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!

The Big Ride (also The Long Post)

The week has been hot and humid, almost tropical, oh yes Canada is a cold snowy place, but here in Southern Ontario it can get like Mombasa in the summer, humidity you can cut with a knife, it’s all those lakes. Toronto is after all more or less on the same latitude as Venice.  Then on Friday evening we had a storm that made me wonder if I really should have built a boat and put all the animals in, two by two, instead of a deck in the back yard. Saturday the weather couldn't make up its mind, but Sunday (Sept 7) played ball. Glorious blue skies, cooled down considerably and a little on the windy side, but as near to perfect biking weather as can be requisitioned. I know that the real way is to use a road atlas, but Google maps is just sooo much easier and I want to get going sooner rather than later. There are a few roads a want to ride, Highway 518, 60 and 127. I plan the ride, scribble it down on a piece of paper and rub my hands together like DR. Evil, this is going to be a BIG RIDE, 700 Km in one day…Muh hah hah!

I leave the silent house, nobody stirs, even the chubby Dachshunds slumber on. I can feel that although the sun is up there is a chill in the air and with 700 Km ahead of me, I won’t be travelling slowly. I don the suit, the naff florescent green suit, ok you know the drill. Highway 9, west to Highway 27 North to Barrie. The 27 is an old favorite even though it is as straight as a die it passes through some very pretty farmlands, rolling hills all the way. There are a few lovely little villages like Bondhead, ‘Home to Sir William Osler, Father of Modern Medicine’. Well at least so says the sign, I’m not sure that modern medicine can be said to have a single ‘father’, but I am not going to argue with the village elders. Then there is Cookstown, this is a favorite spot. There used to be a great little restaurant that my wife, Helena, and I often rode to, The LOL Café, for breakfast, fabulous eggs benedict and espresso, a few weeks back we did a breakfast run and lo, the LOL Café was gone, all boarded up. Apparently the owner and chef closed up due to ill health and then while she was looking to sell the place, someone mounted the sidewalk and drove a car through the restaurant with fatal consequences. Nothing is certain in this life.  

There is another reason why we like Cookstown, there is a little cabinet maker there called Frank that is extraordinarily talented and does not charge the Earth. His lovely South African significant other has a shop the sells his stuff and her craft jewelry, upmarket, well-made and of original design. I would tell you all about them, but I still want a few more pieces at a reasonable price… go find your own guy!

Frank restored this little book case and then made an exact replica for us 

Highway 27 takes me to Highway 400 just before I hit downtown Barrie, northbound to Parry Sound. Usually the 400 is a nightmare of assholes in dirty great pick-up trucks with steel gonads hanging from trailer hitches, and it seems to me some of the guys that dive these vehicles have an ambition to actually kill a motorcyclist. But today it is relatively empty and nary a faux testicle to be seen. Pass the Duckworth Street exit and nod to my Alma Mater, Georgian College Motorcycle Training Program. Okay it was just a weekend course, but to anyone that wants to learn to ride a motorcycle, this is a very good place to start. Granted the $450 plus tax price tag seems a lot, but it is actually worth every single cent, I learned a lot, had fun and crashed their bike, not mine, twice. Check it out if you have a Facebook account, (is there actually anyone that doesn’t?). https://www.facebook.com/GeorgianCollegeMotorcycle

I wonder if he may be compensating for something? 

I have so far not had the need to travel the 400 beyond Barrie. Several times I’ve driven up to North Bay on Lake Nipissing on Highway 11, the 400 held a few terrors for me, unfounded as it turned out. The pavement is in excellent condition for most of the way, brand new black top, smooth as eggs, still sticky, just a few miles of grooved pavement, resurfacing work in progress. I’ve said before that motorway riding is not my favorite, but this was not bad at all, of course Sunday morning going north is probably the best time to ride this particular stretch. The topography is rolling hills and the farmlands quickly give way to forest. It’s obvious why when you ride through cuttings through the hills, I am already in the Canadian Shield. Precambrian Igneous rock with barely a dusting of topsoil. The Canadian Shield forms a giant ring around Hudson Bay, about as large as half of Canada. No one could farm here, well not crops anyway, I don’t know how the trees do it, but they manage to penetrate the rock with their roots and flourish as the enormous Canadian forests, further north its barren tundra… pissing cold most of the year. The scenery is gorgeous, but zips passed at 130 Km/h and Highway 400 deposits me in Parry Sound before 11.00 am, 200 km in the wink of an eye.

