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. 

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.

Riding With My Heavy

If you are South African you may know that I’m talking about my brother-in-law. In Afrikaans the word for heavy and brother-in-law are homophones ‘swaar’ and ‘swaer’, so many the joke that mistranslates this word. This particular heavy is jetlagged and not yet recovered from a 40 odd hour journey across six time zones that included a plane ride from Johannesburg, train ride from New York, visit to Niagara Falls and the drive to Newmarket, nonetheless he is riding behind me on Helena’s 883 Harley Davidson. Peter is a very experienced and keen motorcycle rider, but I hadn’t expected him to come on a ride the morning after arriving, yet he was game for ‘a shortish ride’. As it’s just an ice breaker I take us on one of my favorite evening rides, Orangeville via Beeton, Loretta and Hockley Valley, a feast for the eyes with great curves. (Why does that just not sound like a motorcycle ride?)

Hi & Lo

We stop for coffee at Hockley General Store, a popular spot for motorcyclists, as it’s a really nice day they are out in force, the place is pumping. I guess that this is a fabulously profitable little business, and they make a decent cappuccino. Peter is 6 ft. 4 and his height is mostly in his legs, so he does look ever so slightly comical riding Helena’s 883 SuperLow, a little like a kid that’s outgrown his bicycle and knees come up to ears when peddling. I had of course gallantly offered him the Boulevard, being short of leg I fit perfectly well on the SuperLow, he declined. Peter normally rides a Harley 1200 Custom which actually has the same frame as the SuperLow, with longer suspension and he has forward controls whereas Helena’s has mid. At the Hockley General Store we get a chance to look at everyone else’s motorcycles, always a fun activity if you like that sort of thing, which of course we do.

The ride through the valley is as always exhilarating with its many tight turns, but today I have an extra pleasure, I get to see the valley almost as if I haven’t seen it before. It’s as if I am seeing it through Peter’s eyes, noticing things that I no longer notice when I ride this familiar old route, the sparkling, bubbling river that pops into view every so often, the hills covered in forest, ferns and flowers growing next to the road and the neat little farms. At Orangeville we exchange motorcycles and head back the way we came. Peter does look more comfortable on the Boulevard, I’m fine on the Harley even though the mid controls cause my slightly arthritic hips to cramp every time I pull away from a stop.  It is a rather different ride and takes some getting used to, I seem to get through the gears very quickly, then look for an extra gear when already in fifth, the Boulevard’s fifth gear is almost an overdrive and on roads like this its mostly in third or fourth. The 883 handles well on the corners, can take them a little tighter than the Boulevard, and has plenty of power for the job. We turn south at Airport Road then take Highway 9 for a mad dash home.

I certainly enjoyed riding the Harley 883, but must admit that I enjoy the Boulevard more, probably a case of what I am used to and therefore more comfortable with. Forward controls, definitely more comfortable for me, floorboards instead of pegs also. The handle bars make for a different riding style, the Boulevard has handle bars that you lean your weight on, whereas the 883 you more or less hold on rather than lean… better for the posture I’m sure, but I don’t ride for the sake of my posture. Peter has a similar point to make, but in reverse, he prefers the 883, it handles and is configured more like his 1200 Custom. As they say, ‘whatever blows your skirt up’, I’m not going to argue, riding on the ‘wrong’ side of the road is difficult enough so if the bike is more familiar then that’s going to help.

Geese on Lake Simcoe

I’ve taken the week vacation so Peter and I are trying to get as much riding in as we can manage, while Helena and her sister, Dalene, get to spend as much time chatting as they can, suits us guys as that frees up the motorcycles! The weather, however, is not entirely playing ball, this is the rainy season and is panning out to be wetter than usual, El Nino or something. Nonetheless, we have managed a few decent short rides, Musselman’s Lake and Simcoe shore around Jackson’s point.

The Not-so-Easy-Rider looking somewhat uneasy - Lake Simcoe 

Today we left just after midday. I had planned a good solid ride, through Beaverton hugging the east shore of Simcoe, then head north-east to Kinmount, up county road 503 to Gooderham, south on the 507 to county road 36, alongside the Kawartha Highlands Provincial Park. The idea was to then head to Bobcaygeon, Fenlon Falls and home.

First stop is Kinmount for coffee and discover that one of my favorite little stores is going out of business, the proprietress is retiring. It’s a little general store that serves excellent coffee, wonderful picked eggs, Kawartha Ice Cream (naturally) and great carrot (and other) cakes, pies and sandwiches. The shop sells a fascinating mixture of junk and good stuff, not sure which category I find more interesting. Right now it’s closing down sale, but at least we get to have some coffee, eat cake and pickled eggs, buy some stuff at knock-down prices, not much as we are on motorcycles. Pity, they have a collection of T-shirts in bad taste that cries out to be owned…not actually worn though and a pair of Wellies my size for $8…damn just don’t have space. A wander around town and we do the 20 minutes of tourist stuff that Kinmount offers, then go north up road 503.   

