El Niño

El Niño, in case you don’t know, is a band of warm ocean water that develops in the central and east-central equatorial Pacific in a cyclical pattern that effects weather patterns all over the world. In South Africa where I grew up, El Niño meant drought and very hot summers, it still does, and this year is one of the driest and hottest on record, I can believe it, I felt it when I was visiting a few weeks ago. I believe that here in Canada the strong El Niño contributed to the wet fall and so far mild winter, and to a small, but gratefully received Christmas present for me. Yup, you guessed it, I’m spending my Christmas afternoon riding the KLR instead of sleeping off too much turkey. Thank you Jesus…in case you also didn’t know the term El Niño refers to the Christ Child.

Since the Muskoka trip I have indeed not managed to do any longish rides, but finished off the season with a few pleasant local rides… a loop through Terra Nova, few times to Port Perry via Uxbridge, once around Lake Simcoe, a few times to Musselman’s Lake near Stouffville and a loop or two through Zephyr and Udora. All together I guess I have managed about 14,000 Km this season, about half on the late and lamented Boulevard and half on the KLR. The accident in the middle of the season sort of put a kybosh on my plans to do a cross continent ride, so maybe that’s on the cards for next year, we shall see how things turnout.

Near to Terra Nova - one of the last rides in the fall. 

Anyway, just before leaving for South Africa for the brief visit, I decided to winterize the bikes in the reasonable expectation of icy cold weather laced with snow and the occasional ice rain storm.  Previously Helena and I had stored our bikes at Barrie Harley Davidson, but this year we decided on a DIY job and save us the $600. There is more to the decision than a bit of Scots canniness, it goes with my decision to take personal control over at least the basics of the maintenance. A few moments with Google and I knew what the procedure was, and a trip up to Royal Distributors to buy a few bits and bobs and I was ready. I gave the KLR a full service, including oil change, new oil filter, spark change and doohickey reset and Helena’s Harley got a similar treatment. Filled up gas and added fuel stabilizer, cleaned both bikes, oiled the KLR chain, wiped all exposed metal parts with a clean oily rag, hooked up drip charges to the batteries and put dust covers over the bikes. To keep them warm I put the bikes on rubber mats and switched on the cheap electric oil radiator, I’d purchased from Walmart, to a low heat setting.

Winterized bikes, the camo motif is a bit much, but if I ever need to hide away in a forest... 

I felt ready for the cold that quite frankly hasn’t yet descended. Sure we have had a few days of sub-zero temperature, Fairy Lake (the little artificial lake that is the center piece of the park close to my home) has achieved a skin of ice for the odd few days and there has been a dusting of snow a couple of times, but honestly there has been nothing to write home about. Even the Canada geese are still hanging around, they really should have deserted us by now. Not that I am complaining, the Canadian winter is not the prime reason I live here, but it is odd that it has so far been largely absent, worrying a bit actually. I know that this is an El Niño effect, but I am sure that the effect is magnified by the worsening global climate change. Last week I saw a video of a lake that slid over a cliff, I kid you not, the lake slid down a hill and disintegrated over a cliff, this was somewhere in northern Canada where the permafrost has recently become a little less permanent and so trees topple over and lakes fall over cliffs.  I don’t need any more convincing that our species is driving the mother of all extinction events on this planet, and our species won’t survive that. I don’t think that we should abandon efforts to prevent the cataclysm, but I harbor a strong doubt that we can stop it. Our problem is that there are just too many people and too much greed and I am as bad as the next guy. I have begun to think that this planet will be so much better off when the last human has breathed its last breath.

That all said, it’s Christmas day and it’s 8 degrees centigrade and almost wind still, so I have pulled the cover off the KLR, unhooked the battery charger, double socked, put on the Kevlar jeans, mesh jacket scarf, bright green wind resistant rain gear, boots and so on.  The sausage dogs look at me in wonder and doubt, nothing would lodge them from the sensible thing they are doing ‘ballasbak’ in front of the fire. ‘Ballasbak’ means baking your balls, or taking it easy, not that they actually have balls after a visit to the vet a few years back.  

Ballasbak

Merry bloody Christmas and off I go. I head west into the watery sun, it’s barely past midday, but the sun is low in the sky and all the shadows it casts are long and have an eeriness to them. The village of Kettleby is as quiet as a church on Tuesday morning, in front of some of the houses there are groups of cars parked, I guess that ham and turkey feasting is going on inside, but outside nothing stirs, just me riding through. Pottageville is the same and Schomberg, if possible is even quieter, its many restaurants are all closed – weird I would have thought that there is at least some demand to be fed commercially rather than bother with all that cooking. My family have given up on all that, too much effort, which is why I’m able to be where I am instead of stuffing my face with the obligatory festive fare, yay freedom.

From Schomberg I go north, following dirt roads in the general direction of Cookstown. I am contemplating going through the forest area around Terra Nova, but I notice that the temperature is dropping quite noticeably the further north I go. Just past Cookstown I chicken out and decide to go south again, I aim for Beeton via dirt roads. Beeton is a repeat of all the other villages, dead as a doornail, I turn west again, Loretto then Hockley Village. Now that I’m on a well-travelled motorcycle route it is evident that I’m not the only dude taking advantage of the day, not nearly as many bikes out on this road as you will see in summer, but a lot more than I would have thought for a winter day, we do the wave rather more enthusiastically than normal, it’s a ‘what the fuck we are actually riding today’ sort of wave.

Green Christmas 

Long eerie shadows, just past noon 

This, as I have said before, is a terrific road to ride and the watery sunlight, relative cold and general bleakness of the scenery takes nothing from the pleasure of carving through those bends. By the time I get to Orangeville it is almost 4.p.m and the sun is seriously low, shining right into my eyes, and the temperature is falling fast. I have started to lose feeling in my fingers and toes, toes isn’t an issue, but I’m worried about the fingers, I still need to use them to get home, the case for heated grips or gloves is made abundantly clear. I turn around and head home the way I came, weaving through Hockley Valley Road, now with the setting sun at my back. At Highway 10, Airport Road, I decide to go south to Highway 9 to get home quicker, but end up unable to resist a small detour along Coolihans Side Road, if ever I manage to buy that small holding this is where I would like to buy. Back on Highway 9 I ride like the demons of hell are just behind me, which in a sense they actually are, assholes in large pick-up trucks that drive like the road belongs to them. I’m home before dark, but it takes a painful half hour for the fingers and toes to thaw.

Hockley Valley Road Christmas day 2015 

Tomorrow I’ll re-winterize the KLR, I suspect that this was the last ride of 2015. No doubt the Canadian winter will arrive soon and we’ll be having to cope with a few feet of snow. This is the last post for the year, and I may not post again until the spring. 

The Screaming Heads of Muskoka

I cannot believe that I have got so far behind with this blog, sorry, sorry, sorry… real life has got in the way. Since the last post I have spent a week in South Africa, with an additional 70 hours of flying and transit time, and the climax of a very busy project at work. Bum excuses I know, but true nonetheless. The trip to South Africa was wonderful and perhaps I’ll write about it in due course, if only to dispel the winter blues that are coming my way.  The trip included a few profoundly proud moments for a parent, I watched my daughter present her absolutely fabulous fashion collection on the runway and graduate with a BA in Fashion Design. Man, do they grow up so fast, the years speed by so quickly, it was only yesterday that I held her tiny body in my hands and rocked her to sleep. Anyway allow me to cycle back in time to mid-fall and the trip to Muskoka.