Already in the Canadian Shield 

Parry Sound is quite a decent town with a nice little waterfront, and as a bonus I get to see Lake Huron again. The exit from Highway 400 to Parry Sound bore a sign for a Starbucks and my desire for a good double shot Americano is high. Sadly either I am blind or it has closed down, so I settle for the inevitable Tim Horton’s and console myself with a bagel and cream cheese, the 90% okay espresso and a pee in a nice clean washroom. The charms of Parry Sound can’t keep me for long, Highway 518 awaits. Fill up gas and backtrack a few Km on the 400 to get the 518, one of Ontario’s legendary bike rides and one of the main reason why I am here.

Waterfront Parry Sound 

They did not lie, it really is a terrific road to ride, also much of it newly resurfaced, smooth black and sticky, with a hard shoulder and curvy as Marilyn Monroe. Very little traffic and I can get up a decent speed, that is until I can’t, the curves become way too tight to tackle in a grand careless way. They require some serious concentration and many can’t be taken faster than 50 Km/h, unless you have a desire to collect on your personal accident policy. No doubt my childhood friend, Martin, would do much better on his Honda Fireblade, but the Boulevard is built more for comfort than speed and agility. I pass a bunch of lakes, Haines Lake, McNutt Lake (sounds like the dish that McDonalds serves in Madrid after a bull fight), Martin Lake, Sugar Lake, Diamond Lake, Bear Lake and Doe Lake. Miles of rolling hills, forest and lakes, I’ve said it before, this is beautiful country and there is just so much of it. AND guess what? No billboards, this road is devoid of the damn things. The forest is showing a lot more red than last week, when fall comes, it comes fast… sigh L. Maybe I’ll have to invest in a Ski-Doo.  

Scene from 518

I know why I ride, and as I lean into the corners, pushing the limits of my courage, it’s reinforced. When you ride a motorcycle you find yourself living in the best place there is to live, the present. Yesterday does not matter because it contributes nothing to the moment, except for your experience and that is buried deep in your being and needs no thought at all. Tomorrow means even less because it may not even come, actually if my next corner is as ropey as the last, it stands a damn good chance of not arriving, for me at any rate. I wonder why I struggle so much to live like this always, I think of the 13 billion odd years that the cosmos existed before I came along and the many billions of years it will continue to exist after I have gone… I have no belief whatsoever in an afterlife. Are all the regrets that wake me up at night worth a moment’s lost sleep? Are all the fears I harbor for the future equally as futile? I will pass from this world and so will all the people I know, as will our species and eventually all life on this planet. All the stuff that I worry myself sick about, striving to do the best job I can do, worrying about professional reputation, mortgages, bathroom renovations, educating children, are really not that bloody vital. I’m not a nihilist by any means, there is meaning to life, but that meaning is rather personal, and requires personal effort to discover it, riding is part of my journey to discover that meaning. I know for sure, without asking him, that the reason why Martin rides his Fireblade at 250 Km/h is connected to living in the present … Chautauqua for the day. The 518 ends at Highway 11, I head south to Huntsville.

