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.