 

Paying a visit to the Screaming Heads has been on my bucket list ever since hearing about them a few years ago. I recall after seeing pictures of these sculptures for the first time, thinking that these heads are protesting something, something about the way we are ‘managing’ things. It turns out that I was right, artist Peter Camani, an ex-school teacher has created these sculptures and opened his farm to the public to view them in an attempt to protest against the environmental degradation we humans visit upon the planet in the pursuit of the good life as defined by Walmart et al. I get it completely, sometimes I feel that I can scream along with them.  I guess that if things carry on the way they are heading there will come a day when we will all be screaming and not in protest, but in real anguish when everything of consequence goes tits up thanks to our consumerism. I must admit to not knowing the answers, but I do know that current received wisdom is driving us, lemming like, over the abyss. I know that the western ideal of rampant unchecked capitalism is as flawed a system as central planning. I know that when CEOs of companies earn salaries north of a million dollars a year (in some cases many times that) or people can spend a million dollars on as frivolous a thing as a wedding celebration, whist millions of people starve, there really is something that stinks about the way things are organized.  I know that as long as the system can only function if there is constant growth and rewards cost cutting at the expense of the environment or at the comfort of our fellow creature (calves in feedlots, broiler chickens, pigs in factory farms, wild animals deprived of habitat and so on) we will doom our own species to a horrible end. 

On a more cheerful note, it is a gorgeous morning and despite the efforts of the employees of CN (for the benefit of non-Canadians, CN is The Canadian National Railway Company), I am feeling pretty good (see http://www.not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2015/10/planes-trains-and-motorcycles.html). I have a decent ride ahead of me for the day and that is always guaranteed to make me cheerful. I wipe the KLR down with a cloth I brought along for just that, drying off the dew, and I carry out the daily safety inspection. I've learned to do that before setting out on a longish ride, I know one should always do it, but I must admit to not being quite as fastidious when I’m just doing a short spin. Today the inspection reveals that I am indeed low on engine oil. These motorcycles tend to burn oil when you push them hard, I hadn’t thought that I had done terribly long stretches at 100 km/h plus, but then it is coming up for the next service. My host had mentioned that there is a Canadian Tire service station on the road out of town, for sure they will have the right grade of oil and with a bit of luck they will stock the motorcycle version… memo to me, carry a liter of the stuff in the saddle bags on long rides in the future.

I pack up, settle the modest account and head out, first stop Canadian Tire, fill up gas and top up oil, indeed they carry exactly the oil I want, good ol’ CT. Joseph Street becomes Parry Sound Drive which in turn becomes Highway 124. I go under Highway 400 and follow the 124 for about 8 km, then turn northwards into Lorimer Lakes Road. A few kilometers on the road forks and I take the left fork which goes by the silly name of ‘Bunny Trail’. Silly name, but gorgeous road, the blacktop is in perfect condition and the curves are plentiful and not so tight that you can’t take them at a decent speed. I encounter one heart-stopping moment, the road has no markings, which should not be an issue as drivers are after all supposed to be adults, but one asshole in a big ass truck nearly forces me off the road. I think every motorcyclist has had a few of these moments, I can recall at least three, when suddenly there is a car on your side of the road bearing straight down on you. This particular prick decided that the whole fucking road is his side of the road. I head for the very edge of the pavement and the truck swerves back to where he should have been. The incident is over in perhaps two seconds and as there is nowhere safe to stop and let the adrenaline dissipate, I just carry on, albeit at somewhat of a slower pace and soon settle back into enjoying the ride.  

Bunny Trail

Eventually Bunny Trail meets up with Muskoka Road 520, another great motorcycle road to ride in this lovely county. It’s a reasonable distance to the turnoff to the Screaming Heads, the Lord of the Rings sounding ‘Midlothian Road’. Indeed by the time I reach this point I am getting fairly hungry, but the chance of finding somewhere to eat seems low. The road is pleasantly twisty but not in great condition so I take it easy, which turns out to be a good thing, Midlothian Castle, as the farm is called, is easy to miss. Once in the grounds it is apparent that it is somewhat busier than expected, there is a sort of New Age market on the go, as well as a disk golf tournament. I manage to get a semi-reasonable cup of coffee from a stall that sells organic cookies and such like, but as I have sworn off eating carbs, I give the eats a miss.

Now disc golf is worth a small digression. I am deeply shocked to discover so many adherents in one place, at least 20, and one of them tells me that 100 more are expected, there is a major tournament on the go. For the uninitiated, disc golf is a form of golf played with Frisbees, I kid you not. The players throw Frisbees instead of hitting golf balls and finally toss the thing into a basket at the end of the ‘hole’. There is a park near to where I live that hosts disc golf every Sunday in summer. Every Sunday the baskets are placed out, but I have seen no more than three people actually tossing the Frisbees from tees to greens and into baskets over the past several summers. I never thought that this was an actual sport with actual tournaments, but here in the most unexpected place is a bunch of enthusiastic guys and gals throwing Frisbees and walking around with special bags to hold the discs. Still I suspect that disc golf won’t be an Olympic sport any time soon.

Midlothian Castle is indeed an unexpected place and the screaming heads are something to see, definitely worth a visit if you find yourself in this part of the word. The expression of anguish is so clear it is palpable, they are warning us, but I guess we will just ignore these, like we ignore all the warnings. The heads are not all in the same place, and I wander around to see them, taking care not to get in the way of a Frisbee. I would have liked to have experienced the place with less people around, I think a grey rainy morning with no one about would have been a more appropriate setting, still it was good. I take my leave, wave to the disc golfers I’d been chatting to and head down Midlothian Road the way I came

Midlothian Castle

 Few of the screaming heads 

The Not-so-Easy Rider, picture courtesy of an avid disc golfer

I'd also scream if I had a gong hanging from a nasal orifice 

My route takes me to Burk’s Falls. I’m quite hungry, but don’t want to waste an hour at a restaurant so it’s Tim Hortons and a large coffee with cream that takes the edge off. I take Highway 11 south bound for a few kilometers until turning right onto County Road 518, heading west to Orrville. Another fantastic road to ride a motorcycle on, sweeping curves, excellent pavement and the beauty of Muskoka in the fall.  At Orrville I discover a great little coffee shop / bakery. They serve me a platter of cheese, Salami, olives and ham accompanied by an excellent cup of coffee. There is not much to Orrville so it’s surprising to find something like this there. The baked goods look very tasty, but as I mentioned I have sworn of the carbs to reduce my waistline a bit. While sitting on the veranda having lunch I research using the map app on my phone, I’m looking for some off-the-beaten-track roads to ride, maybe some dirt roads. I decide on a route that will take me south on Star Lake Road, then onto Turtle Lake road, then onto the oddly named Tally Ho Swords Road and end up on Highway 141.

 Orrville Bakery

This turns out to be dirt road most of the way, through some very lovely areas. Lots of lakes and forest (lots of cottages too). The KLR feels sure footed enough on the gravel, but I keep the speed down, don’t go above sixty and take the corners a little like a grandmother. I enjoy the change of pace and the feeling of freedom and adventure, it’s very tame I know, but still, a little way into that dual sport / enduro territory.    

