Last Rides

As I write this my heart is heavy, my eyes are tearing up just a tiny bit and the rather large whisky and soda at my elbow really is there to ease the pain. The moment I have been dreading since April has finally arrived, officially my riding season is over…finished, done, klaar, kaput. The Boulevard is taking a long, well deserved vacation in Barrie Harley Davidson in the company of others of its kind. It will spend the next five to six months warm and cozy and well looked after in heated winter storage. Apparently I may actually go and visit, but if I do, I certainly won’t be telling you about it, that will seem a tad over-obsessed. If you live in a place that doesn’t have a real winter you may be a little puzzled by all of this. Here in Canada, most of it anyway, it gets way too cold and icy to ride, in Ontario with the high moisture content in the air, leaving your motor cycle in the garage will result in rust, not to mention the danger of getting scratched by snow shovels and so on. Harley Davidson in Barrie offer a great service at a reasonable price, they stabilize the fuel, keep the battery charged, wash and shine your beast before you fetch it and, as I said, let you visit from time to time.   

Could the flag have been anything else? 

There was some paperwork to be done, which included recording an odometer reading, 13,032 Km. Fuck me, that is not shabby, when I took delivery of the bike back in late April it was like 2 Km., I don’t travel that far in the Dodge Caravan in a full year. I know that a lot of motorcyclists are grumbling that this was not the greatest of biking seasons and I concede freely that my lack of experience is at work here, but this for me was just an awesome year. I did not need perfect weather, half the time I did not even need to know where the hell I was going, all I know is that I rode and I lived and I learned so much along the way. I learned to really ride, to master the machine and respect our limitations, I learned my way around the area and discovered how beautiful this part the world is, and I learned some things about myself, some good and some bad. Most of all I learned to love life again, yet be prepared to lose it, it’s a paradox, but I have come to realize that only when you live on the edge do you know what living means. This is something I once knew, but had forgotten along the way.

Since driving to Ottawa and back in my car, I have managed a few short-ish, but still decent rides. It is Saturday October 18, Helena and I ride up to Barrie Harley Davidson to test ride some bikes. It is an event arranged by Harley Davidson, a marketing exercise, but fun nonetheless. It’s a chance to ride their bikes over a route of about 15 km, in formation with 10 or so other riders. Regretfully we are a bit late in getting there, so I only manage to get one ride. I ride a Fat Boy…nice machine! A little more powerful than the Boulevard, more responsive and I really like the gear changes, smooth as eggs, but a rather pricey option at $22,000 before windshield and touring bags, at least it has a passenger seat and Jesus strap. For the uninitiated, a Jesus strap is the belt that the passenger is supposed to hold onto, and when you accelerate he or she calls out, as they grip the belt with renewed dedication, ”Jeeeesus!”. It’s air-cooled which gives it a more traditional look, but I like the idea of liquid cooled, it feels to me like the engine takes less of a beating when you are riding in slow traffic. I would have liked to have ridden some of the other offerings, maybe next time I’ll get there earlier and ride them all!   

http://www.harley-davidson.com/en_CA/Motorcycles/fat-boy.html

Fat Boy, nice ride. 

Helena and I do a good ride the next day on a bright, but rather cold Sunday morning. It’s about 4 degree C when we leave home, justifying the layers of clothing and Kermit suit. We go through Beeton to Loretto (one horse town and the horse definitely died a century ago) to Hockley Village, there are a couple of fabulous S bends on the way. We stop at the famous Hockley General Store to take a pee and get some coffee, lots and lots of motor bikers hanging out, mostly old farts. It’s a nice little place and much more than a general store, actually it’s a restaurant, liquor store, purveyor of fine groceries and crappy souvenirs and coffee. We realize that we were hungry, but want something with less carbs than sandwiches and faster than the sit-down stuff, so we buy a block of aged Balderson’s cheddar, hummus and coffee. I realize that my folding knife didn’t make it on the trip so I to buy a souvenir butter knife and some wooden spoons. We feast on the cheese and hummus, then get back on the cycles and follow Hockley road to Orangeville. It’s a really great ride, pavement in top conditions, fabulous twists and turns and stunning views. Clearly, by the amount of motorcyclists we encounter (lots and lots of awfully cool gesturing), this is a particular popular ride. From Orangeville we take Highway 10 (Hurontario Street) south, until we reached the Forks of Credit Road, I have written about this route before (see ‘Manly Man in Tights’), and now in full Fall colors it’s totally gorgeous. We loop through the Town of Erin, doing a Fall Festival that includes some bad country musicians playing on the lawn of the Baptist Church, thank goodness for full face helmets and loud exhaust pipes. We travel through Caledon Village on County Road 24 to Airport Road, then north to Highway 9 and home.

Yours truly dressed in full regalia 

Friday evening October 24, sees us riding up to Barrie to put the bikes into winter storage, it’s a glorious autumn day. Reasonably warm and more or less wind still, we leave home at about 4.30 taking Highway 9 to highway 27, then north to Barrie. Along the way I decide that I want to keep my Boulevard for another few days. The idea of putting it into storage whilst the weather is so lovely goes against the grain, actually the very thought of ending the riding season is just too bloody awful to contemplate. My stepson, Anton, meets us there to fetch us, but as it turns out its only Helena that goes home in the car. I have a crazy notion to return home by way of Orillia and Beaverton. That would take me around Lake Simcoe, Iron John loves the idea and I take Highway 400 north, but don’t even make it past three exists when I realize that this is foolishness, the sun is setting so fast it makes the head spin. I take the next exist and turn around feeling slightly silly, but riding these roads at night on a motorcycle can be fatal, too many critters about that are likely to wander onto the pavement. I take Essa Road exit and head home on my old friend, Highway 27. I know that I’m riding on overdraft, the season is over, but I’m still riding, I like the idea of it.  By the time I get home its pitch dark.

Some trees are still dressed in red

Fall sunset in Newmarket

I plan a ride for Sunday that will take me to Stratford, then down to Port Dover on Lake Erie, before heading home. It’s an ambitious plan and I’d feel happier about it if the clouds didn’t hang quite do ominously overhead, gunmetal-blue, churning and moving across the sky at a rate that does not encourage. It’s cold, but not actually raining, I dither, drink coffee, check e-mails, eat breakfast, clean the kitchen and finally man-up enough to grab my keys and head outside to the garage. It’s a full regalia moment, tights and Kevlar jeans (never mind the butt crack problem), T-shirt, shirt, mesh jacket with lining, double socks, scarf and of course the Kermit rain suit. I don’t mention thick leather gloves and full face helmet because these items are implied, though they do help with keeping the cold at bay. I have tried to wear a Balaklava, but find that this causes my visor to mist up more than usual, actually it makes it impossible to ride with the visor down.

The route takes me to Orangeville on highway 9, I take the ring road around the town and pick up county road 109 for a few kilometers, then south on Highway 3. Since leaving home it’s been reasonably cold and there’s been a strong gusty wind. Once or twice I’ve been blown almost onto the shoulder, a little scary, but I’m watching for it. But it’s here, a few kilometers down Highway 3 that things start to go tits-up. The temperature drops significantly, you know that sudden coldness that descends just before a storm, and the wind gets really bad. The Weather Network, lying bastards, did promise no rain, but some icy drops are certainly descending.  As I cross highway 24 I make an executive decision to abandon my plans for Stratford and Lake Erie. In my defense my toes feel like some crazy sadist has clipped crocodile clips on them, by chin has gone into rigor and my hands are colder than a witches titties. I turn east on 24 and head towards Erin, Forks of Credit, Hurontario Street and Hockley Valley.  

