Reefer Porn

What is reefer porn I asked myself? Is it The Dude sitting in a smog of his own pot smoke in The Big Lebowski? Or the latest Howard Marks book? Nope. You want the dope? It's what I typed into someone's medical records today!

I'd meant to type "refer prn" but as I watched my hands dance over the keyboard like squirrels on speed, I realised typos were a real danger as I watched "reefer porn" appear before my eyes.

It's a struggle to keep to schedule even when things are running smoothly and when things get away from you, entering the notes is one area where you think you can make up time.

So today, I noticed that rather than controlling a patient's blood pressure I'd typed: "BO controlled." One man had had regular "stolls" rather than stools (giving alarming mental images of the stollen cake I'd eaten on the coast to coast a couple of years back and my sudden realization of it's similarity to the stool I'd turned it into 3 days later - it was that heavy).

All easily explained to the nice lawyers as typos, I'm sure, if I ever had to refer to these entries in court. All of this however, paled into the insignificant today as I heard myself say "nice even breasts" to a women whose chest I was examining. I meant "take nice even breaths," your honour. Yeah, right.

Tronno 2

"Jeez its flat," is all I could think as we flew in to Toronto. Toront, as mis-said by the Japanese, or Tronno as it's known to the locals, sits in an epic flatness that out-Norfolks Norfolk. It is slightly hillier, only slightly - but it is spread over such a big region that seemingly bunked off Topography 101 whilst at the University of Landscape.

After a quick sleep at Ed and Lucy's kindly loaned condo, we headed south in our Not-So-Smart Car. Sure we were helping the planet, but who was helping us amongst these 18 wheelers, Hummers and monstered-up pick-ups? Next stop Buffalo, New York.




The US Border Patrol were polite but oh-so-slow, and it took them 150 minutes to decide that we weren't actually al-Quaida in disguise.
"What address will you be staying at?" said the uniform.
"Well, we're actually just popping to a lockup to collect some stuff. We'll be here less than 12 hrs."
"Do you know the address? I guess I'd better put that on the form," was said with disbelief that anyone wouldn't want to stay forever in his land of plenty and I suspect a suspicion that as illegal immigrants we may try and live in a lock-up garage.

After surveying just exactly how much junk we have in storage, it was time for a quick vehicle change, then we were headed north in a much more appropriate automobile for survival on these roads: the Highlander (I wonder if they make the "there can be only one" car sticker I want?).

Back in Toronto we checked out the neighbourhoods: Little Italy, Greektown, Little India, Chinatown.... Is any of it Canadian? Yes, The Beaches, a waspish enclave that's perhaps a little too new age: Starbucks sits proudly on the corner dishing out it's caffeine hits whilst it's downstairs for "dessert" where they do a roaring trade cleaning out the toxins you've just ingested.

Over the bar

Just a quickie about this Pittsburgh institution. Over the Bar styles itself as a "bicycle cafe" which here in Pittsburgh means ten beers on draft and a serious line in burgers, nachos and enchiladas each with it's own not-completely-sequitur cycle-related name: the "Granny Rings" being beerbattered onion rings and the "Fixie" being a no compromise, no-variations-permitted plain burger. The PGH (portobello mushroom, gruyere and ham panini) is the local hipsters favourite with its 50c contribution to bikepgh.org - the cycling advocacy organisation. Anyway etc, you get the picture.

Earlier in the week I'd ridden Frick again then later in the week North Park, gotten lost, wandered along a rail road a la "Stand By Me", developed cramp and a poison ivy rash. So, 90 mins of world cup qualifier boredom, a Moab burger and 2 not-quite-pints of draft Sierra Nevada later, I was ready to meet Mrs Doubleu after her last day at UPMC Childrens, feeling that my 'Burgh biking education was complete*.

*The author reserves the right to, at some point in the future, possibly as an unsupported bikepacker, return to Pittsburgh and complete the 330 mile off-roader to Washington DC. Yes, Mrs Doubleu, that is for your information and I will require pickup in DC, please.

Toront 1

It started so well: the out-of-hours powers-that-be allowing me to still work my overnight shift (€A$H) but leave an hour early to catch my plane. I did my best to scupper things by leaving my iPhone and charger in Durham when I was clearly going to need it to meet up with Mrs Doubleu in Schipol. She'd caught an earlier airmiles funded flight (-too much transatlantic living... but I wouldn't be complaining later as I entered the calming oasis of the executive lounge in the wake of her shining gold card).

So after a quick detour via home (Hi Jeff! Hi Max!) to dump my doctoring gear, I realised this essential kit was missing and rang work. I was informed that Andy, a kindly ECP, was hotfooting it to Newcastle International with the offending items. Cue comedy scenes: as Vicky in Durham, with a phone to each ear (yes, very 24) directs 21st century Andy on his mobile to the payphone where I'm anchored seemingly in 1989 (yes, I know... a payphone!!!?!).

Andy handed over the brown envelope, bulging with iPhone and charger, then we both sauntered to the short stay carpark to beat the reg plate recognition camera system "20 minutes for £1" cut off deadline. Wheelspinning to the exit, I then left my engine running, as I ran back to help Andy out (no change) by throwing £1 into the paybucket.

Panting and a little clammy, I was back at security after a 10 minute run back from long stay parking. Hand luggage only with a preprinted boarding card, I took the contents of the package and stuffed them in my carry-on bag as I stood in the queue for the scanners, trying to blend in amongst the St Tropez, faux Gucci and crop tops. Good to see such keen eyes for suspicious behaviour at security.

I touched down in Schipol and as we taxied in to the gate I received a text with precise directions to the rendezvous where I offloaded the contents of the package to Agent Mrs Doubleu who was getting dangerously low on charge herself.

As I explained my actions to Interpol later, as I nursed my coffee in the holding cell, "Real spooks wouldn't use iPhones- you just can't depend on the battery life..." or was that just my cover story. "And anyway, what do you mean the airport art gallery is closed? I wanna see those cows!"