Highway 141 takes me to Highway 400, thirty odd kilometers south of Parry Sound. I have spent the morning riding a loop. It was great fun, but now I head for home, about a two hour ride on the busy as hell highway. It’s the cottage traffic, Sunday afternoon Muskoka empties back into Toronto. I’m sad now, as I know this is the last longish ride of the season, the rainy season is here and winter is approaching and I must winterize the bikes before leaving for South Africa. I’ll still ride a bit for sure, but won’t be venturing far from home.  

Muskoka has beautiful fall colours, but this park around the corner from my home is also stunning

Planes, Trains and Motorcycles

This trip wasn’t really planned, until yesterday I hadn’t even thought about riding, other than maybe a snatched few hours if the weather played ball. It’s been that sort of week, head down and deal with the brown stuff as it comes my way. Yesterday afternoon I lifted my head up and noticed that the weather forecast was looking rather good for the weekend. These weekends with nice weather at this time of year are little gifts bestowed by the gods of weather to the gods of motorbikes, and are ignored at your peril, pissing these celestial beings off can result in constant rain until it starts to snow in November. At any rate that is my story and I will stand by it, which is why I am setting out for a weekend numb-bum shortly before noon on a truly glorious fall day. My original thought had been to leave home at the fart-of-sparrow, but there has been a niggling job that had to be done sooner or later and to my credit I decide to do it, of course I had reckoned on an hour delay, tops – heard that one before?

The caulk-free drain provided as a freebie with the shower I had installed was proving to be a little unsatisfactory, it leaked, and my temporary solution of a bucket beneath the drain in the crawl space, whilst effective, was definitely not a final solution. Continuing with this ersatz arrangement for another few days was tempting, but I needed to get it fixed before it is discovered by other members of the family and my rep goes down the drain, so to speak. My morning activities involved the caulk-free drain getting thoroughly caulked, but only after a monumental struggle to get the bloody thing loose. This involved sawing through PVC drain pipes, and then having to cement the severed pipes back together with joins, after dashing to the nearest Home Depot for the joins and cement. Anyway, I’ll see in due course if my efforts will be rewarded by the gods of plumbing with a leak free showering experience.  Words of wisdom for others that may be installing showers, make the hole in the floor big enough to get your hands in, make sure the thread on the ring is clean and oil it with a drop of baby oil. Oh yes, use a good quality silicon sealer even if the manufacturer claims that you don’t need any caulk at all.

Job done, I spend a half hour poring over Google maps and decide that I’ll ride to Tobermory at the north end of the Bruce Peninsula, find a place to stay, then spend Sunday exploring the area, before riding home. It seems like a good plan, but the little voice in my head tells me that the fall colors will be more spectacular in Muskoka. Of course Maine, Vermont or Adirondack would be the pinnacle, but that requires a bit more time than I have on my hands right now. Still I set out with a route in mind that will take me to Bruce County, however as I reach the turn-off from highway 27 that will take me there, the KLR goes straight, Muskoka it is… more lakes, more forest, more hills and there are still some damn good roads there that I haven’t yet ridden.

Fall colours in Muskoka  

For some distance I trace, going the other way, the route Helena and I took a week ago when we rode up to have lunch in Bracebridge. It’s the homeward route we followed that I am riding now. North on highway 27, then north on highway 400 from Barrie, east on Old Barrie Road, then north again on highway 11. I take my leave of the motorway at Severn Township and follow Muskoka road 13, also known as Southwood Road. This is great, pretty much what I came this way to see, the autumn color festival courtesy of the forest trees. There is a fair amount of evergreen around here, lots of pine, so the reds yellows and orange contrast wonderfully against the green. Sometimes one comes across whole swathes of forest that seem not to be effected in the slightest by the season and are hanging onto summer verdant greens, why these trees are green and not the ones a mile back, same species as far as I can tell… who knows?

Southwood Road with cemetery in the middle of nowhere

The last time I rode this road was with my heavy (see http://www.not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2015/07/bike-shopping.html) in late spring. I am impressed, back then there were considerable stretches that were seriously damaged, now almost all of the bad sections have been resurfaced. It’s a lovely ride, but you can’t take most of these corners at a speed that makes for exhilarating riding, they are just too tight. Fortunately the scenery is so lovely that you actually just want to take it easy, take in the view and smell the hummus, so to speak. After dashing up the motorways at 120 km/h plus, this is a nice change of pace. I relax and get into a pattern of weaving through the non-stop corners going at between forty and sixty, mostly I’m in third or fourth gear and I get to practice leaning on the corners. There are not many places that you can safely stop to take some pictures, but I come across a little cemetery and stop for a photo op. It’s sunny and warm, an absolutely a gorgeous fall day, all the more precious when you know that there are only a few of these left this year and quite possibly no more that fall on a weekend. Living the dream… at least for now.

Southwood Road eventually winds its way to meet up with Highway 169, which I follow north to the picturesque little town of Bala, I stop to stretch my legs and buy a little bottle of Scotch at the local LCBO. For the benefit of readers outside of Canada, LCBO stands for the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, which controls the liquor in Ontario by selling it to anyone over the age of 19 that can pay for it, it is a government controlled monopoly. From my point of view it is a slick, well run business with cheerful, beautifully laid out shops, stocked with booze from the four corners of this world. As

alcohol is an addictive chemical substance, this would make the government of Ontario the biggest pusher in the province. I’m actually ok with the whole idea, at least the profits of this trade are going into a pot that keeps my taxes a bit lower and doesn’t just make some fat cat capitalist even richer, which is exactly what would happen if it were decided to privatize. So I’m all for the LCBO, and must stress that I have grave doubts any private enterprise could do this any better, the LCBO outlets are the very example of retail at its best. Anyway the LCBO at Bala is in complete character with the town, and as I am in an expansive mood I splash out on a half bottle of Glenfiddich Single Malt 12 years old Scotch… yum.

From Bala I carry on with the 169 to Foot’s Bay, then Lake Joseph Road. This is lake country, lots of water, lots of hills and the road takes lovely sweeping curves. This is a great road for riding a motorcycle, the blacktop is in excellent condition, the traffic is light, the scenery is great and you can do a good speed. The sun is getting a little low in the sky so I am glad I am travelling north. Thus time of year riding east or west in the early morning or evening carries the extra danger of getting blinded by the sun, or even worse, the oncoming traffic getting blinded. I am not exaggerating, I have had moments when coming over a rise to suddenly find the sun directly in my eyes and I couldn’t see anything at all except this blinding light, bloody scary. Eventually Lake Joseph Road meets up with Highway 400 and the last few kilometers to Parry Sound pass in a blur of 120 to 130 km/h, high speed indeed for the KLR, but that single cylinder 650 cc carbureted motor seems to be quite up to the job… love this little bike.

Parry Sound is an interesting if not entirely pretty town, on the shores of Lake Huron. It’s a little bit of a gritty town with a gritty past and hasn’t been completely gentrified by ‘cottage money’ from Toronto…I like it, it’s got the feeling of a working class town with few pretensions. The town is a bit of a railway juncture, a good deal of Canadian timber that built the great cities of North America passed through Parry Sound over the last hundred or so years, and as I will reveal, the railway lines are still running (at all hours of the night). I make my way to the waterfront with the intention of finding a pleasant, but inexpensive pension where I might spend the night, preferably with a verandah and a view over the harbor. I assume that there will be dozens of such establishments with plenty of vacant rooms at nicely discount prices…I assume wrong, there is one and it is full, damn. I ask the proprietress to point me in the direction of some other places where I may lay my head down for the night. There is nothing on the waterfront, but there are several motels in town and a Comfort Inn, but she warns me, a touch gleefully, that there is a very big wedding on the go and she thinks that nearly everything is fully booked.  I’m not too worried, if Parry Sound does not have room at an inn for me, I’ll just go elsewhere, it is still a few hours before sunset is complete.