Forests looking threadbare

There is a decidedly end of autumn feeling in air. Although there are still some trees with a full complement of red leaves, mostly the forests are looking bare and the ground is covered in a thick layer of brown and yellow leaves. I know that officially winter only begins on the solstice, but for me the cut-over is Halloween. Sure I have a slightly different definition of winter to real Canadians, I did after all grow up in a place where folks considers 2 degrees Celsius to be Arctic weather. I’ve become somewhat used to the winter in southern Ontario, and in comparison to some other places in Canada it is considered to be mild, but it really isn’t the sort of weather I want to ride my motorcycle in. By the time I pass the Hockley General Store I’m hungry and desperate for something hot to drink. Coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich followed by a good helping of heartburn. I head for home. I am disappointed in myself and in the ride. There are lots of other motorcyclists out, diehards like me, but I suspect that for them too, the enjoyment factor is not as high as one would like it to be. Running into bad weather on a trip is one thing, you suck it up and ride or find somewhere to hole-up whilst it passes, but forcing the issue for the sake of doing distance is another. The plump dachshunds are at least happy to see me, and take a break from their busy day to give me a warm and noisy welcome.

Dachshunds going about their busy day 

Monday it rains and the Weather Network is less than positive about the rest of the week, even forecasts “mixed precipitation” for Wednesday, a euphemism for god awful slushy mix of rain and snow. Tuesday it seems is the only window of reasonable weather, slightly warmer and mostly dry. I make the heart-wrenching decision to take the Boulevard in to storage, assuming that the forecast holds, it does, more or less. Anton good-naturedly agrees to fetch me. I planned to leave home at 4.30 take a leisurely ride up the Barrie, but somehow only manage to leave at 5.10 (I’m making a habit of leaving late), they close at 6.00 so the leisurely ride goes out of the window. It’s a wild dash on the 400 motorway in peak hour traffic. Traffic speed is between 110 km/h and 140, and the condition of the pavement is poor, half of the way it’s under construction and the other half is clearly soon to be that way, It’s a stretch of road that takes a real hammering. It’s an exhilarating ride at the top end of the traffic speed, I duel with trucks adorned with “trucknuts” dangling from trailer-hitches and feel in control, it’s an illusion, I know, but a great feeling. I get there with 20 minutes to spare. Somehow the ride is an appropriate way to end the season for me, with a bang and not with a whimper (apologies to T S Elliot).   

Picture of  a table on our deck, it actually did snow on November 1, a light dusting to be sure, but it snowed. 

Will I carry on blogging? I may post a few over the winter, assuming that I have something related to riding motorcycles to write about, but don’t expect too much. I’ll start posting again in the spring, if I am still around. Thanks for reading - cheers and have a bearable winter if you’re north of the equator, and a great summer if you are south. 

Ottawa - The Ride That Wasn’t

It’s one of those moments...should I, shouldn’t I? I have to go to Ottawa (or as it’s pronounced by Anglophone Canadians “Oddawah”), to attend a conference. I know this sounds terribly exciting, it is after all a conference for accountants, more specifically accountants involved in the public sector, but I am trying to decide if I should make it even more exciting by riding my motorcycle there and back.  A few weeks ago this would have been a no-brainer, I’d have been on that Boulevard like white on rice, but now I waiver, it’s the weather you see. I can handle a bit of rain, I can handle some cold, I can handle wind, but I am not sure that I want to ride nearly 500 km there and the same back through rain, cold and wind and that is pretty much what www.theweathernetwork.com is saying about Sunday through to Tuesday. Friends and family urge caution, Iron John inside me wants to ride the storm. I am sorry to admit that I wimp out. Shameful admission though it is, I will not pretend that I braved the storms on the Boulevard, instead I drove the Dodge Caravan – sad old joker that I am.

I manage to leave a little later than intended (as bloody usual), so decide to take the 401 motorway. Before leaving home I grab a few CDs from the collection and toss them onto the passenger seat – actually it’s been a long time since they saw service, what with YouTube and iTunes, CDs have gone the same way as vinyl. Some classic Eric Clapton and a more recent album where he does Country and even a bit of Reggae, the man has talent and like Keith Richards all the drugs in the world can't silence him. Koos Kombuis reminds me of a previous life, the haunting sounds of the soundtrack to the movie The Mission (Robert De Niro, Jeremy Irons and a very youthful Liam Neeson before all that Taken shit), and a still wonderful compilation CD from 1999 – Radio 94.7 Highveld Stereo – featuring songs like Maria by Blondie, Simply Red and The Air That I Breathe, Savage Garden To the Moon and Back, and Perfect 10 by Beautiful South, keep me company. It is marvelous, but tame, oh so tame, however I seem to be vindicated, the weather is really foul. I stop at an Onroute for gas and the wind knifes icily through me, I have seen not a single motorcyclist since turning onto the motorway. Contrast to when I rode to the Adirondack, just a week or so before, man the weather changes fast at this time of year.

Driving along listening to music I realize something that hadn’t come to mind about riding my motorcycle. Driving in a car one has the need to be interacting with the world outside your head, listening to music or chatter on the radio, talking to passengers, assuming you have any. When I’m on the Boulevard, it’s just me and my thoughts, it’s become my quiet time, paradoxically I suppose, considering all that’s going on when you ride. It’s meditation of sorts, Zen at 130 Km/h. This is the time that I’ve been able to put so much into perspective. It has been humbling and empowering at the same time. I wouldn’t swap the hours on my motorcycle for a hundred times those hours more living, because that living is filmed in sepia and riding a motorcycle is in Technicolor.       

Just past Kingston I take Provincial Road 15 north to Smith Falls, ultimately to join up with Highway 7 at Carleton Place. Smith Falls holds a few powerful memories for me, it feels like a million years ago, but was just in the spring that Helena and I rode to Rigaud in Quebec for a memorable few days. It started to rain just after Smith Falls, we were travelling east on Provincial Road 43, not particularly heavy rain, but we stopped on the hard shoulder, such as it was, and donned the rain gear. Our mistake was to only put on the jackets, foolishly thinking that the trouser part was not really necessary, actually it’s the trousers that are the most important part of the outfit. We hadn’t gone far when it became evident that the rain strikes you on the shins, goes straight through the cotton of your jeans and runs down your legs into your boots, very unpleasant. Today I am going north through Smith Falls and it is raining cats and dogs – is it ever dry here?

Eventually I meet up with Highway 7, which is by now a dual carriage way, the sun has set and according to my Dodge Caravan’s instruments the external temperature is 4 degrees C. I tell Iron John that really, riding this on the Boulevard would have been hell, he tells me that I’m just a mommy’s boy… I deal with that, fuck him and his testosterone issues. Highway 7 becomes Highway 417 that takes me into Ottawa. After a bit of getting lost, not unusual for me, I am a little dyslexic when it comes to left, right and east and west, eventually I find the guest house. For some reason north and south does not present me with any issues.  Alexander House on Besserer Street turns out to be a really great find. My hosts, Sharon and Stephen, are an interesting and very pleasant couple and the room and indeed guest house is full of beautiful antiques. My only complaint is the weak Wi-Fi signal in the room, when I move my laptop to the dining room it is fine. Sharon is also ok with serving me breakfast at 7.00 a.m. a ridiculous hour dictated by some overeager accountant who wants the day to start  with registration at 8.00 a.m. Breakfast is served on Sharon’s lovely collection of white and blue crockery – Spode, Delft and Willow Pattern – a great meal with pleasant conversation, despite the uncivilized hour. 

