It’s one of those moments...should I, shouldn’t I? I have to
go to Ottawa (or as it’s pronounced by Anglophone Canadians “Oddawah”), to
attend a conference. I know this sounds terribly exciting, it is after all a
conference for accountants, more specifically accountants involved in the
public sector, but I am trying to decide if I should make it even more exciting by
riding my motorcycle there and back. A few
weeks ago this would have been a no-brainer, I’d have been on that Boulevard
like white on rice, but now I waiver, it’s the weather you see. I can handle a
bit of rain, I can handle some cold, I can handle wind, but I am not sure that
I want to ride nearly 500 km there and the same back through rain, cold and
wind and that is pretty much what www.theweathernetwork.com
is saying about Sunday through to Tuesday. Friends and family urge caution,
Iron John inside me wants to ride the storm. I am sorry to admit that I wimp
out. Shameful admission though it is, I will not pretend that I braved the
storms on the Boulevard, instead I drove the Dodge Caravan – sad old joker that
I am.
I manage to leave a little later than intended (as bloody usual), so decide to
take the 401 motorway. Before leaving home I grab a few CDs from the collection
and toss them onto the passenger seat – actually it’s been a long time since
they saw service, what with YouTube and iTunes, CDs have gone the same way as
vinyl. Some classic Eric Clapton and a more recent album where he does Country
and even a bit of Reggae, the man has talent and like Keith Richards all the
drugs in the world can't silence him. Koos Kombuis reminds me of a previous
life, the haunting sounds of the soundtrack to the movie The Mission (Robert De Niro, Jeremy Irons and a very youthful Liam
Neeson before all that Taken shit), and a still wonderful compilation CD from
1999 – Radio 94.7 Highveld Stereo – featuring songs like Maria by Blondie, Simply Red and The Air That I Breathe, Savage Garden To the Moon and Back, and Perfect
10 by Beautiful South, keep me company. It is marvelous, but tame, oh so
tame, however I seem to be vindicated, the weather is really foul. I stop at an
Onroute for gas and the wind knifes
icily through me, I have seen not a single motorcyclist since turning onto the
motorway. Contrast to when I rode to the Adirondack, just a week or so before, man
the weather changes fast at this time of year.
Driving along listening to music I realize something that
hadn’t come to mind about riding my motorcycle. Driving in a car one has the
need to be interacting with the world outside your head, listening to music or
chatter on the radio, talking to passengers, assuming you have any. When I’m on
the Boulevard, it’s just me and my thoughts, it’s become my quiet time,
paradoxically I suppose, considering all that’s going on when you ride. It’s
meditation of sorts, Zen at 130 Km/h. This is the time that I’ve been able to
put so much into perspective. It has been humbling and empowering at the same
time. I wouldn’t swap the hours on my motorcycle for a hundred times those hours
more living, because that living is filmed in sepia and riding a motorcycle is
in Technicolor.
Just past Kingston I take Provincial Road 15 north to Smith
Falls, ultimately to join up with Highway 7 at Carleton Place. Smith Falls
holds a few powerful memories for me, it feels like a million years ago, but
was just in the spring that Helena and I rode to Rigaud in Quebec for a
memorable few days. It started to rain just after Smith Falls, we were
travelling east on Provincial Road 43, not particularly heavy rain, but we
stopped on the hard shoulder, such as it was, and donned the rain gear. Our
mistake was to only put on the jackets, foolishly thinking that the trouser
part was not really necessary, actually it’s the trousers that are the most
important part of the outfit. We hadn’t gone far when it became evident that
the rain strikes you on the shins, goes straight through the cotton of your
jeans and runs down your legs into your boots, very unpleasant. Today I am
going north through Smith Falls and it is raining cats and dogs – is it ever
dry here?
Eventually I meet up with Highway 7, which is by now a dual
carriage way, the sun has set and according to my Dodge Caravan’s instruments
the external temperature is 4 degrees C. I tell Iron John that really, riding
this on the Boulevard would have been hell, he tells me that I’m just a mommy’s
boy… I deal with that, fuck him and his testosterone issues. Highway 7 becomes
Highway 417 that takes me into Ottawa. After a bit of getting lost, not unusual
for me, I am a little dyslexic when it comes to left, right and east and west, eventually
I find the guest house. For some reason north and south does not present me
with any issues. Alexander House on
Besserer Street turns out to be a really great find. My hosts, Sharon and
Stephen, are an interesting and very pleasant couple and the room and indeed
guest house is full of beautiful antiques. My only complaint is the weak Wi-Fi
signal in the room, when I move my laptop to the dining room it is fine.
Sharon is also ok with serving me breakfast at 7.00 a.m. a ridiculous hour
dictated by some overeager accountant who wants the day to start with registration at 8.00 a.m. Breakfast is
served on Sharon’s lovely collection of white and blue crockery – Spode, Delft
and Willow Pattern – a great meal with pleasant conversation, despite the
uncivilized hour.