Nonetheless I follow her directions to where the motels are located, it seems they are mostly on Church Street (what town settled by Brits in the Victorian era does not sport a Church street?). Enquires at the first three places come up with blanks, but my persistence pays off on the third place. The Town and Country Motel is not actually on Church Street, it is on Joseph Street, however Church becomes Joseph. The motel is just as the lady from the B&B on the waterfront said, “Just a block after the Dairy Queen”. The way she spoke it was as if DQ is the pinnacle of Parry Sound cuisine, I hope not. There are two rooms left, a smoking room and a non-smoking room, I am surprised that smoking rooms still exist, but snap up the non-smoking room. This is a real motel, but a really nice one. It advertises itself as “clean, quiet and affordable”, and indeed that is exactly what it is. The room is spotless, simply, but nicely furnished and as I said really, really clean. The owner, it turns out, is also a keen motorcyclist and we spend a few moments discussing the joys of riding a steel pony. I notice a few other motorbikes parked in front of the rooms (it’s a motel, you park in front of your room). My room costs about $70 for the night, very inexpensive when you consider there are beds for 5 people, and it has its own bathroom, needless to say spotless as well.  Nowadays you

would think that having its own bathroom is sort of accepted as a given, but as I discovered on the trip to Manitoulin Island earlier this year (see http://www.not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2015/07/wet-wet-wet.html) there are still places that consider that as an extra, an optional luxury, and as you didn’t ask for a bathroom you shouldn’t be surprised by its absence. Anyway no such concern with Town and Country Motel, the bathroom is thrown right in.  So far all is good and as advertised, clean, quiet and fairly priced, I would say cheap, but that word has managed to get a bad press. 

I am about a fifteen to twenty minute walk from the waterfront where I have decided to have dinner, Dairy Queen be damned (actually I would not be caught dead eating at DQ). After an afternoon on the bike, walking feels good. I have of course freshened up with a shower and a change of underwear, but as I have not packed extravagantly, my cleanest dirty shirt and the jeans I wore all day will have to do. I have left the motorcycle jacket in the room and wear a fleecy hoody instead, however, in truth it is almost warm enough for shirt sleeves. Fall is soo unpredictable, can be hot one day and pissing cold the next.

Parry Sound has a very pleasant, if rather quiet little waterfront, a bit short on places to stay as already mentioned, but there are a few pubs and restaurants, with verandahs with nice views. I notice that these establishments are not terribly busy so I spend a few quality minutes wandering about the harbor area, unconcerned that I will not be able to get dinner. There is an actual airline, the Georgian Bay Airlines Ltd. albeit it has just a few Cessna single engine seaplanes, still very romantic. The

Island Queen Cruise ship lies at anchor, I’m not sure that it still operates this late in the season, in season you can book what I believe is a pretty decent outing on this vessel and get to see many of the islands (there are some 30,000 plus they say) in the Georgian bay area. I have seen some of these from the ferry between Tobermory and Manitoulin Island so can attest to the general loveliness of Georgian Bay. If you have been following this blog you will know that I have a love affair with Lake Huron. I elect to have supper at the Bay Street Café, which turns out to be a pretty decent choice. I have a plate of fried squid to start and finish with baby spinach salad with scallops in a cream sauce… very delicious low carb options. Service is friendly and efficient and the waitress certainly earns her tip. As a bonus I watch a full moon rise over a hill covered in autumn colors.

Moon rise over hill with train crossing bridge - from the patio of Bay Street Café

It is still light when I leave the restaurant and start my walk back to the motel, perhaps now with a little less spring in my step thanks to a pleasantly full stomach. I pass under the somewhat famous trestle railway bridge that crosses over Seguin River (hardly much of a river, just a short piece of water connecting Mill Lake to Lake Huron), completed in 1907, still very much in service and to my delight get to watch a long freight train cross the bridge. I think I have mentioned that I like bridges and this one is really beautiful. I have noticed that there are at least two railway lines going through the town, so there is about nowhere that you can possibly be very far from a railway line, it seems to be charming, I like trains almost as much as bridges. I have no foreboding.

Trestle railway bridge over Seguin River

After a nice walk, long enough to settle the dinner I get back to the motel and bash out a few paragraphs of this blog on my laptop. Can’t seem to pick up the Wi-Fi so the idea of streaming a movie from Netflix is a non-starter, that really is something Canadian hospitality needs to get better with, good fast internet is not an option anymore, like bathrooms, it is expected. I have a few tots of the Glenfiddich Single Malt 12 years old Scotch and forgive the Town and Country the lousy internet. I’m pretty tired so bed seems like a decent option anyway.

It’s morning and the Sealy Posturepedic moment is conspicuous by its absence, I did not exactly get a good night sleep. Now I do not blame the motel in the slightest, if you stay in Parry Sound this is a given, I just didn’t know it. I was in the depths of a really good sleep, about midnight, when the ‘My Cousin Vinny’ thing happened. The sudden noise was awful, that fucker of a train diver leaned unnecessarily long and hard on his horn, which sent me flying up from my bed in fright, sleep banished… so much for quiet. It may have been a conspiracy, but it felt like there were trains passing through at regular intervals all of the rest of the night, spaced apart so I could just slip into a state of slumber before the next one. Eventually by wrapping my head in a pillow I managed to get some sleep. 

It’s a couple of hours later than intended that I get washed, dressed, pack my stuff up and drag my bleary-eyed persona to the reception room where coffee and muffins are served, included in the reasonable rate. I decline the muffins but the coffee is acceptable and by the third cup my bonhomie is somewhat restored. There are a couple of other guys about my age having breakfast that are also touring the area on motorcycles, we discuss routes… I plan to visit the semi-famous Screaming Heads of Muskoka, and get a suggestion for a few interesting roads to ride to get there and then home. These sound better than the route I had planned, this is really a great little place despite the railways, clean and full of like-minded people!   

On and Off…The Road That Is

Okay, so I am seriously behind with my blog, my apologies. I am going to try to catch-up with a posts that will unfortunately have to sweep over many little adventures, but I must get this more current, soonest. I do have three valid excuses. Firstly I have been having so much fun riding the KLR that given the choice of sitting in front of a computer screen and typing or riding until after sunset, and the sun does set pretty late here in summer, then riding it is. Secondly although summer is supposed to be a slow time in Canada, I have been hellishly busy at work, and as we all know, paying the piper is what keeps the tune going. Thirdly I have spent the last few weeks in DIY hell, hardly riding and definitely not writing. The planned simple little updating of the small downstairs bathroom ended up in complete re-do.