Besserger Street

Modestly Prosperous 

Ottawa is a city of civil servants, a bit like Pretoria and I suppose like Washington and Canberra, but perhaps less contrived, at least it seems to be less designed and more accidental. It has that prosperous, yet modest air of a government town. I pass several embassies, confirming this is the capital. The Angolan embassy pulls a bit at my heart strings, sometimes when I’m reminded of Africa I get a powerful longing to return to the tropical heat and wilderness. I miss African people (black people) the most, their inherent kindness and capacity to survive and enjoy life despite terrible poverty, lack of opportunity and very often horrendous oppression.

Angolan Embassy 

As things turn out I don’t get a lot of time to explore the city other than the 25 minute walk from Alexander house to the Ottawa Conference Centre, but I find myself drawn to this city. This is a city of great compromise, an Anglophone Canadian city that realizes that it must accommodate, nay embrace, Quebec, and is truly the better for it. Ottawa has a sophistication that is more encompassing than any other city that I have been to in Canada. The balancing act that Canada performs to keep the interests of the Quebecois and the rest of Canada in sync seems to me to be symbolized here. I understand that the city was selected to be the capital city of Canada by Queen Victoria mainly as it is about equidistant between Toronto and Quebec City, a good compromise. My walk eventually brings me to the entrance to the Conference Centre, I know it is supposed to resemble a tulip, but frankly I don’t see it. It’s a moderately interesting glass building attached to a shopping centre, slightly out of character with the surroundings, but does not clash too much.  I sign in and conference away for the next two days.

The City of Gold, with Tulip in Foreground

Tuesday afternoon arrives and the coven of accountants breaks up, all of us much wiser and our craft honed to perfection. I bid farewell to my hosts in Besserer Streey and navigate the Dodge Caravan to Highway 417 westbound. It’s cold and rainy and as I leave the city the heavens open, I travel through a downpour of biblical proportions that even Moses would have been proud of it. Visibility is cut to 50 metres and the highway becomes a river. I am glad not to be on a motorcycle, this would be a profoundly dangerous ride, not to mention how uncomfortable it would be. The storm does not last and by the time I reach Highway 7 it is dry and the sun has come out, I wish I was on the Boulevard again. Driving, compared to riding a motorcycle, is like eating chocolate with a condom on the tongue, now there’s a mixed metaphor for you!

My plan is to follow the Trans Canadian and retrace the road that Helena and I rode to Rigaud and back in the spring. It was our first long ride and we were both a little nervous when we set out. We had originally planned a longer trip, Rigaud was intended to be merely the first stop, then onto Île d’Orléans via Trois-Rivières. From a base in Île d’Orléans we planned to day trip down the Saint Lawrence and return home on a route that would have taken us through Maine, Vermont and the Adirondack. It would have been absolutely fabulous and I’d like to do it sometime, but we realized that it was overly ambitious and would take more time than we had available. I suspect Helena was also reluctant to leave the chubby little dachshunds to the tender mercies of the younger generation for the week or so, lest we return to emaciated little dachshunds. In stages we moderated the plan, and in the end it was just to Rigaud, day trip in the area, stay a second night and ride back. Modest in comparison to the original idea it was nonetheless a great three days and actually just the right distance, there is a type of fitness that one needs to build up to handle long rides. If you are not used to it you get tired and make stupid mistakes.  

Helena on her Harley D (883 Sportster) and I on the Boulevard B.O.S.S., we left home at about 8 in the morning. We took a slightly longer route to get to the Trans Canadian Highway in order to go through the Kawartha Lakes Region. Up until that point a long ride for us had been to the town of Lindsay, the main town of the Kawartha Lakes District, now it was just a coffee stop on the way – Tim Horton’s and a few double espressos. We picked up the Trans Canadian just after Lindsay and headed towards Peterborough through Omemee, home town of Neil Young, currently grumpy looking grandpa, once the fourth wheel of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. We bypassed Peterborough, travelling on a short stretch of dual carriageway. Our exposure to motorways had been limited and it was an exciting, if slightly scary, experience. Back on normal roads, the Trans Canadian traversed farmlands, but these soon gave way to forests, this is the Canadian Shield and there is not enough topsoil to do much intensive farming. It was late spring and all around the world was in the process of reawakening. It still blows me away how in the winter the plants die away and snow covers everything, then spring arrives and by June, Southern Ontario looks more like a tropical paradise than anything else. Helena is a keen gardener, and works hard to plant, mulch, mow and do all the other earthy pursuits involved in making our garden look as great as it does, but out here it’s all the workings of nature – just wonderful.            

We followed the Trans Canadian to Madoc where we took a coffee break and gassed up the motorcycles. Just before the gas station we passed the mad guy of Madoc’s place, at least that’s what we think of him – reminiscent of Howling Mad Murdock. From Madoc to the town of Perth the Trans Canadian goes through the loveliest stretch imaginable. Even now as I drive back from Ottawa on this road in the fall it is an absolute gorgeous stretch – lakes, rivers and ponds uncountable, now the forests are red and yellow tinged, rather than light green of spring that Helena and I rode through. We parted company with the Trans Canadian at Perth, where we took the provincial road 43 to Smith Falls. As we rode there was a sense that we were riding just ahead of a storm, it was chasing us eastwards, but as Hollywood will attest, nature will catch up with you, and we were forced to deal with the rain, poorly as mentioned earlier.

Howling Mad Madoc's Place

We crossed from Ontario into Quebec just after the village of Alexander. I have Anglophone Canadian friends that refuse to travel through Quebec on the grounds that they cannot abide the French. I have dealt with French speaking Canadians that refuse to speak English though they can. People, really, are we Canadians or not? Ok so I’m going to say something unpopular here – WAKE THE FUCK UP! The French and Indian War ended in 1763… that is a QUARTER OF A MILLENIUIM ago!  Underlying all divisions between human tribes is self-interest of one or other politician. I absolutely love to visit Quebec, it’s like taking a trip to Provence, without the expense of a transatlantic flight. The guesthouse in Rigaud is situated high up on the hill (mountain?)  Le Point de Vue - see www.lepointdevue.net. It is run by a gay couple that make you feel really welcome, even though we speak no French and they speak little English. The room is tastefully furnished with a stunning view over the Ottawa valley. We were tired, cold and hungry and after a shower we took a taxi into town in search of a nice French meal, it was still raining. It turned out that although Rigaud is a skiing resort and a university town in a French speaking province, it is cursed with a complete dearth of decent restaurants. I could not believe it, the best place to have dinner had pictures of the dishes on the menu (always a bad sign) and the food was pretty disappointing.

Breakfast the next morning was, however, a very different proposition. I hadn’t read the literature properly so was unaware of the treat in store, like it or not we were in for a six course breakfast. Helena and I are poached eggs and coffee fans, as far as breakfast is concerned, but for fear of offending our hosts we soldiered through – it was really good, just more than we could handle. We waddled out from the breakfast room at about ten, sleepy and at least an hour behind schedule, never mind it was fun, so who cares.  Our planned route for the day took us to Grande Île, down to Ormsville, through Franklin and eventually north through Huntingdon. It was a great day trip, lots of twists and turns and fabulous countryside – agriculture, but on a smaller scale and less industrial than Ontario.  Our route back to Rigaud was intended to take us onto the Autoroute De Souvinir west, then get on the provincial road 325 and up through the countryside to Rigaud. Unhappily Helena and I got separated and I ended up taking the motorway almost into Montreal. For once I was relieved to encounter a tollgate stop. The guy in the booth, in broken English pointed out the road I needed to follow. I was eternally grateful and once again realize that the myth of the arrogant, unhelpful Quebecois is just that, a myth. Fifty hair-raising kilometres later I arrived in Rigaud. The road to the guest house from the motorway went past a supermarket. I stopped to buy salad stuff, olives, cheese, hummus, tortillas and some wine. In the meantime Helena had followed the intended route and got to ride through some stunning countryside and enjoyed the twists and turns of a quiet country road. The distance for the day, about 350 Km.  We dined on my purchases on the balcony overlooking the Ottawa River Valley – absolutely gorgeous.   

