Sunday 19 July 2015

Bike Shopping

Bikeless wonder as I am right now, I am doing some expository reviewing of options, the repair prognosis for the Boulevard is not good…estimated damage north of $10,000, which means it’s a write off. I am certain that someone will buy the carcass for next to nothing and restore it to its former glory for less than $4,000, the damage is actually just the front section and of course the fancy, but vulnerable panniers that actually just need recovering with faux leather ($10 per metre). Oh well that’s the way the insurance business works, so now I need to look for a new motorcycle, or get out of the game… I’m going bike shopping!

Bike shopping is not nearly as fun as actually riding, but it has its moments. I am not sure how one did this before the internet, there must have been ways and means, after all humanity did somehow manage to muddle through the last seventy thousand years without Google. Anyway, bike shopping is easier with the internet, you can get so much information. I am positively bursting with my knowledge of relative horsepower, torque, brakes, ride by wire, wet and dry weights, final drives and so on, but in the end it’s sitting your ass on the machine and hitting the road that is the real test. I have some test rides booked.  I have decided that I will change direction completely, I want agile, light, more horses per pound of bike, I want to go on dirt roads, up mountainsides, ride along that forest firebreak… in short I want more fun and less heftiness. I have been considering the adventure tourers, BMW, KTM, Triumph Tiger, even the V-Strom, but then I saw something that I think will suit me, the new Ducati Scrambler… check it out http://scramblerducati.com/en/bike/icon.  When I sat on this bike it felt right, and there is a lot else that I like about it, it’s simple and understandable, back to basics, loads less plastic than anything else I’ve seen except Harley Davidson and it just feels like a bike that is intended to have fun with. I’m arranging a test ride with GP Bikes in Whitby, can’t freaking wait! I will keep you updated.

Anyway, In the interest of keeping this saga in reasonable chronological order I need to go back a few weeks to when the Boulevard was still in one piece, Peter, my heavy (brother–in–law) was still visiting and the pair of us set out on a gorgeous Sunday morning for a day trip to the southern parts of Muskoka. My heavy rides Helena’s 883 and I’m on the Boulevard. I have got used to the image of him in the rear view mirror, his lanky legs up near his ears as he expertly handles the Superlow, I will miss him when he goes back to South Africa. I hope that this trip will make up for the debacle of the previous weekend, Canada and I have got some lost reputation to retrieve, but for once the weather is playing ball.


I have planned a route that will take us up highway 404 to Ravenshoe Road, nice fast stretch to shake out the cobwebs and make sure that we are applying our minds to the task at hand, then up to Udora, to road 23. First stop is for coffee in Port Bolster at Mary’s Café, nice little biker place, but it is early and so it’s just us, they make a very decent cup of coffee and the proprietor is friendly and chatty as always, more so with my heavy, I’ve mentioned that he has the gift of the gab.  


Interesting sign in Udora 

From Mary’s Café we follow the 23 to Beaverton. Out of the corner of my eye I see an interesting building, the Strand Theatre, but before I can think of stopping we are passed and I decide that investigating is to be for another day (I can’t find a website, but it seems to have a FB page Https://www.facebook.com/strandtheatrebeaverton). Anyway, we simply can’t stop at every possible place of interest, we’d not get beyond the limits of York Region. We ride along the shore of Simcoe, not stopping, but enjoying the view, pick up the Trans Canadian Highway at Brechin. The village of Brechin uses bicycles to pretty up the place, these are not ‘working’ bicycles, but ornamental, bikes become flower boxes. Sadly I don’t have my own pictures, but this link will give you an idea https://www.flickr.com/photos/cydnie/9090547018. These bikes are all over the show… nice. We follow the Trans Canadian up to Rama, we take Rama Road, stop at a smoke shop that sells Indian touristy stuff (some of it made in China) as well as cigarettes, cigars and tobacco. I’m a little disturbed to see they are selling hides of white artic wolves, with stuffed heads, glass eyes and all. Why, oh why would anyone want such a grisly thing in this day and age, just fucking awful.




Heavy in Front of Smoke shop in Rama

Onwards and upwards, at Washago we turn right into Muskoka Street, which is the main drag of this little town, it’s a nice little old fashioned main street, about three short blocks. We come to a Y junction, and take the left fork, road 52, I had expected it to be road 6 or Cooper’s Falls Road, but a quick stop and map check confirms that it becomes road 6 as soon as we leave Simcoe County and enter Muskoka. The GPS on my smart phone is such a bonus! This road turns out to be truly one of the most beautiful, if scary roads I have ridden. There are really, really tight curves as narrow as the road to heaven, with way too much gravel on the corners, but the scenery, oh so lovely. After a few kilometers the road hugs a river that seems to be carved out of solid granite, gorgeous, but there is no good place to stop and take in the beauty. A short stop on the verge to grab a picture, dangerous I know, is all we can manage. I think the river is the Black River, but unhappily Google maps doesn’t actually confirm and nowhere is it signposted.