I set out with the idea that I could pull out the old shower, install one of these fiberglass walls and glass door jobs over the existing horrid tiles in the shower area, half tile the rest of the place, pop in a nice vanity, change some light fittings and paint the top half of the walls, trim and doors. Bob’s your uncle, a one weekend job…tops. Ha- bloody-ha, I’ve worked my balls off and still haven’t painted the trim. In project management speak, it’s called scope-creep. The shower I liked and bought came with instructions that did not go along with my idea, it demanded, unreasonably I thought, the removal of the drywall completely and the addition of extra studs and braces. Of course the new drain did not line up with the existing drain, so that cost a whole lot of sweat, tears and plumbing. The dust and mess generated was quite out of proportion to the small amount of drywall removed, which made me the unpopular guy of the moment. Then half-tiling seemed, well half-assed, so it’s now floor to ceiling with a row of little mosaic tiles in the middle to break the monotony. Tiling is a way tougher job than the YouTube videos make it out to be, and messier, much messier, much, much messier. I bought a cheap $100 wet saw courtesy of Chinese sweat-shop labor, which made the tile cutting at least bearable. I’m also a person that does not like to work with gloves on, but when my fingertips got down to raw flesh, I decided to overcome that silly little prejudice. Then we thought that a corner toilet would be just the thing to save a little space and assumed, foolishly as it turned out, that the existing plumbing would work fine…another drain that had to be moved, really nasty this one. Lots of plumbing and all to do with the crappier side of the water system, kept having to remind myself of the plumbers creed, “Shit runs downhill and never bite your fingernails.” Actually by now I was seriously into wearing gloves. Three weekends, including a long weekend and a day’s vacation and nearly every evening later and the job is just about done. Most of the mess is cleared, the new light and extractor fan are still to be installed and as mentioned a bit of painting to do, but I must confess that I am proud and thrilled with the result, just would like a bit of my life back that it cost me.

Anyway this is not a DIY blog, so I’d better move on to the motorcycling thing. Having now tried riding a bit on dirt roads and a brief, unpleasant, but fortunately not disastrous attempt to ride a real trail, I realize that I lack the skills necessary to ride on anything except the pavement (even then I sometimes wonder, which is perhaps why I call this blog the ‘Not-so-Easy-Rider’). I decide to remedy this or at least mitigate it a little and book a one day course with SMART Adventures in Horseshoe Valley, just north of Barrie, http://www.smartadventures.ca/motorcycle.html . I leave home at 7.30 am a.m. it’s a hot midsummer Saturday and even at this early hour there is a fair amount of cottage traffic on the north bound roads, and Horseshoe Valley is firmly in cottage country. Still I get there in time to get the kit on before introductions and a lecture. SMART Adventures supply the full kit, pants, kneepads, top, elbow pads, funky plastic boots, funkier chest armour, gloves, helmet, goggles and a cloth thingy to cover the head, supposedly for hygiene purposes. I hadn’t expected all this stuff, and really hope that the clothing bits have seen a good solid cycle in a washing machine since the last guy wore them, guess a few cooties won’t kill a chap.

The Not-So-Easy Rider in Storm Trooper Disguise 

The morning session is spent on their bikes, in my case a 250 cc Yamaha dirt bike. It’s very high, even more so than the KLR, so it’s a struggle a with my short legs, but once on all is good, well almost, the boots are very hard and I can’t actually feel the gear lever, that’s going to take some getting used to.  We are also shown that dirt bike riding you do seated as close to the gas tank as possible, it feels weird and makes gear changes even more difficult, but as soon as you hit the trail the wisdom of this is apparent, the weight is in the right place and the control improvement is apparent. In my group there is about six of us and the instructor. The initial few hours is spent teaching us some techniques, braking on slippery ground , cornering through soft sand, going over obstacles, controlled slow speed traversing of rough terrain (like ploughed up fields) using clutch and throttle control and going up and down hills. It’s tough and tiring, but a huge amount of fun. After a short water and pee break we spend a few hours on a relatively easy (so I am told) trail through a forest, we also get to do a few circuits on a motocross course, fun, but I do manage to come off. Too much acceleration to get out of a slide around a corner, then when the wheels grip I shoot up the bank as if I’m riding a rocket and the reason for the funky chest armor becomes clear, my ribs hurt, but not nearly as much as they might have. What would such a day be unless I fell at least once?

By 12.30 we are back at the ‘base’ and lunch, which is not included in the $299 I paid for the day. I’d ordered a baby spinach salad with grilled salmon for about $14, not sure where it came from, perhaps from the Horseshoe Valley Golf Club, but it is pretty decent with goat cheese, pecans, dried cranberries and a nice creamy vinaigrette. My companions from the morning do not stay for lunch, apparently they had only booked for the morning session, from my group I am the sole candidate for the afternoon ride. They give me a choice of more of the same on their bikes or milder trails and dirt roads on mine, a difficult choice, it was really fun, although a bit scary doing the real dirt bike stuff, but I want to get a feel for what I can do on the KLR. I chose to ride my bike and also decided to give up the Star Wars Storm Troopers outfit in favor of my own jeans, mesh jacket and beloved softer boots. A youngish couple with two small children arrive and start speaking Afrikaans as soon as they hear my accent – that seems to be the common response here when finding a fellow South African, it’s nice, like showing a membership cards of a small exclusive club, only it’s not terribly exclusive. Their son that is getting lessons on a dirt bike. I shit you not, but kids are learning to ride little 80 cc bikes as young as five.  

Clinton Smout of SMART Adventures 

My mentor for the afternoon is Clinton Smout, an old timer, born in the same good year of 1959 as me. Clinton is a small wiry guy who has spent most of his life riding dirt bikes in the summer and skidoos in the winter, a life well spent I’ll say, damn side more fun that sailing the wide accountancy as I have done, he is also the proprietor of SMART Adventures. As promised we do some light trails in the forest and I get to appreciate that my KLR is not entirely designed for the really rough stuff. It is a load more versatile then a cruiser and can take me places that your average Harley couldn’t dream of going, but I’m not going to ride through mud holes and sandpits, phew that’s a relief, didn’t want to! Clinton teaches me some pretty good tricks to take on steep inclines, up and down, on gravel. We end the afternoon at a café in Craighurst for coffee and a slice of strawberry and rhubarb pie, we chew the fat for about an hour. Clinton is shortly to embark on a motorcycle tour of The Cape Province in SA and Namibia, so naturally I point him at the numerous posts on this blog from that part of the world. I hope he has a wonderful trip… and hope he tries the apple crumble in Solitaire. The day was definitely worth it, but I am still a rank beginner, at least I know a little bit of what I don’t know.

Nice easy trail, perfect for KLR and me

I have joined the ONTARIO FEDERATION OF TRAIL RIDERS, or OFTR, which gives me the privilege of riding trails in designated forest areas, not too many as it turns out and finding the allowed areas seems to be somewhat of a challenge. There are a bunch of clubs that I can join and indeed have joined two, but there seems to be not that much going on for someone that does not want to get into the serious trails, enduro/dual sports riders are definitely the wimps in this game. I have found that I like going down the back roads, just as I like taking the nicely paved twisty roads, it’s about a bit of variety. I know that I can take this bike across a continent, or down one, and deal with the sort of roads I came across in Namibia, at the same time I can ride the motorways and hold my own, albeit with a bit of a sweat if I want to get up to 140 km/h. Which brings me to another little advantage that the KLR has, I find that I am a much more law abiding citizen than I used to be. The Boulevard needed to go 140 before you managed to get much of a thrill, the KLR gives you that at 100, wonderful, my chances of 5 demerit points for speeding are so much diminished!