Scenes from  Highway 7

 Even the water lilies change colour

Canadian Shield 

Really lovely - on Highway 7 

We left the guest house early the next morning dressed in full regalia, it was rainy and cold so the rain gear was on. Now I am as keen as the next guy on a six course breakfast, but there was no way we could make it home by a reasonable hour had we stayed for that, instead it was tea biscuits and espresso at Tim Horton’s in Alexander. We followed the same road home that we had come by. Not always a bad idea, the view coming is very different to the view going. I suggested we go through Peterborough instead of bypassing on the motorway, which wasn’t my brightest moment, stop-start traffic for 5 kilometres through the ugliness of Walmart, Home Depots and other cookie cutter emporiums that ruin all Canadian towns. We made it home before six o’clock to the boundless joy of the dachshunds, you would swear that we had been away for weeks and weeks. Poor little buggers, their needs are so simple and straightforward you just can’t help loving them.

My route home from Ottawa is much the same, it is rainy and cold with intermittent sunshine. Fall instead of spring, red and yellow leaves versus light green of the newly sprouted, only driving the Dodge Caravan is such a poor substitute. This is Canada, I deal with the downs because it has such ups. The riding season is coming to an end, but there is always next year. Older, but no wiser, I’ll ride again, assuming I’m still here and capable.   

Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins - Adirondack

The road doesn’t take me quite high enough or close enough to the mountains to entirely satisfy the yearning, actually just awakens the mountain man in me even more. I really will have to ride some mountains next year, if not the Rockies, then at least I’ll go a bit deeper into the Appalachians. Maybe Vermont and follow the mountains south, retrace the battles of the Civil War where the Grand Army of the Potomac suffered at the hands of General Lee, yet finally prevailed. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll take the Road 28N and go further east to where it seems there’ll be more views from up on high. But now it’s cooling down and evening is coming so I’d better find somewhere to stay for the night. I’m not keen to ride these roads at night, hitting as much as a raccoon can do more than just spoil the ride.

The road takes me over a bridge, around a corner and into the Village of Long Lake, and where I’d intended to find a place to sleep at reasonable rates. My heart sinks a little, the place is pumping, well in a very sedate way, but enough to make me realize that with weather this good, in a place famous for its gorgeous autumn colors, I really ought to have had the foresight to book ahead. I haven’t even brought a groundsheet and sleeping bag. I try the Adirondack Hotel, but even as I mount the steps I have no real hope. The verandah is full of people partaking of sundowners and outside in front of the hotel, a large gang of motorcyclist are making a noise with their Harley Ds. If they didn’t actually look like an outing from Shady Pines Retirement Home they may have been quite intimidating. As it turns out there is indeed no room at the inn… damn.

Adirondack Hotel - sans Sons of Arthritis 

I am, however, not entirely daunted as I have noticed a few signs for cabins and motels. Back on the Boulevard as I pull away from the Hotel, with the ruckus still going on, courtesy of the Sons of Arthritis gang, the scariest moment of the day happens. I discover that I have managed to trap a yellow jacket wasp inside my visor. Picture this - there is a bloody frightened and angry little creature with a ferocious sting corralled between a bubble of Plexiglas and my eyes, cheeks and nose and I am balancing on a motorcycle, just pulling away into a busy street. Resisting the urge to leap off, sending my precious riderless into the traffic, and rip off my helmet takes every ounce of self-control I possess. Zen Buddhist monks be damned, this is in another league.  Perhaps it’s the presence of such a large audience to witness the events, but ever so calmly I manage to ease the motorcycle to a halt, deploy the kick-stand and flip open the modular helmet. Out of the corner of my eye I see it fly off. Had it started to actually sting me, I don’t know if I could have kept it together. These yellow jackets wasps are a real curse, they seem to be attracted to the motorcycle, often harassing me at traffic lights. I have since done some Googling and discovered that whilst the females like sugar, the males are after protein and the remains of spattered bugs on the windshield (and maybe on my visor) are the attraction.    

Once my composure returns, and despite the concern of finding somewhere to doss down for the night, I notice what a lovely little village this is, nestled in the narrow valley and hugging the shores of the lake. The main road is lined with interesting looking shops that include an old fashion style general store – it’s a little touristy, but not bad. Across from the hotel, where the geriatric delinquents have thankfully moved off, a couple of seaplanes are berthed, and there is a beach where some people are sitting in Adirondack chairs staring over the lake. It’s that human fascination with water I’ve written about before.   (Note to my Canadian readers - an Adirondack chair is known in Canada as a Muskoka chair, according to Wikipedia “…a simple rustic wooden chair for outdoor use. Originally made with 11 flat wooden boards, it features a straight back and seat and wide armrests.)

Seaplane on Long Lake 

Long Lake Village - main street

The village looks like a nice place to spend a few days, but by the looks of things it will not come to pass, as I ride past the motels they all have little signs that read “No Vacancies”. I decide to try my luck at Blue Mountain about 11 Km south, if I luck out there, then my options become very limited, and the later it gets the less chance I have of finding accommodation. The road follows the valley along the lake, slightly elevated and the view is spectacular when not obscured by trees. Then as I get to the end of what could be considered to be the outskirts of the village, I spot a sign for Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins and beneath it is a little board the reads “Vacancies”. As fast as I safely can manage the maneuver I do a U-turn, I am not going to get gezumpt with this one. Down a somewhat treacherous little road and through a lovely piece of forest, I find the equally lovely proprietor standing outside the office. It turns out that I get the last cabin, definitely the last place to stay in Long Lake, maybe the last place for miles. It is a wonderful find and I seriously recommend it, if I come this way again I'll stay here. 

The Cabin 

After moving in, now "No Vacancies" 

The feeling of relief is palpable, although it is a bit more than I had budgeted for, at $100 for the night it is expensive in absolute terms, but if you consider that the cabin actually sleeps seven people, has a fully equipped kitchen, bathroom, sitting room and verandah, it is dirt cheap. The cabin is spotless and well maintained, if somewhat oddly furnished with an incongruous mixture of lovely antiques, like real bentwood chairs in the kitchen, and cheap plastic veneered chipboard Walmart cabinets. The proprietress tells me that they are lighting a fire down at the lake and I am welcome to join them. It sounds all very pleasant, but I am really hungry, the pencil eraser salad I had for lunch in Watertown has long since ceased to sustain me. After unpacking I head back to the general store, I am not in the mood for sitting in a restaurant, but a home cooked steak and salad seems like a good idea. The general store has sirloin steaks packed on Styrofoam as big as both my hands, I buy one plus eggs for breakfast, a tomato the size of a baseball, ripe avocado and a small bottle of olive oil. Then to my horror, my debit, then credit cards, get declined. I had already parted with all my US Dollars except for $20 that is earmarked for gas, to Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins, shit there must be something wrong with the banking system. I ask if they will take Canadian money, and after some hesitation we agree on a very unfavorable exchange rate, but that’s okay an extra five dollars is not important – I have dinner, breakfast and a place to stay.

