Read Online Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies by Charley Boorman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charley Boorman
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We had planned
a couple of nights under canvas, which could be a complete disaster if this kept up. According to the news, Winnipeg had seen
more rain than they’d had in years, and the farmers had been unable to plant their crops.
Having ridden through the rain the previous day and with all my energy having been sucked out of me by the ice hockey, I fancied
just chilling for a while, so I wimped out, packed thebike in the trailer and decided to see if I could hitch a ride with Barry in his RV. Barry worked for Eagle Rider Motorcycles,
who had transported the bikes, and he was there to make sure we had back-up when we weren’t riding. To Barry that RV was home,
and he liked the fact that his home was portable. Except this morning, the morning I’d asked if I could have a lift, it didn’t
seem so portable after all. The batteries were flat – all six of them – and Barry spent a large part of the morning trying to
get it figured out, while I kicked my heels in the parking lot. Finally the sun came out and I decided I didn’t want the lift
after all.
I seemed to regain all my strength, and suddenly riding was all I could think about. It had nothing to do with the problems
with the RV – this was the first day in a week when the sun had been shining, and I wasn’t going to let that go by. With many
miles still to cover, the best way to do it was on two wheels, and all at once I was desperate to get under way. So off I
went again, and with the sky blue and the sun overhead, I could’ve ridden all day. In fact we arrived in Winnipeg in the late
afternoon. Passing under the railroad bridge, we followed the signs north for Main Street, where we’d been booked into the
Fort Garry Hotel. From the outside it looked innocuous enough, but inside was reputedly the most haunted hotel room in North
America. Room 202. Guess which room Russ had booked me into for tonight?
I hate all that stuff, really I do. I mean, what was he thinking? I can’t even watch horror movies and he knows that. But
this trip was about pushing the boundaries, and not just physically I suppose, so I had no choice. Having said that, it really
was a very nice hotel, palatial in fact, and we weren’t paying. We’d been on a very tight budget the whole trip, and this
night’s rest – if I was to get any rest in this haunted room – was courtesy ofthe Canadians. I guess they wanted to see how I would fare in Room 202.
The Fort Garry was built in 1913 by the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, and is only a block from Winnipeg’s Union Station. Those
railway entrepreneurs were certainly canny; they didn’t just create a method of getting from coast to coast, they cornered
the market in places to stay along the way. Anyway, against my better judgement I checked into Room 202 while the manager,
Paul, filled me in on what I might expect. He told me that many guests had seen the ghost of a young woman (which was better
than some demonic monster, I suppose, although not much). Apparently after only one day of wedded bliss, her husband had been
killed in a car crash and, devastated by grief, his young widow had hanged herself in the closet of the room I’d just been
allocated: oh joy and happy days.
As Paul took me up there, he told me it was not a popular room; apart from at Halloween, people who knew the history actively
avoided it. The widow had been spotted at the end of the bed and two maids claimed to have seen blood seeping from the walls,
which for someone like me was about as bad as it can get. Only a couple of months ago, a young woman had wanted her picture
taken by the door of Room 202, but her camera wouldn’t work. Moving down the corridor to Room 208 she tried again and the
camera was fine, so she went back to 202. Guess what? Yes, the camera failed again.
The corridor was like any other in this kind of upmarket hotel: nicely carpeted and quiet, you know the sort of thing. Room
202 was
a couple of nights under canvas, which could be a complete disaster if this kept up. According to the news, Winnipeg had seen
more rain than they’d had in years, and the farmers had been unable to plant their crops.
Having ridden through the rain the previous day and with all my energy having been sucked out of me by the ice hockey, I fancied
just chilling for a while, so I wimped out, packed thebike in the trailer and decided to see if I could hitch a ride with Barry in his RV. Barry worked for Eagle Rider Motorcycles,
who had transported the bikes, and he was there to make sure we had back-up when we weren’t riding. To Barry that RV was home,
and he liked the fact that his home was portable. Except this morning, the morning I’d asked if I could have a lift, it didn’t
seem so portable after all. The batteries were flat – all six of them – and Barry spent a large part of the morning trying to
get it figured out, while I kicked my heels in the parking lot. Finally the sun came out and I decided I didn’t want the lift
after all.
I seemed to regain all my strength, and suddenly riding was all I could think about. It had nothing to do with the problems
with the RV – this was the first day in a week when the sun had been shining, and I wasn’t going to let that go by. With many
miles still to cover, the best way to do it was on two wheels, and all at once I was desperate to get under way. So off I
went again, and with the sky blue and the sun overhead, I could’ve ridden all day. In fact we arrived in Winnipeg in the late
afternoon. Passing under the railroad bridge, we followed the signs north for Main Street, where we’d been booked into the
Fort Garry Hotel. From the outside it looked innocuous enough, but inside was reputedly the most haunted hotel room in North
America. Room 202. Guess which room Russ had booked me into for tonight?
I hate all that stuff, really I do. I mean, what was he thinking? I can’t even watch horror movies and he knows that. But
this trip was about pushing the boundaries, and not just physically I suppose, so I had no choice. Having said that, it really
was a very nice hotel, palatial in fact, and we weren’t paying. We’d been on a very tight budget the whole trip, and this
night’s rest – if I was to get any rest in this haunted room – was courtesy ofthe Canadians. I guess they wanted to see how I would fare in Room 202.
The Fort Garry was built in 1913 by the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, and is only a block from Winnipeg’s Union Station. Those
railway entrepreneurs were certainly canny; they didn’t just create a method of getting from coast to coast, they cornered
the market in places to stay along the way. Anyway, against my better judgement I checked into Room 202 while the manager,
Paul, filled me in on what I might expect. He told me that many guests had seen the ghost of a young woman (which was better
than some demonic monster, I suppose, although not much). Apparently after only one day of wedded bliss, her husband had been
killed in a car crash and, devastated by grief, his young widow had hanged herself in the closet of the room I’d just been
allocated: oh joy and happy days.
As Paul took me up there, he told me it was not a popular room; apart from at Halloween, people who knew the history actively
avoided it. The widow had been spotted at the end of the bed and two maids claimed to have seen blood seeping from the walls,
which for someone like me was about as bad as it can get. Only a couple of months ago, a young woman had wanted her picture
taken by the door of Room 202, but her camera wouldn’t work. Moving down the corridor to Room 208 she tried again and the
camera was fine, so she went back to 202. Guess what? Yes, the camera failed again.
The corridor was like any other in this kind of upmarket hotel: nicely carpeted and quiet, you know the sort of thing. Room
202 was
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