I do, however, suspect that my membership of the Old Farts Brigade (OFB) has been terminated. To be clear I still am an old fart, there is no choice concerning this, you either are or you are not, and the ‘old fart’ tag you get, like it or not, when you turn 50. Now I know that there are many old farts out there that will protest that this label is not valid and they feel as young as they did when they were 25, but catch your kids in an honest moment and you’ll discover the nasty truth, the day you turned 50 you became one. But being an old fart does not necessarily qualify you as a member of the OFB, you need a grey beard (I’m good with that, have worn a goatee for more than a decade, and it is more salt then pepper), and you must ride a cruiser preferably a Harley, or at the very least a 1000cc enduro. My green and purple KLR definitely does not qualify, it is a young mans’ bike, training wheels maybe. I know that this is the bike I should have bought when I started out, it’s fun, easy to ride and versatile, but not permitted in the OFB.

Deer in Algonquin 

When I bought the KLR it had 18,000 km on the clock, as I put it away this afternoon it has very nearly 24,000. I must admit that it is difficult to account for these kilometers. I have done a few decent trips, but none that involved staying overnight. There was Algonquin, that was 700 km in one day which included a few rides down gravel roads which were great and I did get to see a deer which was exciting. Okay admittedly deer are not exactly an endangered species, for my SA readers, it’s a bit like getting excited at seeing impala in the Kruger Park. Then I have ridden to Wiarton on the

Bruce Peninsula, home of Wiarton Willie the foremost Canadian groundhog that predicts the start date of spring, (just let me catch that little fucker for extending last winter!) In any event that was a pretty decent ride and confirmed my suspicion that there is a lot more to see on the Bruce Peninsula than highway 6 and Tobermory, the peninsula is definitely worth a couple of nights stay over to get to see it all properly. Of course I have ridden all the local routes that I have grown to love, Hockley Valley, Forks of Credit, Muskoka route 6, Provincial road 118, Kawartha Lakes, Kawartha Highlands, Musselman’s Lake and Eudora via the hamlet of Zephyr village. I have varied my old favorite rides by just turning down gravel side roads to see where I end up and one of the best things is I can avoid the weekend cottage traffic jams by riding in the general direction I want to go following side roads, no problem at all and I get to see things I otherwise would not have.


Some of the places I've been:

Kinmount, Kawatha Highlands - Saturday morning fair

Hockley Valley Road

Bruce Peninsula 

Musicians on Sidewalk Washago 

Historic Main Street Schomberg 

Dorset, Muskoka 

Algonquin 

Although I have ridden the route the Boulevard died on (a really lovely route with fabulous twisty bits, follow Sideroad 10 west from Mansfield, careful through the 180 degree corner I crashed on, then turn right on to Prince of Wales Road and then take River Road through Terra Nova) I can’t quite say that I have climbed back on as I haven’t done a group ride again. I decide to sign up for a Wednesday evening ride with the group, The Rolling Thunder Riders, http://www.meetup.com/RollingThunderRiders/. They are a nice group of guys and gals and I get greeted like a long lost pal, instead of the a-hole that crashed the first time he rode with them, I am sure that they are just being polite. The meeting point is outside of Thornton, which is also the ending point where the group have a late supper at a pizza place. Tonight all the riders are on sport bikes or cruisers, except yours truly on the green and purple machine, oh well I should be able to keep up. The leader tonight is Crystal, who founded the group with her husband Josh. Crystal leads the way, a winding route north that eventually goes past Craighurst and Horseshoe Valley, where I did the one day off-road course, and we end up in Orillia where we stop for a break before heading back to Thornton. It is a really fabulous route, but I find that I am not enjoying the ride entirely as much as I should. Somehow the group riding dynamic is making me nervous, as I said once before, riding in a group requires a skill set that I don’t have. It’s to do with concerning yourself with the other riders, where are they and you must ride to accommodate the group, ride at a speed that matches the group, and then there is the slinky effect. It’s not that I ride slowly when I ride alone or get overly anxious on corners, I managed to get over my cornering fears post-accident relatively quickly, but I find that riding in the group it has returned, it really is weird.

It is getting dark when we reach Orillia, and a little later than expected, I make some sums and realize that it will be quite late when supper is over and the weather forecast predicts mist. Several of the riders indicate that they will split from the group on route back. The group is following Old Barrie Road, but I make the signal that I’m leaving as we cross Highway 400, and take the 400, I’m home in just under an hour. I’m not sure about whether or not I’ll carry on with group rides, maybe leave it for the rest of the season and try again next year. It’s nice to ride in a group, the social aspect is good and getting to ride new routes is really great, but then there are aspects that I prefer riding on my own. I like to ride at my own pace, to choose the speed I am comfortable with and when I want to stop and smell the hummus, then a stop. Somehow I have more confidence when I’m riding alone and make fewer mistakes, maybe I’m just a bit of a lone ranger… I tend to be a loner with everything else, so perhaps it’s the same with motorcycling.

Well the riding season is not over yet and officially it is still summer, but the leaves are turning, the days are shorter and the last ride I did I had to stop to zip in the lining of my mesh jacket. Maybe I can still do a decent trip with a stay over, maybe squeeze a long weekend this year still, but I’m not going to do the cross continent ride I had hoped to this summer, oh well c'est la vie, with some luck there is next year.

Life After Death

As mentioned in previous postings I had decide that I would definitely be looking at a different type of motorcycle, not that I have been unhappy with the Boulevard, to the contrary, it has been a wonderful relationship, but now that it is over I want something different. I have grown up a bit in this world of motorcycling since my impetuous decision to buy the Boulevard in the middle of winter 2014 at the Toronto Bike Show. I’ve learned a little, realized that there is more to motorcycling than riding a big heavy powerful iron and had a chance to figure out what I really want. All too often I have had to ignore a road that looked interesting because it was gravel or likely to become gravel and then the thought of taking some of those trails up mountain sides and through verdant forests is very attractive. Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to cross Africa, north to south, a la Ewan MacGregor, then I will definitely need experience on something other than a cruiser.

There are few other things, for one, I’m looking for a motorcycle that I can understand, mechanically that is.  Maybe it’s to fill a hole in my experience that the sheer accountantness of my younger years denied me, but I want something that works a little bit like the teeny engine I had on a model aero plane when I was nine years old. Something I can get my non-mechanical brain around with the help of a decent manual and a few YouTube videos. I want to understand what the engine is doing and why it is making a funny sound, I want to do the services, change the oil, adjust whatever needs adjustment, the inner grease monkey in me has been awakened. I want a bike that is low on pretensions, high on performance, I also want something that is light, agile and I can manage to throw around corners a little.

I have test ridden the Ducati Scrambler (as indicated previously). It is a really super machine to ride, a little more than half the displacement of the Boulevard, but it would totally smoke it, except maybe when carrying a passenger. I really like the L air-cooled configuration, only 10% less displacement than the Harley 883 but the motor is way smaller, lighter and  the L config is more space efficient than the V, allowing for more ‘stuff’ to fit between the cylinders.  I have however decide against buying this for a number of reasons, this is not really a dual purpose motorcycle, this is a bike to ride on the road with, although value for money it is good, it is a lot of outlay in absolute terms. But most of all it is too low for me with the foot controls situated where they are, my slightly arthritic hips ached for hours after the half hour test ride. It also needs a windshield and I like to have saddlebags. Sadly this bike with a windshield, saddlebags and forward controls will look like an Arabian stallion with a plough harness on. There is a lot to like about this motorcycle, decent torque and horsepower, beautifully styled, it is a Ducati after all,  and a totally honest bike, aluminum rather than plastic bits, so it was with regret that I scratched it from the list, but if I wore a younger man’s clothes….