Evening at Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins,

The steak and tomato/avocado salad that I make is really good. With a glass containing a double Jack Daniels, ice and water I go down to the fire and watch the sunset. This is extraordinarily pleasant. For a time I am alone, then I’m joined by the couple that apparently got the second last cottage. Tom and Wendy. Nice people. Slightly older than me, retired and their children have left home. They are from Vermont and have been travelling around from Vermont, Maine and now Adirondack, for the past week. Going where they feel like, stopping where they want, I envy them the freedom they have.  Having emigrated at age 50 from a country with a weak currency, the probability of retirement before I am really decrepit is extremely low. Still I take the moments that I can get with both hands, and this is one of those great moments. We chat about this and that, the good old, bad old days before cell phones, PCs and Google. Then a young family join us with two young children and they roast marshmallows over the fire. The proprietress and her husband stroll down the beach arm-in-arm and join the group. They tell us about moose tracks they found on the beach. It has been years since I sat around a fire having pleasant conversation, vaguely I realize that this is about as good as it gets, and that makes me profoundly sad, but perhaps it’s just the Jack Daniels.   

Tom and Wendy

Roasting marshmallow 

 Sunset on Long Lake 

I’m up at seven, poach a few eggs for breakfast and drink a Redbull in lieu of coffee, clean up and pack. The Boulevard is wet from the dew and it is misty. Mmmm, the mist presents a dilemma – it is not too thick as to make riding dangerous, but that is here, I have no idea what it is like a kilometer down the road. I know that I won’t be seeing much in the way of mountains with this mist in the way, and who knows how long it’s going to take for it to clear. I wait a half hour, but there is no perceptible change so I decide to leave, going east does not seem to be a good option. I have over 600 Km to ride so I really must get moving and taking the road south makes the most sense.  The mist has a muffling effect so that the world seems to be a very quiet place, a little unreal, bit like I imagine it would be like back in the womb. I head south towards Blue Mountain and wonder how many ‘Blue Mountains’ there might be dotted all over the planet.

 The road away from Long Lake in the misty morning

I see a sign for Buttermilk Falls and turn off the road, a name like that can simply not be resisted, it is a must see. Buttermilk Falls turns out to be worth the detour even though they are not much more than a few rapids. A brief consultation of the map confirms that the road I am on ends up in a cul-de-sac at the wrong side of Raquette Lake. It looks like a lovely ride, but not one that I am going to do today, not enough time. I head back the way I came and resume the journey towards Blue Mountain. The mist varies in density from 500 metres visibility, to as little as 50, and for a few glorious kilometers I find myself high up and above the mist, looking down on the valleys covered from edge to edge with fluffy white clouds and get to see the mountains reaching for the sky in the crisp morning light. This is what I came to see, wonderful.

Buttermilk Falls 

Then the road takes me down and back into the mist and through the Village of Blue Mountain and lots of “No Vacancy” signs. I stop at the Adirondack Museum. Tom and Wendy were telling me last night what an excellent little museum this is. Unhappily it is still closed and I can’t wait until 11.00 a.m. for it to open. I have since looked at the website http://www.adkmuseum.org/ and it does look like a place to spend several pleasant and informative hours, featuring as it does a rustic privy (looks just like a ‘long-drop’), rustic arch and a rustic gazebo. The word ‘rustic’ seems to be used a lot in this part of the world. I am really keen for a cup of coffee, but there seems to be nothing open and the mist lends an air of desolation.

Shop sign in Village of Inlet - can't agree more

 By the time I reach the Village of Inlet the mist has started to lift and things here are a lot livelier. The prospect of getting some decent coffee seems good, but all the places that are open are so full, lots of other people have the same idea as I have. I decide to push on, coffeeless. The next stop is Old Forge, according to the map, it is a reasonable size town so there is a good chance of finding a decent cuppa, not a dead cert, but I am hopeful that good things will come to those who wait. And so it comes to pass, after a very pleasant ride I arrive in the town and find a great coffee bar that isn’t overrun with customers and have two double espressos back to back – just wonderful. Old Forge is not far from the border of the Park, and it seems that for anyone approaching the park from New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Pittsburg (pretty much anywhere except  New England, Vermont, Maine and of course Canada), this is the first town you would encounter inside the Park. Naturally it’s billed as the gateway to the Adirondack. For me it is not the entrance, but rather the exist point. I am sad to be leaving and linger over the second double espresso. This has been an absolutely fabulous experience, but I have a long way to go to get home and as much as the Adirondack needs a lot more time, it’s going to be for another time.

My route home takes me through Watertown, approached from a different direction it looks a little nicer than my first impressions, but still not somewhere I’d choose to live. From Watertown I retrace the route I came in on, north on Interstate 81. I notice every few miles there is a place to pull off the road and fiddle with your cell phone, big signs “Text stop 2 miles – it can wait.” What the fuck are we becoming? Sometimes I long for the days of proper letters sent via the mail service, land lines (in those days we just called it telephones) and telegrams. I know that this dates me terribly, but I recall the excitement I felt when I received my very first business related telex and the wonder of sending my first fax. Okay I do take advantage of communications technology when it suits me, but all the communication that seems to be expected these days’ tires the bejesus out of me. I really don’t want to Tweet, Lync, Yammer, LinkedIn, Tiny Pulse, Skype message, Facebook message and so on. E-mail, text message and WhatsApp seems to me to be quite enough communication. There are two real problem with all this instant communication, the end of real privacy, and enough time between formulating the idea and making it public, hence politicians tweeting pictures of their dicks and fucking over their careers in the matter of milliseconds. I am sure that in the old days there seldom was a memo that went into the internal mail in a buff envelope, “Subject: Picture of My Penis”, any decent secretary (or PA if you must), would surely have stopped that in its tracks.

The Canadian border produces another tough guy with silly questions, whatever happened to, “Welcome home Mr. Williams, I hope you enjoyed your trip.” After all my taxes do pay this guy’s salary. Maybe the question should be, “Have you encountered anyone that recently has been in West Africa?” Anyway, as much as I do like to visit our BFFs down south, I always get a thrill out of coming back into Canada, especially since becoming a full blown Canadian citizen and learning the words to Alouette.

The French sounds better, but the English is more hilarious:  

Refrain

Lark, nice lark,

Lark, I will pluck you.

1.

I will pluck your head. x2

And your head! And your head!

Lark! Lark!

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

2.

I will pluck your beak. x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

3.

I will pluck your eyes. x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

4.

I will pluck your neck. x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

5.

I will pluck your wings. x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

6.

I will pluck your legs. x2

And your legs!  x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

7.

I will pluck your tail. x2

And your tail!  x2

And your legs!  x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

8.

I will pluck your back. x2

And your back!  x2

And your tail!  x2

And your legs!  x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Notice the Lark’s enthusiasm to all this plucking... "O-o-o-oh, oh fuck!"

I’m home by sunset. 

Mountains

It has been the best of, and the worst of weeks. That Indian summer, whose non-arrival I was bitching about, arrived with a vengeance. The weather behaved as if commanded by a benevolent and well-disposed god, someone like me perhaps. Lovely cool nights, crisp and dewy mornings, warm, wind-still days and evenings that you could sit on the deck outside with only a light jacket and sip cold chardonnay without harassment from members of the insect kingdom. When we take the plump, but very eager dachshunds, for their twice daily walk, the wearing of short trousers would not be out of the question. The route around Fairy Lake (okay it’s a silly name, but that is what it’s called) that we walk them cannot be lovelier. The grass is still green, the flowers are still in bloom, the leaves are turning red and yellow, the ducks and darters are swimming about and the Canada geese haven’t yet pissed off to Florida or wherever they spend the winter. I even manage a few short evening rides, I have a favorite route along the York/Durham line, County Road 39 through the village of Zephyr, down Ravenshoe Road and home on the newly opened section of the 404, just an awesome way to end a day. So that explains the best of weeks, the worst of weeks is that I have worked my little tail off and haven’t been able to take time off to smell the hummus, let alone the roses. Now to be clear, I am not adverse to work, it is after all the activity that pays for all the other essentials, like motorcycles, food, mortgages and toothpaste, but it is hard to keep the nose to the grindstone when you know that this window can close at any moment and all too soon the backyard will be buried in a foot of snow.