Highway 60, just before Huntsville proper is the road to Ottawa and maintained in a manner appropriate to a road that leads to Rome. You wouldn’t want our fearless leaders to encounter any potholes on the way, now would we? I do, however, encounter the Muskoka Ironman. Not a comic book dude, but real life athletes that shame me and Bob (Bob is the guy that lives under my shirt and ruins my figure). I have tremendous admiration for the people that can do this. In a way I was once, reluctantly, a sort of Ironman, way back as an army conscript, perhaps an Aluminum Foil Man. I like to be reasonably fit and I can still run 4 Km in 30 minutes, not great I know, but it is something. However this extreme stuff doesn't quite grab me, I admire from a distance. Helena, did the Tough Mudder last year, and for a fleeting crazy moment I thought of joining her – but then sanity reasserted itself.  Actually if I look at the folks doing the Ironman, there are at least as many women as men. Perhaps it should be the Ironperson completion, not as snappy, but more accurate and possibly more pc. I guess if you are a woman doing the Ironman you don’t need or give a damn about pc, you are it, period.     

An Ironperson 

Highway 60 takes me through Algonquin Park. It’s odd that I have lived only a couple of hundred Km’s south of this world famous park (I actually knew about Algonquin Park years ago when I had no intention of moving to Canada), yet so far have not managed to visit. I excuse this on the grounds of fear of mosquitos and black fly in the summer and the fall always seems too wet and cool. Lousy excuse I know. I used to hike a fair amount many years ago, South Africa has some good trails and Algonquin has a few very interesting looking options that I really should try, of course that would mean leaving the Boulevard in the garage for a few days… mmm I’ll have to think on that one. Talking of hiking in North America, Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, where he hikes a fair stretch of the Appalachian Trail (he managed about 1300 km), is a really fascinating read. One of my favorite books.  

There is a reasonable distance on Highway 60 before you reach the park, nice stretch, albeit a little too billboarded, but one in particular made me giggle. It’s advertising a ‘Couples Resort’, so far so good… but the logo is picture of a statue of a couple in flagrante delicto or as close to it as you could legally have on a billboard. We humans certainly are an odd bunch.

Okay so we know why you are booked in here... 

Crossing into the park itself the billboards thankfully disappear. I was a little surprised to see that the speed limit did not change and neither did the lack of observance to it. I’m disappointed, I’d hoped to be able to toodle through the park at about sixty, but as I have said before you need to keep up with the traffic speed when on a motorcycle unless you want to get ridden over. Seeing the park zip past at 90 to 110 km/h is not exactly visiting, but what I see is tantalizingly wonderful, black fly or no black fly, I just must come back here and do some hiking, maybe rekindle my lost interest in birding. I get to see a little bit at normal speed when I stop for lunch at the Lake of Two Rivers Grocery and Camp Store, hamburger (what else) and chips, It’s not bad, reminds me of the fare served at the Kruger National Park rest camps from my youth, only there the hamburgers were buffalo or elephant, I strongly hope this one isn't bear.

More red now

Highway 60 exists the Park through a set of impressive, but apparently functionless portals, and the road signs revert back to normal, in the park they are yellow on a brown background. I take the 127 south bound, homeward bound, but still a long way to go and I have to admit that I am not as fresh as I would like to be. I start to realize that 700 Km might be just be a little bit of a stretch. A thousand km is known as a ‘blister butt’ ride, and this is somewhat short of that, but still quite tough. There is a vast difference between driving 1000 km in an air-conditioned car on a motorway, and doing that same distance on a bike through twists and turns. Of course it’s a lot more fun on the bike, but it is more taxing. Anyway highway 127 ends at Maynooth, and a very fine ride it was, made me think of the U2 song, ‘All I Want is You’ and the line ‘You say you'll give me a highway with no one on it’. Long stretches with no traffic except for me… marvelous.