Black River ... maybe?

Road 6 takes a turn north onto Housey Rapids Road and we follow. Our speed doesn’t get much above sixty klicks, but there isn’t too much opportunity to take in the beauty even at this speed, lots of twists and turns and eyes must be kept firmly on the road. There are apparently rapids that can be seen from the road, but I don’t manage to spot them, eyes front. The stretch to reach Doe Lake Road is just over 6 Km, where we turn west, riding to Highway 11. This stretch is still very scenic, but now the road is in excellent condition, wide and clear of gravel, the blacktop is new and free of cracks and tar snakes and enough decent twists to make it a ‘must ride sometime again soon’ number. All too soon we reach Highway 11 and shoot north to Bracebridge, no doubt Peter is getting his tooth fillings shaken loose on the Harley. I must admit that the Boulevard is a bit ponderous on the curves compared to the 883, but it is a lot more comfortable on the motorway. Actually the Boulevard is really fabulous on a motorway, loads of top end torque and pretty smooth riding at high speed.

It’s a little early for lunch, but I’m up for it, I’m not doing breakfast these days, in the interest of losing a bit of the ballast. We stop at the visitors information office in Bracebride and enquire about a good place to eat, preferably somewhere with a view, and ask about the attractions that Bracebridge may offer to someone stopping for a half hour or so. The girl that is manning the desk tries to be helpful, but sadly knows considerably less about Bracebridge than I do, and my knowledge of the place consists of once having ridden through the town, a ten minutes of Google research some time ago and reading the information map, upside down,  pasted to the countertop in front of her. We take a brochure and go outside to study it. It seems that the best place to eat, with the nicest view shares the same building as the information office, but for some inexplicable reason it is closed on this beautiful early summer Sunday, with visitors starting to swarm over this part of the world. Another place that looks interesting, the Old Station Restaurant, is listed as closed on Sundays. ‘Crikey,’ I think, ‘it’s worse than Bloemfontein’.  The Bloemfontein of my youth was an ultra-conservative God-fearing city, it was said that sky divers would not practice their sport there on Sundays as not even parachutes would open on a Sunday.


Falls view Bracebridge 



There are some interesting looking walks that one can do, but we are hot and overdressed for walking, biking jackets and I have the Kevlar jeans on… already sweat is running down unmentionable crevasses. Instead we take a ride up the main street, Manitoba Road, hoping to see someplace with a verandah that looks interesting and is open for the business of feeding the visitors, if not it will be Bracebridge’s loss and Port Carling’s gain. We are nearing the end of the strip when Peter blows the horn, lo, the Old Station Restaurant is not closed at all. The information brochure, it turns out, is more like the dis-information brochure. We park the bikes and find a nice table on the verandah. Peter tells me that he didn’t actually see the place, but smelt the food… the man is hungry. http://oldstation.ca/

The Old Station Restaurant is set a little back from the road, shielded by some trees and a small garden.  The ‘station’ in the name is not referring to a train station, but rather a gas station from way back when pumping gas meant, well pumping gas. Right now it is a cheerful place that offers pretty decent food, served by friendly and efficient waiters on a pleasant verandah in a garden setting…very nearly perfect, especially as we are now sitting there and sipping a cold beverage waiting for food. I have ordered the warm spinach salad and grilled chicken breast (Baby spinach, sautéed Shiitake mushrooms and double smoked bacon with crumbled goat cheese finished with a balsamic reduction). It is really delicious and Bracebridge’s reputation is restored in my book. Peter has fish and chips and seems to be as happy with that as I am with my lunch. All in all, highly recommended. There are some other motorcyclists on the verandah, a couple who arrived just after us on a Goldwing, my heavy starts up a conversation. They are riding to Toronto from somewhere up north, doing the sort of trip that we got washed out of last weekend – luck of the bleeding draw.  We discuss the merits of different roads … they recommend we ride Muskoka road 13 south from Torrance (which was actually on my planned route) and we suggest they ride Muskoka road 6. This chatting to strangers thing is fun, I should try it sometime on my own.