From the Road to Zephyr 

But I am now making up for it… big time. I have kept a beady eye on that weather forecast, and the weekend is going to be just gorgeous. This is it, I am heading for the Adirondack. My original intention was to get a few hundred Km along the way on Friday afternoon, find a place to sleep and take a more leisurely route, but the pressures of work kept me at my desk until after 5 pm, so scrapped that and I am up at 6 a.m. on Saturday. I decide to kill a bit of time to allow for the sun to get a little higher in the sky, mindful that I’m travelling east into the sunrise. After my last experience I am taking note of the sun-in-eye factor and set-off by 7.15. It’s crispish, but not terribly, so I brave the elements without the Kermit coloured outfit. Somehow I feel that if it is cold on the ride I’m ok with that, dressing too warmly would be churlish and ungrateful. I take the motorway, 404 southbound, it’s already busy and soon run into some pretty thick mist, which is interesting in a scary way. I think I should call this post ‘Bikers in the Mist’, but then the mist lifts and it doesn’t seem appropriate anymore, and seems to lack a good ring to it.

I take the toll road, Highway 407 east until it ends and rejoins highway 7. Smooth concrete for a while, then blacktop. It’s a great road to ride if what you want is to get there fast, the traffic speed is 130 to 140 Km. Scenery wise it’s as ugly as asshole, but it is a thrill to ride, better than Redbull to keep your wits about you… you’d better be on the ball, the 407 will surely separate the quick from the dead. Highway 7 is a bit quieter, a lot slower at any rate and some construction. It gets quieter still and turns into Regional Road 3, a real farm road. It’s a pleasant ride, rolling hills, farmlands and a bit of forest, few nice twists and turns. The realization has, however dawned, my planned route to hug the shore of Lake Ontario along Highway 2 will not get me to where I want to be by nightfall. I need to take the fastest route through the Canadian portion of the trip and that means the motorway. I follow Regional Road 57 to Bowmanville and pick up Highway 401, heading east and going liked the clappers.

There are a lot of motorcycles on the roads this morning, I guess I’m not the only one that’s been following the weather forecasts. There is this thing with motorcyclists, we wave to each other, well not exactly a wave, it’s more like a nonchalant, awfully cool gesture of acknowledgement, left hand held at 8 o’clock, or maybe 10 o’clock, fingers slightly open. If the left hand is otherwise disposed, such as in engaging the clutch, etiquette is satisfied with a somber nod of the head. Of course we don’t wave with the right hand, that would entail letting go of the accelerator, which would just be bloody stupid, those things are spring loaded. So I’m doing a shit load of awfully cool gesturing this morning. In addition to the usual batch of old farts (and these days most motorcyclists are old farts like me), there are a large number of police persons on motorcycles. I have seen at least four groups of them. They look to me like RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police – actual mounted Mounties!). Probably on their way to something as this road is not policed by them, it’s an OPP responsibility. I tag onto the back of a group of six of them, at a discrete distance of course. They are riding in a tight formation, not staggered like you normally see with groups of motor bikers, but two by two, next to each other. They are doing a good speed, about 125 km/, even the Mounties can’t keep to the speed limit of 100 km/h. It is the safest 30 Km stretch I have ever ridden, around these guys the motorists are all minding their Ps and Qs. I go past them as they exit the motorway just before Kingston and a few wave to me, I do the cool gesture back. That is something, Mounties are reputed to have their sense of humor surgically removed before they can graduate from Mounty School, or whatever the training academy is called.   

Two hundred or so Km later, the 1000 Islands Parkway takes me from the 401 and through the 1000 Island Park. This really is a lovely part of the world, and yes, this is where the salad dressing gets its name from. I thought that the name 1000 Islands was a bit of an over estimation, but apparently there are more than 1800 islands, so maybe 2000 Islands would have been closer to the mark. According to http://www.gananoque.com/history.htm “The 1000 islands were formed almost 12'000 years at the end of the last ice age. Three previous ice ages also contributed to the formation of the islands and they actually form a connecting bridge between the Canadian Shield to the north and the Adirondack mountains to the south in New York State.” True as that is, the islands also form a connection between Canada and the USA in the form of a border post. The road takes me over a suspension bridge, just before the USA border post, and then another just after, almost identical. I have mentioned before that I love bridges, especially suspension bridges, but not why. It’s the elegant simplicity of design that gets me, the perfect balance between force and counterforce, it’s like arches and domes, the weight of the load actually makes the structure more stable. I sometimes wish that everything could be more like that, of course it isn’t, life tends to be bloody messy at the best of times.

1000 Islands 

There is a fairly long wait at the border and then the stupid questions posed by a guy trying to be a really tough dude, ‘Where were you born? Where are you coming from? When last did you visit the USA? What are you planning to do in the USA?’ The moron terrorists are no doubt picked out by this line of questioning. Nonetheless it’s nice to be back in the States. Interstate 81 is a good road to ride the blacktop is good albeit somewhat patched. I’m heading to Watertown and lunch, the name intrigues me, but sadly it does not live up to expectations. It has the air of a place that is struggling, too many of the homes look like fixer-uppers and there are no decent restaurants to be seen, eventually I am forced to eat at Wendy’s where the customers look like Walmartians. I get a really awful chicken salad, pencil eraser salad, really. Onwards and upwards, I am not here for the food, I am en route to see mountains, I yearn for the sight of mountains. I don’t know why it is, but there are two things I miss in Ontario, mountains and the ocean, the crashing waves on white beaches and soaring craggy cliffs. I will admit that where I live it is beautiful and I love that, but it is a tame beauty, a chaste, slightly flat, beauty. Sometimes I long for the wild balls-to-the-wall stuff that I once knew.

As the road leaves Watertown, I pass a church with a sign that reads ‘Hell has no exists. Heaven needs none.’ I cringe with embarrassment. I don’t care what you believe in, but this should make you cringe, even more so if you are a Christian. It speaks volumes about the Christian doctrine and volumes about the Christian version of God, and none of it is flattering. This is donkey psychology at its most simplistic, stick and carrot. So all the good deeds done in the name of God are nothing other than fear of punishments and reward seeking. It says that Christians are incapable of living moral lives and treating other humans with some decency without the fear of hell and the desire for heaven. It also relieves Christians of any responsibility to perform even the most rudimentary due diligence on what it is they are supposed to believe, simply because non-belief equals hell, it is enough to merely believe. Then consider that the omnipotent, omniscient creator of the whole universe with all its complexity and magnificence, can come up with nothing better than donkey psychology. These words make Him look like an insecure, mean spirited vengeful dictator, something like Kim Jong-un, that will give you free will, but if you happen to exercise it you are screwed, and I mean really screwed. But most cringe worthy is the smug schoolyard like taunt, the enjoyment at the idea of the suffering of anyone that is does not conform to your views – Chautauqua for the day – Sorry, I’ll get off the hobby horse and back onto the Boulevard.