From Maynooth its highway 62 and now I pick up the cottage traffic, lots of boats being towed home, another sign of the end of summer. Looking at the map as I write this I see that the route I should have taken is Peterson Road (County Road 10), it looks like a good road to ride, at least on the map. But perhaps I was too tired anyway, but I make a mental note to include this for a future adventure. Short break at Bancroft to stretch the legs and consume a Red Bull, then turn onto Highway 28 heading for Burleigh Falls. Initially highway 28 heads in a westerly direction, it is almost 5 o’clock, and the big flaw in my ride planning suddenly becomes apparent. The sun is already low in the sky and I have still got more than 200 Km to go and most of it is going to be travelling west, damn, not good. Riding with the sun shining directly in your eyes is very uncomfortable and dangerous. If you come out of a stretch where the sun has been behind a hill, say, and it’s a bit dark, and then have the sun in your eyes again suddenly, you can lose visibility completely for several seconds. It’s very nasty and unless you plan your rides properly to avoid this it’s a feature of riding in the autumn. Of course no one wants to plan every ride, sometimes it’s more fun just to choose a direction and ride to see where the road takes you.

Highway 28 does take me south for a reasonable distance with The Kawartha Highlands Park on my right. I’m riding parallel to the 507 that I wrote about previously, just on the other side of the park. It’s a good ride, but not in the same league. From Burleigh Falls, it’s nearly all west on County road 36 and eventually County road 8. Beaverton then home through Durham County

I make it home by 7.30 watery of eye and sore of ass. The two chubby eunuchs greet me as if I have been away for months, with a fanfare of barks and tails wagging so fiercely they can barely keep their back paws on the ground. It was an excellent day, but good to be home.    

The 'Highlands' Ride

Since Lake Huron I’ve done a few decent rides and may still write about some of them, around Lake Simcoe, along the north shore of Lake Ontario to Sandbanks, Kawartha Lake District, Trans-Canadian Highway to the ski resort town of Rigour in Quebec and a few others. Notice the prevalence of the word ‘lake’ in the preceding sentence. This is definitely the land of lakes, take a look at Canada on Google Maps and you’ll see that the Great Lakes are just a small part of that equation, there seems to be almost as much lake as land (okay, I am exaggerating, according to Wikipedia, water and land is about 1:10, but you get my point). All this water makes for some really gorgeous rides, because where there is water there is life, nonetheless I am building up to a good desert ride, maybe next year, Arizona, New Mexico and Nevada. For now, it’s forests and lakes in Ontario.

This past Sunday, Sunday before Labour Day, I did a ride that is definitely worthy of a mention. I’ll call it the Highlands Ride. It’s Highlands in name only, for what passes for Highlands in Southern Ontario are no more than rolling hills, laugh lines, not even wrinkles on the topography. This is pretty damn flat country. Of course Canada does have mountains, the Rockies are something to be seen, but they are two to three time zones away from here… maybe next year (I’m starting to sound like I’m Jewish.)

The Kawartha and Muskoka County Highlands remind me of my first visit to Montreal. The taxi driver that brought me into the city from the airport was terribly proud of his city, with good cause it’s a great city, but he kept on saying that he particularly loves the mountain. ‘Mountain’? What bloody mountain, I strained my neck looking for the damn mountain out of the car window. I discovered later that Montreal is named for the mountain, effectively the city is called ‘Mount Royal’, translated into English, but there isn’t a mountain at all, it’s barely a hill, a pimple of a mound. I told him, that I too hale from a city that has a mountain, the mountain is called Table Mountain and the City is Cape Town, and the residents are so proud of the mountain that you would swear they built it themselves.

Now that's a city with a mountain... just saying...

Anyway, this is all interesting, but not important. I leave home at about 9.00 am, after a good breakfast, having overslept by an hour. Still the neighborhood is dead quiet and I am hoping the roads will be too. It is overcast, but warm and humid and no need for the lining inside my mesh jacket or a rain suit. I head out along an old favourite route, Green Lane, becomes Herald Road, winds though forest and farmlands then becomes Sanford Road, now Durham County Road 11. It is devoid of traffic so I coast along at 8o Km/h and enjoy the view without any assholes tailgating me in an anxious attempt to get there quicker. I get stopped at a level crossing and get to see a very long CN freight train take a long, long time to pass, I didn’t count trucks, but there are many, nice little cheap thrill. I’m heading for the town of Lindsay via Little Britain…very little, two dozen houses and a few shops. I stop and buy a couple of cans of Red Bull at a small, but well stocked grocer. Then onwards and upwards. It’s a pleasant road to ride, getting a bit busier, but still pretty good with some nice bends. One of the bends has a bit of gravel and I feel the back wheel slipping for a heart-stopping millisecond, but then it gets a grip and all is well, I’ll have to watch for that when I hit the Kawartha Highlands.  I bypass Lindsay, crossing the tail end of Lake Scugog and take Highway 36 to Bobcaygeon.