Besserger Street
Ottawa is a city of civil servants, a bit like Pretoria and
I suppose like Washington and Canberra, but perhaps less contrived, at least it
seems to be less designed and more accidental. It has that prosperous, yet
modest air of a government town. I pass several embassies, confirming this is
the capital. The Angolan embassy pulls a bit at my heart strings, sometimes
when I’m reminded of Africa I get a powerful longing to return to the tropical
heat and wilderness. I miss African people (black people) the most, their
inherent kindness and capacity to survive and enjoy life despite terrible
poverty, lack of opportunity and very often horrendous oppression.
Angolan Embassy
As things turn out I don’t get a lot of time to explore the
city other than the 25 minute walk from Alexander house to the Ottawa
Conference Centre, but I find myself drawn to this city. This is a city of
great compromise, an Anglophone Canadian city that realizes that it must
accommodate, nay embrace, Quebec, and is truly the better for it. Ottawa has a
sophistication that is more encompassing than any other city that I have been
to in Canada. The balancing act that Canada performs to keep the interests of
the Quebecois and the rest of Canada in sync seems to me to be symbolized here.
I understand that the city was selected to be the capital city of Canada by
Queen Victoria mainly as it is about equidistant between Toronto and Quebec
City, a good compromise. My walk eventually brings me to the entrance to the
Conference Centre, I know it is supposed to resemble a tulip, but frankly I
don’t see it. It’s a moderately interesting glass building attached to a
shopping centre, slightly out of character with the surroundings, but does not
clash too much. I sign in and conference
away for the next two days.
The City of Gold, with Tulip in Foreground
Tuesday afternoon arrives and the coven of accountants breaks
up, all of us much wiser and our craft honed to perfection. I bid farewell to
my hosts in Besserer Streey and navigate the Dodge Caravan to Highway 417
westbound. It’s cold and rainy and as I leave the city the heavens open, I
travel through a downpour of biblical proportions that even Moses would have
been proud of it. Visibility is cut to 50 metres and the highway becomes a
river. I am glad not to be on a motorcycle, this would be a profoundly
dangerous ride, not to mention how uncomfortable it would be. The storm does
not last and by the time I reach Highway 7 it is dry and the sun has come out, I
wish I was on the Boulevard again. Driving, compared to riding a motorcycle, is
like eating chocolate with a condom on the tongue, now there’s a mixed metaphor
for you!
My plan is to follow the Trans Canadian and retrace the road
that Helena and I rode to Rigaud and back in the spring. It was our first long
ride and we were both a little nervous when we set out. We had originally
planned a longer trip, Rigaud was intended to be merely the first stop, then
onto Île d’Orléans via Trois-Rivières. From a base in Île d’Orléans we planned
to day trip down the Saint Lawrence and return home on a route that would have
taken us through Maine, Vermont and the Adirondack. It would have been
absolutely fabulous and I’d like to do it sometime, but we realized that it was
overly ambitious and would take more time than we had available. I suspect
Helena was also reluctant to leave the chubby little dachshunds to the tender
mercies of the younger generation for the week or so, lest we return to
emaciated little dachshunds. In stages we moderated the plan, and in the end it
was just to Rigaud, day trip in the area, stay a second night and ride back. Modest
in comparison to the original idea it was nonetheless a great three days and
actually just the right distance, there is a type of fitness that one needs to
build up to handle long rides. If you are not used to it you get tired and make
stupid mistakes.
Helena on her Harley D (883 Sportster) and I on the Boulevard
B.O.S.S., we left home at about 8 in the morning. We took a slightly longer
route to get to the Trans Canadian Highway in order to go through the Kawartha
Lakes Region. Up until that point a long ride for us had been to the town of
Lindsay, the main town of the Kawartha Lakes District, now it was just a coffee
stop on the way – Tim Horton’s and a few double espressos. We picked up the
Trans Canadian just after Lindsay and headed towards Peterborough through
Omemee, home town of Neil Young, currently grumpy looking grandpa, once the
fourth wheel of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. We bypassed Peterborough,
travelling on a short stretch of dual carriageway. Our exposure to motorways
had been limited and it was an exciting, if slightly scary, experience. Back on
normal roads, the Trans Canadian traversed farmlands, but these soon gave way
to forests, this is the Canadian Shield and there is not enough topsoil to do
much intensive farming. It was late spring and all around the world was in the
process of reawakening. It still blows me away how in the winter the plants die
away and snow covers everything, then spring arrives and by June, Southern
Ontario looks more like a tropical paradise than anything else. Helena is a
keen gardener, and works hard to plant, mulch, mow and do all the other earthy
pursuits involved in making our garden look as great as it does, but out here
it’s all the workings of nature – just wonderful.