I ride the NY State Road 3 East towards the Adirondack Park. It’s nice enough, hard shoulders, pavement well maintained, some reasonable curves, but lots of villages. You’ve barely get the speed up again up when you have to drop back to 30, (miles p/h of course, we’re in the States now). In between villages it’s a bit of farming, but mainly forest and some logging. I pass some inhabited, but very rundown places, even a few shacks made from scrap timbers and rusty sheet metal, reminiscent of the shanty towns in South Africa. Faintly I think I can hear the strains of banjos playing, a la Deliverance - plunka plunk... plunk plunk plunk. Happily I have no need to stop, gassed up in Watertown.

The villages thin out and it gets prettier, then a sign announcing that I've crosses into the Adirondack Park and all is well, this is utterly gorgeous, the word I'm looking for is sumptuous. The park is 6.1 million acres and larger than National Parks of Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Canyon, Glacier, and Great Smoky Mountains combined, larger than the state of Vermont. It’s a little different to the usual as 60% of the land is privately owned with about 130 000 permanent residents.  The park was established as in 1892 from a coordinated effort between private owners and government, mainly to conserve fresh water and timber resources. It was an experiment in a unique conservation model that appears to have been a success, though I understand that there are currently initiatives by NGOs to buy some of the private land in order to add it to the state portion so as to resolve some of the ongoing controversy about making use of those resources.

Sumptuous indeed

Lovely and successful though the park is, it has its nasty skeletons in the cupboard. Before the American Revolution / War of Independence much of what is now the park was the territory of the Iroquois people, who made the poor choice of siding with the British. Washington was not into forgiving them for this misstep and they were forcibly resettled in the Midwest, except for those that escaped to Canada where the Crown gave them some land, around the Grand River in what was then Upper Canada. And as for the spoils of war, did it go to the soldiers and their families that fought and died for independence? Hell no, it was sold to New York City speculators for the princely sum of 8 cents an acre.

I still haven’t seen much in the way of mountains, but get the feeling that I am slowly gaining a bit of altitude. There are lots of lakes with interesting names like Cranberry Lake and Star Lake and beautiful rivers. The leaves here are really turning red, more so than in Newmarket, perhaps it’s to do with the altitude. There is not much traffic and the road twists and turns in a most satisfactory manner. I even get to see a few deer grazing in a clearing, wondering if I’ll see a bear or a moose. It’s been a long ride to get here, but already it’s worth it…who am I kidding, it’s about the ride anyway. Tupper Lake Village is a reasonably large village, probably bordering on a small town, on the shores of Tupper Lake (of course). I stop at a gas station to consult my map, a real paper map for a change, should I take the NY State Road 30 south to Blue Mountain or go on east to Lake Placid. On the advice of another motorcyclist, I decide to go south.

Going up

It’s rolling hills and twists and turns and I am having the time of my life, almost forgot my quest for mountains, when I crest a hill and there they are….mountains! Okay, these are not the towering soaring mountains of the Rockies, or even the Table Mountain chain, but they are mountain no less. My heart leaps in my chest, I’ll soon be among them.  

Mountains! Well little ones. 

A Manly Man in Tights

It’s not winter yet, but the season is changing, there is no doubt about that. I haven’t switched on the furnace even though there are mutterings from the younger generation. Switching on furnaces would just be too much of an admission that summer has gone… and it hasn't, there are still seven whole days of official summer (it is Sept 14 as I write this) and then what about the Indian summer, yes where is the Indian summer? I have, however, switched on the pilot light for the gas fireplace so we can turn the fire on for the plump Dachshunds to bask in front of it, you would not want them to get cold now would you? There has been plenty of rain in the past two days, but the weather report promises that today it will be cloudy and cool yet actual precipitation will stay away. I decide to believe them and take my chances. Unhappily I can’t plan a very long ride as I must be back by 1 p.m., there is enough time to do a reasonable stretch.

I ponder Google Maps, and decide on a route that I have only partially been on, and then only once, Guelph. I am no stranger to Guelph as two of the younger generation studied at Guelph University, one is still doing an undergrad there, but we always drive there via highway 407 and 401. I am planning an entirely route, via Orangeville, Arthur and Fergus. It is 8.30 on Sunday morning, and as usual at this time it is dead quite, it feels earlier than it actually is, the thick cloud cover has made it rather dark and the thermometer on the wall outside resisters 4 degrees Celsius. A shiver runs down my spine. There is something about the change of season that makes a person feel wistful, a little lonely and a sense of loss for something that remains just outside of your grasp. It’s a primeval thing or perhaps just to do with the dark mornings, chill in the air, leaves turning red and though the garden still looks lovely, on closer inspection it’s all going to seed in preparation for the big die-off that’s just around the corner. Maybe it’s just the 4 degrees Celsius that’s really to blame for the shiver.

I don’t like to get cold when I ride, well at least not colder than necessary, so the time of year has come to wear the tights. Yup I am one of those guys, a man in tights, a manly man in tights (I’ll knock out your lights). It was round about this time last year when Helena and I rode early one Sunday morning, to Collingwood, she on her Harley D and way back then I rode a Kawasaki Vulcan 900. It was a little warmer than it is today, but by the time we got there the cold had soaked through to our bones. A hot cup of coffee helped to get the blood moving, but neither of us were keen to get back on the motorcycles and face the cold again. A visit to a Dollar Store yielded up cheap sweaters, thick black tights and white cotton waiters’ gloves. The ride home was still somewhat cool, but entirely manageable. Since then I have learned the secret of not getting cold is to dress in layers and wear the rain suit as the top layer. This morning I have more layers than an onion, or if Shrek is to be believed, more layers than an ogre. Two pairs of thick socks, thick woolly tights, jeans, Tee shirt, long sleeve shirt with collar, mesh jacket with lining, scarf, leather Harley D gloves with thermal lining and of course the naff Kermit the Frog colored rain suit. I have an inkling of how an astronaut feels, but I am not going to get cold!

A long time ago, in the spring, I thought that I could avoid the tights and rain gear by acquiring a set of leather chaps. It seemed a good solution, I could look cool and stay warm, gain some added protection in case of bacon meeting blacktop, and if it gets warm I could just take the chaps off… brilliant! A visit to Royal Distributing and $150 poorer I proudly brought home my chaps and put them on. The reception was not entirely as respectful as I’d hoped. Helena promised not to ride with me again and the younger generation needed assistance to get up from the floor, and were still giggling and hour later. Either the chaps could get donated to Helga’s House of Pain, or Royal might take them back, which, thankfully, they did. I swapped them for a pair of Covec reinforced jeans. Better than Kevlar I believe, but they do tend to be quite hot when you are off the bike. So why am I not wearing them and wearing tights instead? It’s the cut…too damn low. I don’t know why I didn't realize it when I got them, but when I wear them it feels like the top of my butt crack is exposed and no one, and I mean no one, wants to see that. I don’t get this really odd fashion for guys to wear their trousers hanging half-way off their backsides. Okay the late seventies and early eighties when trousers were worn just under the armpits was strange as well.

Anyway enough wardrobe speak, this is a motorcycling blog and not a fashion blog. I take Mulock Drive which becomes 19^th Sideroad and twists and turns through privately owned forest and farm land and passed the Thornton Bales Conservation area, a gorgeous little piece forest. These few kilometers to Dufferin Street are a favorite road to ride and I hope that this isn't destined to fall to the developers and end up as cookie-cutter housing in soulless, treeless sub-divisions, like one on the other side of town in process of development on land that was forest just a year ago and which the developers removed EVERY SINGLE tree, it’s called… wait for it… ‘The Arbors’, really, fuck yes it is. 

