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!