 Miles of freight train... awesome

Teeny Weeny Britain  

This is a pretty decent road, some good bends, still relatively empty of traffic and the pavement is in good condition. The scenery is switching from mostly farmlands to more forest. I’m settling nicely into the ride and the Boulevard is running sweetly, traffic speed is 110-120, the 80 limit is definitely observed only in the breach. On a road like this an 80 Km/h limit is silly, it is not observed, nor enforced so why have it? I don’t know if there is an attempt at moron psychology here, such as if the limit is 80 people will go 110, if it is 110, people will go 130. Anyway, if you did travel at the speed limit on a bike you would get the bejesus tailgated out of you and get home a nervous wreck, if you managed to get home at all.  

I am seeing a lot of road kill today, I guess the little critters are all out and about, trying to make hay while the sun still shines and getting ready for winter. Road kill makes me feel sad. I know this isn’t a big ecological deal, like whale hunting or global climate change or over fished oceans, but it symbolizes, at least for me, the reckless way we go about things. All these pathetic bodies lying next to the road, or worse ground to paste on the pavement. It seems to be mostly raccoons, skunks and squirrels, I guess there would also be foxes, coyotes and some domestic animals in the mix. I did spot a few small deer when I rode around Lake Huron. Somehow the raccoons are the saddest, they look like forlorn old tramps, slightly overweight and dressed in baggy clothes lying dead next to the road while we roar past in big shiny motor cars or fancy motorcycles and don’t give a shit for the simple little lives that lay snuffed out on the shoulder of the highway. We are even offended by the smell of rotting corpses or the stuff that skunks squirt to defend themselves, not that there is any defense that they could mount against us. I know that there is not much we can do to prevent this carnage, short of banning night travel on these roads and that’s not going to happen. Still it makes me sad and a little more convinced that humans are the worst thing to have happened to the biosphere in its 4.5 billion years history. The extinction of our species is probably the only hope the rest of life on this planet has, assuming we don’t take it all down with us when we go.

On that cheerful note, I turn off the 36 onto County Road 507, north to Gooderham. This is one of the roads I came here to ride. Believe me when I say that riding this road makes one glad that we are not yet extinct, it is right up there with girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes and brown paper packages tied up with string. The road skirts the Kawartha Highlands Provincial Park just to the right and twists and turns constantly, left and right around hills and lakes, pristine forest nearly all the way. Apart from a few patches, the road surface is in good condition. I stop on a small patch of hard shoulder and take some pictures, when I take off again I get stuck behind a Ford Focus, but not for long. On a rare straight stretch I turn the throttle and the Boulevard responds like an eager racehorse, it takes some effort to slow it down to 90 for the next twist, the floorboards scrape the pavement and I see some sparks out of the corner of my eye...nice. I don’t encounter any more traffic until Gooderham where the 507 ends, what a ride... what a ride. I contemplate turning around and going back, but conclude that may be a little childish, like going up and down escalators. Anyway I am hungry and getting a little saddle sore.

I'm with you on that one

Some great twisties on the 507

I stop at a ‘family’ restaurant on the outskirts of Gooderham, such as a tiny village can be thought to have outskirts. The waitress tells me that there is a rush on and they have more guests than they are geared up for, but if I am prepared to wait awhile I’ll eventually get fed. I’m a little disappointed, but grateful that she told me, I would be really annoyed if I have to wait an hour for my food. I drink one of the Red Bulls I’d bought in Little Britain, it takes the edge off my hunger and the break is enough to refresh my ass from the mounting saddle sore.