I didn’t manage to test ride a Triumph Tiger, but did sit on one and did a heap of internet research on the bike (or rather bikes as there are several versions). I found it a little too tall for me, I am challenged in the inseam department, but once actually on the machine everything was fine... apart from the fact that I was merely sitting on a stationary motorcycle rather than rolling off the apron and taking it for a spin. I don’t know how actually relevant all the fancy stuff that this bike has… ABS, ride by wires, antiskid and so on, but it does get some very favorable reviews and is a serious dual sport (adventure tourer, as it is called) motorcycle, without a doubt it can handle the trails as well as the motorway. The downside is the price tag, once you have paid the sales tax and the ‘dealer deliver charge’ (what the fuck is that anyway?) and all the other bits and bobs you are looking at a serious investment. Which investment, I have firsthand experience of, can turn into spare parts in the wink of an eye.

My next test ride is the BMW F700GS, which absurdly does not sport a 700 cc displacement engine, but rather an 800 cc one. Also excellent reviews, but not quite an off-road bike, little on the genteel side in the rough, I am led to believe. The folks that seem to know what they are talking about punt the F800GS ADVENTURE for a truer dual bike or better still the R1200GS ADVENTURE which actually does have a 1200cc motor (well slightly less, but in the motorcycle world you generally round up)… I have arrived at the appointed time at BMW Toronto, a very upmarket establishment, befitting the products it pushes, the sales staff are impeccably dressed, and I suspect even the mechanics wear ties. Motorcycles are a few floor up so I ride the elevator, a superior experience in itself. It is a very different showroom to the usual, the bikes are laid out in neat spacious rows, there is no overcrowding and shaved-head, overweight, tattooed dudes are completely conspicuous by their absence. Now I must admit that I am ever so slightly prejudiced against the bike for one reason, the space between the seat and the handle bars is molded plastic that has the appearance of a fuel tank, but actually it isn’t, it a just houses the battery. The fuel tank is under the seat. Now I fully understand the engineering reasons for putting the fuel tank where it is, it lowers the point of gravity, and of course I understand the aesthetic reason for a fake fuel tank, the bike would look ridiculous with just a bloody hole there, but I don’t like the deception. Maybe I would prefer a storage compartment which is obviously a storage space than a fake fuel tank. Anyway I have huge doubts that BMW give a flea’s droppings for my opinion on fake fuel tanks. I fill out the disclaimers and they bring the motorcycle down to ground level for me and I take it out on a loop that includes a decent stretch on the Don Valley Parkway (motorway) and a nice twisty ride through the park area. Needless to say this bike is the sweetest bike to ride I have yet to experience.  It is smooth, responsive, deceptively powerful, light and easy to handle, those German engineers, fake plastic fuel tank and all, certainly know what they are about. The sticker shock is less than the Tiger and I damn nearly buy the thing on the spot. Reason prevails – taste and try as many as you can before you buy.

After the ride I am reluctant to leave all these motorcycles un-fondled, as such, and spend some hour touching and sitting on the inventory. Being bikeless on a lovely Saturday morning renders a chap a little needy and pathetic. That’s when I spot a lone G650GS, pushed a little to the side. This is a 650 cc single cylinder – a thumper, real enduro bike. I don’t get to test ride, but do sit on it and get a feel for it – a thought process is set in motion.

I must give credit where credit is due, Helena suggests that if I am considering something like the BMW G650GS, then I should look at similar motor cycles as a comparison, Suzuki, Honda, maybe the Kawasaki 650 KLR. Internet reviews on the KLR are very positive, a very popular bike. I also discover that there are herds of them available on Kijiji at prices that would not even cover the sales taxes and delivery charge of a BMW. I am a little skeptical, the horsepower and maximum torque are a lot smaller than anything I have considered to date, but this bike does comply with the desire for something I can get my head around the mechanics of, it has a carburetor for goodness sake, even the latest model. I find one that looks interesting, a 2000 year model with only 18000 km on the clock, right here in Newmarket. I make a date with the owner and arrive with my kit, including brand new helmet – helmets are one use appliances, one ding and its toast. The bike has horrible colors (apple green and vivid purple), but besides that it really is in showroom condition. The seller is a policeman, and clearly a man that takes good carte of his stuff, his garage is neat and tidy, he has the bike’s original manual and a book that describes the care and maintenance of the KLR 650 in great detail… and the bike still has two keys.

The Green and Purple Machine 

I take off on a test ride. Man what a surprise, sure it isn’t an 800cc BMW, but that single cylinder motor has guts aplenty and the bike is so light that it needs so much less. Even on my very first ride I can feel the easy of handling and can throw it around a corner or two with no problems. I take it down a gravel road, and though I am a little unsure of the techniques required, it is much more sure-footed than the Boulevard on a similar road. Then we get on Highway 9 for the acid test, how does it manage at 100-110 and even a little beyond? My research indicated that top speed is a tersh over 130 km/h. I don’t want a bike that can only handle side roads, the need to do motorways will come up from time to time. At 90 km/h I open the throttle, to my surprise the motor gives a happy little growl and in no time I’m flying down the road at 120. Now the Boulevard could manage 120 without breaking a sweat and it hardly felt like you were speeding, on the KLR you know it. The wind at that speed is difficult to handle and makes the bike a feel little unstable, but I can manage and I’m sure that the addition of a windshield would make a difference   By the time I get back there is a grin on my face from ear to ear, I know that I’ve found what I’ve been looking for, at least for this year and the next, then who knows – maybe there is still a BMW in my future, as it has been said, 'life is like a box of chocolates.'

It’s amazing, but there has been very few design changes on the KLR since introduced in the late nineties, I believe a bit of an upgrade in 2008 or thereabouts – but really essentially the same machine. The newer ones have a fancier set of instruments, mine has instruments that look like they were nicked from a 1962 Morris Minor, which I find oddly satisfying.

I’ve learned to live without a fuel gauge and honestly don’t miss it, it’s actually more re-assuring to use the trip meter. I have added a time piece ($10 watch from Shoppers Drugmart) and have decided to pimp my ride just a little bit. Because of the longevity of the design there is a lot of stuff out there, unbelievable what you can add onto these things. I came across a YouTube video of a guy that had added so much extras he could just as well have paid for a brand new 1200 cc BMW, now I like the KLR, but it really isn’t a match. Anyway there are three things I need to get – the windshield is a total must have, then there is the seat, the purple is a wee bit too much and even after 30 Km the ass starts to lose feeling, and I need bags. I know that the purists will not approve, but it’s mine so I’ll add these nerd items to make it more comfortable. Intense internet searching has resulted in these items on order, the only issue I have is with the seat, mine is a “C” version, which is a slightly more off-road version, with a smaller fuel tank and a different seat. These were sold only for a brief time in North America and no one will guarantee that their seat will fit, so I go for covering it myself and buying an Airhawk, cushion thingy.

Can go places I could not before   

My purchases have not yet arrived, but I have serviced the bike, well I did at least part of job, changed oil, spark plug, oil and air filters and did all the inspections, but thought it prudent to get a qualified mechanic to do some of the other things like drain and replace brake fluid, adjust the ‘doohicky’ (yes that’s what it is called by all who ride one).  I have of course done a few short rides, but wasn’t keen on going a long distances until the service was done, so now I am raring to take off on a few decent rides, the back roads and maybe a few light trails beckon. 