After a reasonable cup of coffee to finish off lunch, rested, fed and just a tiny bit sleepy, we move off in the direction of Port Carling, it’s about 25 km on the 118 west. It’s a nice road for after lunch riding, pavement in good condition, foresty and green, now and then we catch a glimpse of lake Muskoka and loads of twisties, but nothing too challenging, just laid back and mellow. Though it is nowhere near time to stop, we do so at Port Carling, we are doing the tourist thing, and Port Carling is home to the Muskoka Lakes Museum. This is a must see for anyone that's touring through this part of the world.

The museum signpost is a little misleading as it seems to indicate that we should just ride over the edge of the bridge that goes over the canal that links Lake Muskoka to Lake Rousseau, so we manage to miss it and turn down  little road that end ups at a quay on the Lake Rousseau end of the lock. We hang about and take some pictures, it is a lovely spot. Arriving and departing are boatloads of youths enjoying the Sunday afternoon, cottage life is in full swing. We make enquiries about the museum and find out that there is only one way to get to it and that is to walk. It is situated on a sort of peninsula which is a park, no roads to the place. This is ok with me as I changed out of the Kevlar
jeans back in Bracebridge and into standard Levis. Of course a pair of short pants would be better for walking about in, but I have way too much respect for my own skin to ride that under-dressed.

The museum turns out to be a fascinating little place, check it out http://mlmuseum.com/. There is an exhibit of an example of birch biting art, something I have never heard of before. Sorry to pepper this post with links, but this is really interesting, here is an example of this somewhat lost Indian art form, ttp://www.nicholasmonsour.com/blog/birch-bark-biting.html . From the website of the artist Pat Bruderer, also known as Half Moon Woman, one of only three people in the world practicing the art of Birch bark biting: ‘Birch Bark Biting is one of the oldest First Nations art forms. It is done by separating pieces of birch bark and folding it two or more times. You place the bark between your teeth visualizing what you want to create. You begin biting while rotating it with your hand. Originally, birch bark biting was a form of competition to see who would create the most elaborate design. Later they were also used for beadwork and silk embroidery patterns.” The end result looks like delicate lacework, really beautiful.




Reconstruction of living area in log house... looks comfortable and warm

There is of course much else to see in the museum, from Victorian engineering, like hot air pumps and marine motors, beautiful examples of wooden boats and a fully restored and equipped settler log cabin. One gets some idea of the lives people that settled here, very focused on the lakes then, as I guess it still is, this area has almost as much lake as land, and the land can sustain nothing other than forest. The museum is worth every cent of the $2.50 per person entrance fee.



Lock between Lake Muskoka and Lake Rousseau


Walking to where we have parked the bikes we get to watch the lock in operation, moving a boat from Lake Muskoka to Lake Rousseau. It is a fascination operation and reminds me of a wonderful holiday I had with a couple of South Africa friends (Adrian and Bev), many, many years ago on a

barge in the Avon River canal system in England, those friends now live in Mississauga, Ontario. You could barely travel a mile without going through a lock, out biggest fear was to forget to untie the barge when draining the lock and leave it hanging in mid-air. Needless to say that never happened, but I did manage to fall in the water once, man was that cold!


I too was once beautiful (and had some hair)...Avon River, England 1986 

From Port Carling we continue on the 118 west until we reach Muskoka County road 169 southbound, travel that for a bit then at Torrance we take the 13. It’s a gorgeous route with lots of nice twisties , but the pavement is not in a good condition… take them at any good speed at your peril! Still it is a really fabulous ride and clearly the road less traveled by, very little traffic. After a pleasant hour or so we wind our way to Highway 11 (what else), just north of Severn Bridge for the hell for leather dash home… that is until we hit the cottage traffic bottleneck just past Orillia and do the stop/start crawl until Barrie. Here we veer off the motorway to take highway 27, after a brief stop at the LCBO (aka government owned monopoly liquor store). We make it home by supper time.


Muskoka County Road 13, the not so easy rider, no longer quite so beautiful and much less hair.


As I get ready to post this, I must observe, with some degree of sadness, this was the last trip of a decent distance I took with my heavy, and also the last one with the Boulevard. Maybe I’ll ride again with Peter, he is a great guy to ride with,who knows when the opportunity will arise again. I’ll not ride the Boulevard again, that is for sure. 

