foodland with her. From my point of view, I have already suffered enough.

From her point of view, my presence would unnecessarily becloud the shopping experience.

That ten minutes standing in the snack aisle deciding between Regular and Salt 'n Vinegar is much more pleasant without some old crank making it perfectly clear it doesn't matter one way or the other.

So I sit tight in the parking lot.

The other day I was absently eye-balling this elderly Japanese straight four parked across from me. No decals showing and it could have been any of the major brands. After Honda brought out the 750 in the early 70's they all got into the act. So I don't know if it was a Suzuki or a Honda or a Kawasaki, but it was old and a little rough.

Had the low bars, no bags, no carrier, and I wondered how much shopping a person could do and still ride that bike home.

In the fullness of time an elderly gentleman carrying two Foodland bags emerges from the store and heads for the bike.

Well, this will be interesting...

When I say "elderly gentleman" I mean he's got at least a decade and a half on me. He's sporting a ratty leather jacket, white shorts, white socks, and sandals.

Right away I realize the man uses the same fashion consultant as I do.

He cinches up the leather jacket at the waist. Then he starts pulling stuff out of those plastic bags and stuffing it down the front of the jacket.

Out of one bag he's fetched an 18 pack of eggs and a packet of bacon and and out of the other I see him lifting a quart of milk and several small items I can't identify.

Unhooks a bright yellow and orange Shoei from the side of the bike and fires 'er up.

That burble from the four-into-one header says 900 Honda to my ear, but I could be wrong.

He exits the parking lot. Thirty seconds later I hear him banging shifts at a good nine or ten thousand as he tears up the North Hill!

Worth the trip to Wiarton...