The After - Pimped my Ride

Death of a Boulevard

I guess it’s time to write about the bad week of smashing up the Boulevard, but have no fear, all is well that ends well. At least carries on well, as nothing has ended, even the Boulevard will go on in some form, rebuilt or chopped up for spare parts.

In truth there were two incidents, not linked other than they happened within the same week, if you count Sunday as the start of the week. I had just joined a motorcycling club, http://www.meetup.com/RollingThunderRiders, and my first ride with them was supposed to be the Cannonball 500, ride (http://www.cannonball500.ca). I set out at 6.20 a.m. on Sunday morning with every intention of doing the 800 km ride, in 12 hours, over some of the best motorcycling roads in the province and winning an ‘Iron Butt’ badge (way better than a Noddy badge). No sooner had I started out when it started to rain, very softly, but enough to make me stop at the gas station a few blocks from home and don the suit, the green rain gear outfit. I was planning to ride up the 400 motorway to the starting point for the group at Barrie Harley Davidson, so wasn’t keen to start off the day soggy and cold. I had barely travelled two blocks beyond the gas station when the Boulevard fishtailed, I could not have been doing more than 15 km/h, one moment I was riding, the next I was sliding on my ass on the tarmac with the motorcycle on top of me. It is said that the most dangerous time to ride is just after it starts to rain, there is just enough moisture to lift the oil and make the road as slippery as oyster snot, no shit Sherlock.

When all the motion came to an end my right leg was trapped between the engine and the road, fortunately it had not yet got very hot so I didn’t get burnt, but it still took me a few moments to wriggle free. It was then that I realized that I was not going to ride much further that day, the pain in the back of my leg (backside actually) was pretty excruciating, definitely a torn hamstring. A car stopped and a guy got out and helped me get the bike upright, more correctly he picked up the bike, the only useful thing I could do was to put down the kickstand, I couldn’t even assume the position to lift it. My Good Samaritan was a motorcycle rider himself so he knew how to do this job, which was a bit of luck – thanks sincerely whoever you are.  It took me another 5 minutes of teeth gritting pain to get my leg over the bike so that I could ride home. Getting off the bike was unpleasant, but nothing compared to the contortions and shooting pains that accompanied de-robing of the rain gear and boots.  It seems that I had taken the brunt of the fall and the Boulevard came off unscathed.

By Wednesday it still hurt when I did things like climb stairs, bend down or walk at any speed above a slow amble, but the pain level had subsided substantially and when I sat on the motorcycle, after a bit of fancy maneuvering,  I could hardly feel any pain at all. I felt strong enough to join the club’s Wednesday evening ride, the route that had been posted looked like a really nice ride, lots of lovely twisties through some gorgeous countryside. Most of the miles I have ridden, I have ridden solo so I was really looking forward to doing a group ride. We met-up at the pre-arranged place and there was general ‘hey fellow well met' stuff. Not all guys and a decent mix of bikes, the ubiquitous Harleys of course, but lots of other makes and types, adventure tourers, sports bikes, even a 250 cc dirt bike. By the time the 6.30 p.m. KSU (kickstands up) time rolled around, the group was about 18 or 19 strong.

Rolling Thunder Riders Meet-up - 'Hey fellow well met stuff' 

It felt marvelous to move out in such a large formation, no longer the lone ranger at the mercy of the cars, but now part of the cavalry and afforded respect and consideration. The group travelled at a fair clip…the slinky effect is a little tricky to deal with and I realized that although not entirely a novice rider, I was a rank beginner as far as riding in a large group is concerned. There are skills I had not yet developed, group riding has its own dynamics and I was wholly unused to it, still I felt reasonably confident I could pull it off. In any event it was a lovely evening, I was doing what I love most, in the company of others that love to ride and we were riding through what can only be described as a fairytale setting, hills and dales, neat little farms and rich forests. I was having the time of my life. We were riding west on Dufferin County road 17 a few clicks passed Mansfield, approaching a U bend at the bottom of a hill when one of the fairytale creatures came out of the forest and crossed in front of me. I did not swerve, it was not close enough to warrant that, but I took the corner too wide. I know I could have recovered from that, I just needed to lean hard and hit the gas with a small boast and I would have been through, but for reasons not revealed to me, that did not happen, instead I looked.  

Yes, damn my eyes, I looked. The most important lesson they taught us in motorbike school (Georgian College M1 Exist Weekend Course) was, ‘look where you want to go, do not look where you don’t’. It is if your eyeballs are steering the bike. This may seem like a load of BS for those who have not leaned to ride a motorcycle, but it is absolutely the truth. The one sure fire way to hit a pothole is to look at it, just as it is to hit a patch of gravel on the edge of the paved shoulder. I looked, I hit that patch, went rapidly from the vertical to the horizontal and the Boulevard’s front wheel struck an upright of the barrier. That is what saved me from serious injury, and the fact that I was properly dressed with mesh jacket, strong high boots, gloves, jeans and full face helmet. Apart from deep embarrassment, a reversal of the hamstring injury recovery and a funny, very sensitive lump on my right thumb, I walked away unscathed. Physically unscathed anyway.

I must admit to some emotionally scathing, my confidence took a serious knock. I even considered, well perhaps not entirely seriously considered, but the thought did cross my mind to quit the whole motorcycling business, you know the thing, it’s a sign, got off lightly this time, next time it won’t be quite so rosy. Then there are the ‘what ifs’, like what if the bike had missed the post and gone under the barrier and it was the soft polony meats of the not-so-easy-rider that whacked into the hard steel. Then I am reminded of one of my late father’s favorite sayings, ‘What if your aunt had balls? She would be your uncle!’ What if’s are just idle musings and as I have zero belief in angels, guardian or otherwise, or any gods or other mystical beings for that matter, reading a sign into any event is just a load of codswallop, whatever that may be. I know that riding a motorcycle is dangerous and that even the most experienced and cautious rider can end up in the morgue from a motor cycle accident, or worse, survive as a deeply disabled person, but the same fate could befall me right now as I type this very sentence. Risk of heart attack, stroke, cancer, kidney failure and the more exotic (Legionaries, Ebola, HIV and so on) purely health disasters that can strike are ever present especially at my age, not to mention all the other risks. I could die from something as banal as choking on a chicken bone, I think I’d rather hit that barrier.     

I often complain about the lack of quality in this blog, I must now talk about finding quality in this experience, and apart from the lack of quality in my own riding, there has been quality aplenty in everything else. From the group that abandoned the ride in order to stay with me until tow trucks and police arrived; to one guy (thank you Shawn) that ordered a tow on his own CAA membership; to a pair of female police officers, off-duty, that stopped and made sure that all was in order and nobody was hurt; to the Dufferin County cop that took my statement; to the tow truck driver that took me home at 2 a.m. and to State Farm Insurance that handled the claim expertly and generously. Honestly I can say that apart from ruining the Boulevard, personal pain and embarrassment and a terrifying few moments this has been a pretty positive experience... fucking weird isn’t it?    

Apologies for the dearth of pictures - the good stuff, pictures of wrecked Boulevard seem to have been erased from my phone, perhaps a good thing.