Wednesday 1 July 2015

Wet Wet Wet

I’m sitting at my desk writing this blog and nursing a torn hamstring in my right leg. It is painful to do a lot of things, like putting trousers on and wriggling my toes into slip-slops. I can only walk really slowly with a funny limp reminiscent of a slow march, like a soldier in a funeral procession. I have a few other minor aches and pains, but I am not complaining one little bit, I am effectively unhurt. Shaken, not stirred, the Boulevard is a different story. I fear that it may well be a write-off. We wiped out taking a tight corner and the bike hit the barrier, I was very lucky… I didn’t. I’m going to limp for a while, I’m going to be bikeless for some time, I’m sure that I have lost a chunk of confidence that will have to be rebuilt, but I will ride again. This post is, however, not about this incident, that will no doubt still appear. I am a little behind in getting the posts written up. As you may realize that although I write these in first person present tense, they are all written days or sometimes weeks after the events that I describe. I therefor have one or two posts still to write before I get to my sorry saga of loss… so roll back the calendar a few weekends and let this tale begin. The title of this post is ‘Wet Wet Wet”, this does not refer to the 80’s boy band (they are actually still around), or to bad jokes about an audience at a Chippendales’ show.  

It’s Friday morning and we leave home, as is usual for excursions such as these, forty-five minutes later than planned. Nonetheless I am optimistic that we’ll make it in time… we have a 1.30 date with a ferry at Tobermory on the Bruce Peninsula. By my calculations I have left enough time for some sightseeing along the way, to take a scenic route and maybe have lunch on a verandah at one of the many nice pubs that overlook the harbor, I’m thinking fresh lake fish in batter. I’ve mapped out a route that will take us through Hockley Valley, then Highway 10 towards Shelburne, Dufferin County road 124, and then via some side roads to reach Lake Huron, hug the shoreline to Owen Sound, and up the peninsula. It’s about 300 km, a nice little ride. The plan is for Peter, my brother-in-law (my heavy), and me to ride the bikes first, whilst the ‘girls’, our wives, drive the Dodge Caravan, about half way, when we reach Huron, we’ll swap over and the better halves will ride the bikes and we’ll drive. It’s a good plan… I tell myself.

The scenic route is great and I’m well pleased with myself, but as we get closer to Shelburne a little voice in my head (I do have those) starts to whisper that I should take Highway 10 to Owen Sound and screw the lake shore, we have not made quite the progress we should have, too many bladder stops. Now I don’t know if you also have those quiet little voices of reason in your head, they are annoying, but mostly I find that I do better if I heed their message or at least give it proper consideration. Today I am stubborn, I want to take my guests up to the lake so that they can get a feel for the hugeness of this expanse of water. Of course I have not gone 5 miles up road 124 when I realize that this is a mistake. There are lots of road works and the traffic is heavy, the going gets slower still. It’s not an ugly route, but not entirely scenic either so it seems to not be worth the detour. Panic starts to rise in my chest, time is passing and we really mustn’t get there later than 1.00 else we’ll not get to board. Worse is to come, somehow we take a wrong turn and end up going through Collingwood. Usually it’s a nice little town to ride through, but today the traffic crawls through a mess of roads under construction. It’s always like that isn’t it, when you’re late the world conspires against you. The lakeshore route, Highway 26, is not as scenic as I seem to remember, not without the chance to take little detours, stop at a beach, have coffee at a little lakeshore hamlet. We have no time for such pleasantries, we just ride like hell to Owen Sound

At Owen Sound we stop for gas, and it’s decided that the ‘boys’ must carry on riding in the interests of making the ferry, still just over a 100 km left. It really is a pity to shoot up the middle of the Bruce Peninsula on highway 6, when there are so many gorgeous roads to ride. It’s a whole day’s ride just on its own, beaches and little bays to visit, forests to ride through, pretty towns. Crappy planning on my part I guess, we don’t get to see much, but we do make it on time for the ferry, thirsty, hungry and sore of butt. There is of course no time to explore Tobermory, and certainly no time to sit on a verandah and have a drink and eat fresh lake fish.



Tobermory


Waiting to board

After a short wait we are let onto the ferry, by the time we have lashed the motorcycles securely and go on deck to find the girls, the ferry has left the harbor and sailing between Russel and Flowerpot Islands. It is a lovely spot to be, but we go below to seek out the restaurant, we are still hungry and thirsty. The restaurant, more like a canteen really, isn’t too bad, the food is of the pies and gravy, sandwiches, hamburgers and chips style, and as we are in Canada, poutine of course. They do have lake fish so I get to eat fresh perch and drink a pint of beer, with a view of the lake, albeit through the window of the ferry instead of the pub’s verandah. All is good, I start to relax. There is in any case not much else to do, life aboard a ship for a passenger is about letting time pass. This a pleasant little voyage with lovely views to see and yes, the scale of the lake is pretty evident.