I follow the 503 north, it’s almost as good as the 507, the twisties are not as frequent or as tight, but it is still a wonderful ride, and the scenery is out of this world. Forests and little marshy wet lands, ponds and small lakes covered in water lilies, ferns and wild flowers. Really this is an absolutely gorgeous part of the world. There are ominous little signs of things to come, here and there the leaves are turning red. Now I don’t pretend to know why some trees of the same species turn red before others, but it seems to me that there is a basic randomness underlying the universe, an unpredictability within the predictability. We know that the leaves will turn red, but don’t know when a particular tree, or leaf for that matter will do so. I do know that pretty soon this forest will be a riot of colour for a short while, and then the riding season will come to an end and I’ll be an ordinary bloke again. Not a biker, just another joker cursing the snow, or sitting on the commuter train or driving a Dodge Caravan, looking old, grey, bald and sad.

Ominous signs of things to came...leaves turning red here and there

The 503 ends at Tory Hill in a T-junction with the Provincial Road 118. This is definitely a bikes’ road, excellent condition with paved shoulders and lots and lots of twists and turns. Hills, forests and lakes. I revel and ride, I’m alive. Its cottage country, but not time for the cottage people to be heading back to the city, so the road is not busy.  I see a wild turkey, the first since arriving in North America, I suppose it could just be an escaped domestic turkey, it’s pecking away next to the road, neck like an old man’s… well never mind, hope it doesn’t join the road kill brigade. I have one beef, those goddamn billboards again. Really, don’t tell me that they bring in enough revenue to make even the tiniest dent in the provincial coffers, yet the aesthetics of this beautiful forest is sacrificed for a few dollars by the ugly mug of some or other real estate pusher with an insincere smile.

I arrive in Haliburton, now I really am starving and the Haliburton Family Restaurant is a welcoming sight. On the décor front, this establishment does not make it in the top 100, maybe not in the top 100 000, but that is not a problem. The middle aged waitress is friendly, service is fast and the hamburger is one of the best, I’ve had in a long while. And then there are the chips… now I have always said that outside of Great Britain the best chips to be had are served by the café just inside the top entrance of Kirtstenbosch Botanical Gardens in Cape Town. These are on a par, golden colour, crisp on the outside and soft inside, about 1/3 inch thick and between 4 and six inches long and no traces of peel, and no smell of old oil. Absolutely fucking divine. Of course the coffee is bloody dreadful, but hey, I deal … total bill, including diet Pepsi, $13.00.    

Ain't she sweet?

Best chips this side of Blighty

Highlands of Haliburton 

I’m following the 118 towards Bracebridge, planning to take Provincial highway 11 south just before I’d actually reach Bracebridge, I’ll do Muskoka properly some other time, maybe when the leaves are in full fall colour. The sky has darkened and it is getting cool, almost certainly I will get rained on. I stop on the hard shoulder and don the suit, the rain suit, the naff florescent green outfit that I have grown to rely on to keep me warm and dry. Twenty minutes later the clouds have broken up, blue skies and sunshine, sweat trickles down my back despite the wind from 100km an hour riding. This is not the first time this has happened after I get the rain gear on, that suit possesses some really powerful magic. I decide to stop and take it off before getting on Highway 11, it’s a busy double carriageway and I’d rather not be distracted by overheating.    

Scenes from the 118

Highway 11 isn’t a great road for biking, at least not my style of biking. I am not keen on fighting with the cottage traffic, getting cut-off and tailgated even when exceeding the speed limit by 35 Km/h, but I hang in there until Severn Bridge, then exist to travel down through Rama, home to at least a few of the Chippewas nation, and of course home to the more famous ***CASINO RAMA***. There are several smoke shops along the way, some claiming to be the original Rama smoke shop, but I decide to stop at one that sells moccasins and serves espresso in addition to the tobacco products. I’m after the espresso not the tobacco stuff, I gave that bad addiction up a decade ago and not keen on taking it up again. I get a take-out as the place is definitely not smoke free. The cigars, tobacco and cigarettes are proudly displayed where everywhere else in Canada these products are discretely kept behind plain un-labeled cupboard door, like condoms in the pharmacies of my distant youth.  