We followed the Trans Canadian to Madoc where we took a
coffee break and gassed up the motorcycles. Just before the gas station we
passed the mad guy of Madoc’s place, at least that’s what we think of him –
reminiscent of Howling Mad Murdock. From Madoc to the town of Perth the Trans
Canadian goes through the loveliest stretch imaginable. Even now as I drive
back from Ottawa on this road in the fall it is an absolute gorgeous stretch –
lakes, rivers and ponds uncountable, now the forests are red and yellow tinged,
rather than light green of spring that Helena and I rode through. We parted
company with the Trans Canadian at Perth, where we took the provincial road 43
to Smith Falls. As we rode there was a sense that we were riding just ahead of
a storm, it was chasing us eastwards, but as Hollywood will attest, nature will
catch up with you, and we were forced to deal with the rain, poorly as
mentioned earlier.
Howling Mad Madoc's Place
We crossed from Ontario into Quebec just after the village
of Alexander. I have Anglophone Canadian friends that refuse to travel through Quebec
on the grounds that they cannot abide the French. I have dealt with French
speaking Canadians that refuse to speak English though they can. People,
really, are we Canadians or not? Ok so I’m going to say something unpopular
here – WAKE THE FUCK UP! The French and Indian War ended in 1763… that is a
QUARTER OF A MILLENIUIM ago! Underlying
all divisions between human tribes is self-interest of one or other politician.
I absolutely love to visit Quebec, it’s like taking a trip to Provence, without
the expense of a transatlantic flight. The guesthouse in Rigaud is situated
high up on the hill (mountain?) Le Point
de Vue - see www.lepointdevue.net. It
is run by a gay couple that make you feel really welcome, even though we speak
no French and they speak little English. The room is tastefully furnished with
a stunning view over the Ottawa valley. We were tired, cold and hungry and
after a shower we took a taxi into town in search of a nice French meal, it was
still raining. It turned out that although Rigaud is a skiing resort and a
university town in a French speaking province, it is cursed with a complete dearth
of decent restaurants. I could not believe it, the best place to have
dinner had pictures of the dishes on the menu (always a bad sign) and the food
was pretty disappointing.
Breakfast the next morning was, however, a very different
proposition. I hadn’t read the literature properly so was unaware of the treat
in store, like it or not we were in for a six course breakfast. Helena and I
are poached eggs and coffee fans, as far as breakfast is concerned, but for
fear of offending our hosts we soldiered through – it was really good, just
more than we could handle. We waddled out from the breakfast room at about ten,
sleepy and at least an hour behind schedule, never mind it was fun, so who
cares. Our planned route for the day took
us to Grande Île, down to Ormsville, through Franklin and eventually north
through Huntingdon. It was a great day trip, lots of twists and turns and
fabulous countryside – agriculture, but on a smaller scale and less industrial
than Ontario. Our route back to Rigaud was
intended to take us onto the Autoroute De Souvinir west, then get on the
provincial road 325 and up through the countryside to Rigaud. Unhappily Helena
and I got separated and I ended up taking the motorway almost into Montreal.
For once I was relieved to encounter a tollgate stop. The guy in the booth, in
broken English pointed out the road I needed to follow. I was eternally grateful
and once again realize that the myth of the arrogant, unhelpful Quebecois is
just that, a myth. Fifty hair-raising kilometres later I arrived in Rigaud. The
road to the guest house from the motorway went past a supermarket. I stopped to
buy salad stuff, olives, cheese, hummus, tortillas and some wine. In the
meantime Helena had followed the intended route and got to ride through some
stunning countryside and enjoyed the twists and turns of a quiet country road. The
distance for the day, about 350 Km. We
dined on my purchases on the balcony overlooking the Ottawa River Valley –
absolutely gorgeous.
Even the water lilies change colour
Canadian Shield
We left the guest house early the next morning dressed in
full regalia, it was rainy and cold so the rain gear was on. Now I am as keen
as the next guy on a six course breakfast, but there was no way we could make
it home by a reasonable hour had we stayed for that, instead it was tea
biscuits and espresso at Tim Horton’s in Alexander. We followed the same road
home that we had come by. Not always a bad idea, the view coming is very
different to the view going. I suggested we go through Peterborough instead of
bypassing on the motorway, which wasn’t my brightest moment, stop-start traffic
for 5 kilometres through the ugliness of Walmart, Home Depots and other cookie
cutter emporiums that ruin all Canadian towns. We made it home before six
o’clock to the boundless joy of the dachshunds, you would swear that we had
been away for weeks and weeks. Poor little buggers, their needs are so simple
and straightforward you just can’t help loving them.
My route home from Ottawa is much the same, it is rainy and
cold with intermittent sunshine. Fall instead of spring, red and yellow leaves
versus light green of the newly sprouted, only driving the Dodge Caravan is
such a poor substitute. This is Canada, I deal with the downs because it has
such ups. The riding season is coming to an end, but there is always next year.
Older, but no wiser, I’ll ride again, assuming I’m still here and capable.
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