There are a few other motorcyclists on the ferry, some of whom we already met whilst waiting to board. One of them evidently recognized our accents and comes up and chats with us, he is from the ‘old country’, working in Canada for a bit. The conservation switches to Afrikaans and for a brief moment we all belong to something, or maybe somewhere, special. Deep down the feeling of loss that all emigrants feel from time to time, swells and becomes a momentary palpable ache. He bids us farewell and leaves us to rejoin his group, they are going on, not stopping on the island after we land at South Baymouth on Manitoulin Island.


You think?

We are going to stay over on the island at a cabin I have booked, via a website, near to Gore Bay. The plan is to explore the island tomorrow for a little while, possibly do some of that this evening, then tomorrow take highway 6 to meet up with the Trans-Canadian just north of Espanola (for a full description of Espanola see http://not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2014/07/welcome-to-webbwood-population-488_20.html ). Then go east and south into Muskoka to Burke’s Falls where I have booked another cabin, the planned route is a decent enough ride, with lots of scenic bits. On Sunday we’ll wind our way home through Muskoka, there are some places I want to see, the Screaming Heads of Midlothian for sure, some water falls, there are many lovely twisty roads that beckon, lakes, forests, rivers and loads of interesting little villages. After the rush to get ourselves to the ferry on time I am looking forward to redeeming myself as official tour guide with a relaxed ride and the breathtaking loveliness of the places we are going to.

As the two hour ferry ride comes to an end Peter and I go down to the bikes, the plan is that we will ride the motorcycles off the ferry and the girls will drive the van, then they’ll find a spot to stop and we’ll switch. They’ll at least get to ride most of the 90 odd km to the cabin. Manitoulin Island, in case you didn’t know, is a sizable piece of real estate, said to be the biggest fresh water island in the world. By the time the switch is made the weather has turned, clouds have moved in and the temperature has dropped, but not yet any rain. It’s a nice enough ride, or so it seems from the driver’s seat of the Dodge Caravan, narrow country roads take us through farming districts, the area has an air of a by-gone age that I like, farming that is less of an industrial process, if you get what I mean. The thought strikes me that this area must just be fucking awful to live in through the winter, as picturesque as it is in the summer. The few villages that we go through are really tiny, and there seems to be not a great deal going on. The blacktop is in reasonable condition and there is relatively little gravel on the road. I hope the girls are enjoying the ride, I feel bad for not being able to give them a decent ride today. 

My feeling bad gets worse as the grey clouds grow suddenly darker and rain starts to fall. I know that riding in the rain is one of Helena’s least favorite activities, right down on bottom of the list with root canal and polar bear swims. The rain goes from light to deluge in a few minutes, but by now we are close to the cabins, according to the Tom Tom, about 5 kilometers. The rain actually lets up as we arrive at our destination… Lake Wolsey Cabins. When I booked the place I had in mind something like Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins, which I had stayed at in the Adirondack last year (http://not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2014/10/donnellys-sunset-point-cabins-adirondack.html). Indeed the pictures on the website gave me the impression of something similar, the expectation was of a place that is not luxury, but well equipped, maintained and spick and span.

The bits of odd scrap lying around the place is a little discouraging and the person that signs us in is even more discouraging, her teeth are nicotine brown and she reeks of tobacco. The cabin itself carries the theme forward, the outside is seriously in need of a paint job, inside there were no doors, just curtains that hang where doors should be, there is a basin and toilet in a small ‘washroom’ (at least there is a door there), and one of the bedrooms has no lights. The only two redeeming features is that it is actually clean and free of the smell of cigarettes, and it does have a fabulous view over the lake. Now I will admit that the website did not say specifically that the cabins were equipped with a shower, but we had booked the ‘superior’ cabin for $15 more so my assumption was that the cabin would have such a facility as a matter of course, it didn’t. There is a communal shower a hundred metres away, but with the general air of decrepitness that permeated the place none of us is too keen, so we make do with an old fashioned wash, top and tail, not entirely what we’d looked forward to. I am disappointed with the place, a little embarrassed actually, normally the rate is a reasonable indicator, but in this case it isn’t, this cabin was not cheap at all, significantly more than I paid at Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins. It is something that I have discovered about accommodation, much better value for your money south of the border. Oh well I guess that you win some and you lose some.


The Cabin - scary hey.