   

The shop that sells moccasins is a non-smoking area, but the moccasins are not locally made by any means, factory made, it would not surprise me if these are of Chinese manufacture. The moccasins are also just a small part of what is for sale, the rest is the usual tourist junk, tiny maple leaf shaped bottles of maple syrup, T-shirts, caps, stuffed toys shaped like moose and so on. As far as I can tell not a Chippewas in sight, even the barista that served the coffee is blonde. Anyway, the espresso is good, and I don’t regret leaving Highway 11 behind.

Rama Road ends in a T junction with County Road 12. I follow it south, with Lake Simcoe to the west, to Beaverton. This is familiar territory for me, the stuff of evening rides when they day’s work is done. Its four o’clock and I’ll be home before five, in time to take the two funny, fat little dachshunds for a walk with Helena – and thank the gods, tomorrow is Labour Day and I'll be doing anything but.

Closing the Loop

I guess I owe the four faithful followers of this blog an apology, the final posting for this trip, has been delayed for several weeks. My bad, but annoying things, like having to work for a living, have taken up too much of my time. The few hours left to me I have had to choose between writing blogs about biking and actually biking, I presume I can be forgiven for choosing the latter. Nonetheless I feel compelled to close the loop on writing about the trip around Lake Huron, just as I felt compelled to properly close the loop around the lake. I am one of those guys that sometimes struggle to finish a job, but who insist upon doing so anyway, it’s a blessing and a curse.    

It is strange but there is a difference between the way the Americans make use of the lake and the way the Canadians do. It’s like the Canadian attitude is ‘this is the land of lakes, so no need to treat this one special’, maybe so. Lakeshore Road turns out to be a bit of a misnomer as it keeps a frustrating discrete distance from the lake. It’s a great road to ride, but I want to see a bit more of Lake Huron. Eventually I turn off and do a loop on Outer Road, as far as I know this has nothing to do with taking folks out of closets, I don’t actually see the Lake, but get rather close. As compensation I get to see a few other rather delightful wetlands. The loop takes me back to Lakeshore road, which is also County road 21. I follow it northwards, sadly only catching a glimpse of the lake on very rare occasions. Still I am riding well, comfortable with man and machine as one. After a time I realize that man is getting hungry and machine needs some gas.

Nice little wetland

I spot the inevitable Tim Horton’s and stop. Which brings me to a short Chautauqua – my love/hate relationship with this Canadian institution. The great thing about Tim Horton’s coffee shops is predictability, the crappy thing about Tim Horton’s coffee shops is predictability. In any given town or even tiny village in Canada you will find a Tim Horton’s…almost guaranteed, where you will get a 90% acceptable coffee or espresso and something to eat that is reasonably healthy and 90 % tasty (you can also get unhealthy, like donuts or honey crullers, but that is your choice) and everything is incredibly cheap. The washrooms are usually clean and service is quick.  Now in America where Tim’s does not reign supreme you are stuck with pot luck or Starbucks, and Starbucks, whilst great, is expensive and mainly confined to bigger towns and cities. If you stop at a café or diner you may get a decent cup of coffee, but chances are you won’t. Mac Donald’s has attempted to fill that gap in the market, but not terribly successfully, and I am not fond of the food there. So if you are travelling and 90% quality with 100% predictability and quick in and out, Tim Horton’s is the greatest thing. The downside is the loss of the small business and variety. Certainty versus interesting. In a way it is a metaphor for the North American way. If a recipe is found that works, repeat it over and over until the whole damn world looks the same – new ideas struggle to get an airing because there is business risk in deviating from the recipe. By the way Hollywood is another prime example, that’s why we get Rocky VIII, and why it is so hard for new talent to ‘make it’ and why once an actor has ‘made it’ they become gods amongst us.    