I putt, putt through Kettleby doing 30, a jewel of the area, delightful little village, cross over Highway 400 and head towards Lloydtown through the village of Pottageville. This is definitely Sunday morning coming down, not a soul in sight. Through Schomberg Main Street, just a few Km from Newmarket and until I started biking  I didn't know that this great little town centre existed, but as yet still not really explored and it’s several highly rated restaurants un-visited. Main Street takes me to Highway 9 and the pace changes. Highway 9 is as always busy, sleepy Sunday morn or no, and as always the traffic zips along at 110 to 120 Km/h, I just don’t know where all the cars came from, they just sort of materialized on the road. Highway 9 isn't thought of as a very scenic route, probably because it is so busy and the traffic moves so fast, but actually it goes through some lovely countryside, quite a bit of forest and a few cedar plantations. There has been resurfacing going on this past summer and apart from a few minor stretches of road works, the pavement is an great shape, and there are enough sections with overtake lanes to make sure that traffic (and frustration) doesn't dam up behind slow vehicles for very long.

The one track town of Mono, then Orangeville and Highway 9 comes to an end, I carry on to County road 109 headed for Arthur. It’s all farmlands now and it’s Hoe Down weekend. The origin of this ‘festival’ is obvious, evidence of the end of the growing season is all around. Golden fields of rye-grass mowed and rolled up into round bales, some wrapped in white plastic, make the landscape seem a little surreal. Especially against a backdrop of still emerald green alfalfa fields and wind turbines gracefully turning in the background. This is also corn country, (for the South African readers, this is the equivalent of the Mielie Driehoek), the sweetcorn (groenmieles ouens) season is over now and the ears of corn are starting to droop. They won’t be harvested until the spring of next year, the corn dries out on the land over the winter, snow and all. Unlike Africa where corn meal is a staple, very little of this is for direct human consumption, it’s destined for animal feed, corn syrup and corn starch to fuel the North American drive to obesity and of course bio-fuels. There is also plenty of soya bean, another crop that’s not really food, at least in the sense that almost none of it is eaten as beans, it is destined for processed foods and bio-diesel. Several times in my travels I have seen a sign that reads “Farmers feed Cities”. Well yes, that is true, as it has been for maybe 8 000 years, ever since the advent of agriculture led to the establishment of the first cities, but it now be may be more accurate to say “Farmers are just an input to the environment poisoning industrial complex”.  Still it is picturesque and the sweet smell of hay-making and silage is heavy in the air and it feels great to be alive and riding this morning. The Boulevard had a service this past week and the motor is running really sweetly, but that’s probably just my imagination.  

Scenes from County Road 109

Arthur appears almost without warning, just a little village that exists mainly to service the agricultural community that surrounds it. My brief acquaintance with it leaves me with the impression that it is like hundreds of similar small towns or villages across Canada, actually just like thousands across the world. It doesn't have a John Deere dealership, but just the sort of place that would... co-op, couple of lawyers, accountants, insurance agents, churches and a pub or two, etc. and of course a  Tim Horton’s, without which no village would be complete. However there is more to it than meets the eye, according to Wikipedia, In November 1942, the Toronto Star ran a front page headline that read "Arthur Village Gives Sons and Money to Aid the War", and recognized Arthur as the Most Patriotic Village in Canada, as one out of every seven Arthur residents fought in the Second World War. At that time 126 residents had enlisted from the population of 890. It was the highest ratio in comparison to villages of comparable sizes in Canada. By the end of the war, 338 Arthur residents had enlisted, and 25 were killed in action. Now I am opposed to war in general, and more specifically don’t like it that Canadian soldiers get killed to assist the USA with meddling in other nations’ affairs and attempts at neo-colonialism, but the Second World War was a lot clearer as to who the bad guys were. The Nazi’s really had to be defeated, so my sincere thanks to Arthurians and the like wherever they came from.

I head south on Highway 6 to Fergus, a pretty town with a Scottish flavor. Oddly enough it was actually established originally by freed negro slaves, but it seems that two wily Scots named Adam Fergusson and James Webster bought most of the land around the town and I guess took over the place. The once industrial parts of town, next to the Grand River, have been gentrified and is now a place that one would want to sit in the pubs and restaurants and enjoy the scenery. But not today, I only have time for a few photos and then on to the City of Guelph.

Interesting building in Fergus 

 Looks like a nice place to eat, drink and watch the world go by

The Grand River from a bridge in Fergus 

I’ll write about Guelph some other time in more detail, it is an interesting little city. I had always thought that it had some Welsh connections, Guelph sounds rather Welsh to me, but it turns out I was wrong. In fact it was named for the British royal family, the House of Hanover (Germans actually, Queen Victoria and Kaiser Bill were cousins), who were descended from the Guelfs, German/Italian papists, it's all a little garbled and screwed up medieval history. Anyway it is more German than anything else and not Welsh at all. 

I don’t get very far into Guelph City when I pick up the 124, Eramosa Road for the time being, and follow it out of the city heading north-east over the Speed River and the past Guelph Lake on my left, the lake is obscured by trees for the most part and I only catch a glimpse as the road crosses the tail end of it. I follow the 124 to Erin. Not a bad piece of road, straight, in good nick and after a little forest it traverses mostly farming land, much the same sort of thing I encountered on the County Road 109. It’s warmed up a bit and the rain suit is no longer necessary so I stop at Erin to shed it, and take the opportunity to get gas and a coffee from the convenience store at the gas station. The coffee is awful, as my dear and greatly missed Granny would have said, ‘pee bewitched and coffee begrudged’, I manage to get in about half the cup and toss the rest, should have gone to Tim Horton’s. From Erin it’s off the beaten track, to County Road 52 that becomes County Road 11 (which counties are which, I have forgotten), anyway this is the road I have come here to ride, granted by the longest route I could possibly have taken.

Belfountain seems to be a popular spot for motorcycles. this guys is handing out business cards for motorcycle roadside assistance, I have kept the card, you never know.  

Very soon it’s forest again, and after a brief stop to take photographs in the village of Belfountain, I follow the unlikely named Forks of Credit Road through the Belfountain Conservation Area. I have said it several times already, Southern Ontario has some of this world’s most beautiful places. Sadly there is not that much left, but what still remains is jaw-droppingly lovely. I can only imagine what this part of the world must have looked like 300 years ago before Europeans arrived and subjugated the land under plough and more recently, developers’ grader. This is about as close to real mountains that you may find around here and the road twists and turns as it follows the valley. The speed limit is 50 Km/h and that is frankly twice as fast as you should go, there is one hairpin bend that is literally 180 degrees and as tight as Jimmy Fallon’s trousers. I have to stop to take in the view as I’m in danger of crashing the bike because I’m not looking at the road. Memo to me, ‘ride this road again in October when the leaves are really turning.’

Forks of Credit Road, just gorgeous  

The road ends in a T junction with Highway 10, otherwise known as Hurontaio Street, fuck, back to ugly reality, it is so busy it takes ten minutes for the minutest gap in the traffic to appear so that I can do a mad dash to cross the road and head north. I don’t plan to stay on it for long, at Caledon Village I take Charlston Sideroad, County road 24, to Airport road (which actually does end up at Pearson International, but I am heading the other way.) Coolihans Sideroad looks interesting, if only for the name... another day, I am running a teeny bit late, heading for Highway 9 and then home. The Boulevard is all positive response and doing 120 Km/h is just cruising. I make it with 5 minutes to spare, man can I estimate time and distance!