After we’d unpacked and washed we sit on the verandah while I try to get the BBQ to work. After a few minutes it sputters and dies so we just sit and drink some beer or tea and feed the tamest chipmunks I have ever seen. They come right up to where are sitting and we give them pieces of bread. They stuff the bread in their cheeks until not a crumb more can fit in, then dash off into the bush, presumably to a burrow, to return within a few minutes looking for more.  When the rain comes down again and the mosquitoes get too busy for sitting outside we abandon the verandah and go in. I make the grass fed beef T-bone steaks that were intended for the BBQ on the stove in a pan, Peter makes a salad, so dinner at least turns out fine. We are in any event damn tired so bed time rolls around quickly, it rains a lot during the night.  



Headspin?

   
Tamest chipmunks ever

In the morning the weather forecast is promising rain along the whole route, and indeed the rain has started to fall ever so gently already. My heavy and I, old fashioned gentlemen that we are, offer to ride the bikes and the offer is accepted. After packing the car we don the rain gear, KSU and carefully navigate the gravel track up to the main road and head towards the town of Gore Bay on the 540. I can see that we should not go too far before a stop for gas is on the cards. The planned route does not actually take us into Gore Bay, but turns east a few kilometers shy of the metropolis. The scenery is much the same as yesterday, small time farming and loads of lakes, it’s pretty, but a little desolate in the misty rain and low light from the heavy dark grey cloud cover. It’s quite wet, but the rain gear is holding up well so far and I’m actually enjoying the ride despite the weather.

We find a gas station/general store at Kagawong, after a detour into the village that yields nothing, except a view of Lake Huron and a drive past the Manitoulin Chocolate works, http://www.manitoulinchocolate.ca/signaturechocolates.htm , apparently a must visit for anyone with a sweet tooth, unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, the establishment is not yet open. The general store, half a kilometer along, makes up for this slight disappointment, it is a bit of a delight and serves a reasonable cup of coffee. The proprietress is pleasant and we have a nice chat with her about the area. My heavy is a bit of an extrovert with the gift of the gab so we seem to make friends wherever we go, it’s a nice change, I’m a withdrawn, hermit type fellow that doesn’t know how to start a conversation with a stranger.

View from the general store




Gassed up and coffee-ed up we continue with the 540. The rain starts to come down quite heavily and my boots start to get wet, evidently they are not hugely waterproof despite the copious quantities of mink oil I have rubbed into them. I don’t have waterproof booties (memo to me, buy some), but we have got some plastic shopping bags. We stop and fit these on… my heavy goes for the bags inside his boots, he has only got a pair of canvas boots, I try the bags over my boots. I know it looks silly, but actually it works and I have dry boots from that point on. Soon we hit highway 6 and go north, off the island and along one on the loveliest routes in Ontario, through one of the ugliest towns, to meet the Trans Canadian Highway. Here things get faster as we travel east towards Sudbury on the motorway. It’s still wet and fairly cold, but I’m riding well and despite the rain the road doesn’t feel particularly slippery, nonetheless, riding as cautiously as possible.

By the time we reach the turn off to Rheault I’m in need of a rest and the cold has soaked through. Some coffee will be welcome, perhaps a light meal and I suspect bladders are in need of some emptying. I take the turn and a few kilometers later the inevitable Tim Hortons appears. I’m grateful, as usual when on a trip, for this Canadian institution (sadly now recently bought out by Burger King). It was a good choice, everyone is happy for the break and the large dark roast with double cream warms the cockles somewhat. The girls have been discussing things in the car and decided that as the weather forecast is really gloomy for the rest of the weekend, they want to go home. We can do Muskoka at a later date, perhaps next weekend. I don’t argue, I had been thinking the same thing myself, the point of it all is to enjoy ourselves, not to prove a point on how tough we are. I call the cabin owner and cancel, he is not thrilled, but understands and as this isn’t quite in season its marginal income anyway… still I don’t feel good about cancelling.  It’s a good 350 clicks to home from our table at Tim’s and it’s still pissing down. Valiantly the boys choose to ride on. I am enjoying the ride so far, but the road home is going to be a hard ride, motorway for most of it. The Trans Canadian Highway in its highway 69 incantation, then just north of Parry Sound it becomes Highway 400.


It takes us about four hours to get home, with one stop for gas and the usual biological stuff. It’s wet, wet, wet all the way home. Total ride today, 560 kilometers, it’s the longest stretch I have ridden in the wet. Of course the dachshunds are thrilled to see us, thrilled is perhaps an understatement.