The 90% ok double espresso and grilled cheese sandwich fills the hole and I head north ignoring the speed limit with the rest of the traffic. Through Southampton, which doesn’t remind me of the English city in Hampshire, and split off from the 21 and take the Bruce County Road 13. I’m in an Indian reservation, the Saugeen Nation, but there is little that makes this apparent apart from a few smoke shops and a sign or two that say so. There are lots of properties between the road and the river, I speculate if these are weekend cottages belonging to wealthy regular Ontarians or if these are the homes of Saugeen people, I am guessing the former.

Sauble beach, I have been told is really great, the best beach in Ontario. At first glance it seems to live up to its reputation, if you measure this by the number of people milling about, it sure is busy. I notice, ominously, that all the motels I pass have ‘no vacancy’ signs up, there is a storm brewing and I am tired. I’m about to head towards Owen Sound to see if I have more luck there when I see a motel with ‘vacancies’ and what is more it’s got cabins that look similar to the cabin I stayed at in Caseville. With hopes raised, I enter the motel reception, which doubles as a purveyor of souvenirs most ghastly. There was a faint, nasty smell about the place… I should have fled, but as I said I was tired and had set my heart on seeing Sauble beach. Yes there was a vacancy, but only a family cottage, two bedrooms, and it would cost me $125 for the night. Shit that’s a lot, but as I said, I was tired. It turns out to be identical to the Caseville cottage (I guess there was a factory once upon a time that manufactured these for motels) except that this one is very run down, very grubby and there is no air conditioner at all.    

Sauble Beach

I decide to shower then head down to the beach area for dinner. Showering is less than pleasant as the shower cubicle is so rickety that I feel in danger of the thing collapsing on me. Water runs freely onto the ancient linoleum floor and the smell of rotting timber and bacteria permeates the bathroom.  Oh yes, and they don’t supply towels or soap, I had the foresight to pack the latter and dry myself with a T-shirt. I am not an economist (who would want to admit to being a dismal scientist since 2008 anyway), but I took two economics courses way back in my first youth, so I know that price is a poor indicator of value. It is about supply and demand, and right now the power is in the hands of the supply side, but it is odd that by far the worst place I have stayed in on this trip is the most expensive, nearly DOUBLE the price of the best.

Just the sort of place I would choose to add permanent decorative marks to my person 

Sauble Beach, on closer inspection, is not in the same league as St. Ignace or even Caseville, but I suppose it is catering for a much younger set than me. It reminds me a little of Durban Beach of my youth, lots of little shops selling plastic crap and beach wear. For Canadians, think Clifton Street Niagara Falls, too tacky for my taste. I decide to try the Red Road Café and Grill for dinner, it’s a little away from the main activities and right on the beach, but it turns out they are full as they have closed the verandah due to a gale force wind that is now blowing.  I walk back along the beach and get to see actual breakers crashing on the beach. In the end I just get a pizza and take it back to my smelly, expensive cabin to eat, I make it there moments before the sky opens and a thunderstorm of note gets going. At least it cuts the humidity down to bearable levels.

Actual breakers

Your point is? You serve ice-cream from a window.

Plastic crap and beach wear for sale

In the morning I eat the last slice of pizza, cold and congealed, but still a great (albeit unhealthy) breakfast and then walk down to the lake shore for a last gaze out over the water. I know that I may catch a brief glimpse of the lake when I go through Owen Sound, but this is my official farewell. I dry the saddle with the T-shirt, put on the rain suit as it’s now cool and threatening to rain some more, and head out. Sauble Beach disappointed on many levels, but I am sad to be riding with the lake behind me.

Shades of Durban beach circa 1970

I cross County Road 10 at Hepworth and close the loop, once around Lake Huron. The trip is done and I want to be home for lunch, but there will be more, and I’ll keep writing about them. 

More or less the route  about 1850 Km.