Heavy in Wonderland (Kinmount tourist attraction)

Bridge in Kinmount... I have mentioned how I love bridges? 

Really, they went to Manitoba to escape the cold... really?

This is one of my favorite rides, about four and a half to five hours, very scenic and a little on the edge, seriously good curves, but right now the 507 is in less than pristine condition with still too much gravel on the road for comfort. Peter has been raving about how beautiful the area is, and he is quite correct, I have said it many times, Southern Ontario, in the right season, is gorgeous. Home for Peter right now is not the pettiest of places. It’s where I grew up, the Transvaal Highveld in winter is bone dry, grey as ash, dusty and the air is sometimes thick with the smoke from millions or coal stoves. Of course Southern Africa has its beauty and I wrote at length about it when I was visiting Namibia in December and January (see several earlier posts). It is a very different type of beauty to this, Arrakis vs Caladan to use a Frank Herbert analogy.

We are stopped at the gas station at the intersection of roads 507 and 36, the best part of the ride is over and it’s still only mid-afternoon. It seems a pity to waste the good weather and there is a more scenic, albeit much, much longer route home. I twist Peter’s rubber arm, it is great to have someone like Peter that loves to ride like I do, to ride with. We go back the way we came to Gooderham, this time we can take it a bit faster with a better idea where the gravel is, or at least so we convince ourselves… what a ride, what a ride. From Gooderham we go north to Haliburton on county road 3 and eventually provincial road 118. I realize what a privilege it is to have this somewhat un-spoilt forest to ride through so close to home. The thought leads me to a Chautauqua that has been brewing in my mind…perhaps it’s more of a rant.

Two things came up in the news this week, the one was silly and sad, so made it to international news feeds, the other was important, but so common that it made it to the local free sheet only, on the face of it, it is a local issue, though actually a symptom of a much wider issue. The first was a black bear that was shot and killed by police in a backyard of a home in Newmarket (my home town) and the second was an article about a proposal to ‘Loosen the Green Belt’, or reading between the lines, to destroy many acres of protected forest around our city in the name of corporate profits. As to the first, I will ignore the incompetence of the police and the wildlife agencies who could have captured this creature alive and released it into a less (human) populated area, the presence of a black bear in the area had after all been reported 24 hours before the police shot it. It is profoundly gratifying to know that there are actually populations of black bears, a magnificent creature, living close enough so that one of them could actually manage to wander into someone’s back garden. Secondly, this is an indication that the forest around here are viable enough to not only support squirrels, raccoons, skunks and coyotes, but also bears, not to mention thousands of other species of little creatures and plants that we barely notice in our headlong rush to fuck-up the entire planet on the altar of corporate quarterly results. There is plenty of already degraded land available that is not forest and greenbelt that can be bulldozed over and developers can plant as many cookie cutter houses on tiny lots and develop as many ‘Smart Centers’ as they feel like. Why the hell is it necessary to do this on green belt land? The forests will not stay viable for long if we ‘Loosen the Green Belt.’ The developers claim they need these lands to create employment, when I hear this pleading my BS detector goes off. I have worked long enough with corporates to know that providing employment is not ever a corporate goal, corporate goals boil down to one thing only and that is making profits. Nothing wrong with that goal, just the rest of us, especially regulators, need to understand this fact and deal with it accordingly.

I want to have a police force that are equipped and trained to deal with black bears, because this is something that happens from time to time, because there are forests close by that are home to black bears. I want those forests to be protected completely and whole heartedly. I want people to understand that when the forests are gone, and the bears are all dead, all those corporate profits and increased stock values will mean absolutely nothing. In the words of Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi:

They paved paradise 
And put up a parking lot 
With a pink hotel, a boutique 
And a swinging hot spot 

Don't it always seem to go 
That you don't know what you've got 
Till it's gone 
They paved paradise 
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees 
Put 'em in a tree museum  
And they charged the people 
A dollar and a half just to see 'em 

Don't it always seem to go 
That you don't know what you've got 
Till it's gone 
They paved paradise 
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer 
Put away that DDT now 
Give me spots on my apples 
But leave me the birds and the bees 
Please! 

Don't it always seem to go 
That you don't know what you've got 
Till it's gone 
They paved paradise 
And put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard the screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot           

We stop at Haliburton to have something to drink and take photos. It’s getting a bit late and we are far from home, butts are getting sore, it’s been a fabulous ride, however maybe we have bitten a bit more off than we can chew. Peter is still a bit jet lagged, but we have no choice other than to ride on, he’s an old biker and knows the score. A small bottle of Coke each and we’re back on the road. From Haliburton we ride the 118 to just before Bracebridge, one of the nicest roads to ride around here. The blacktop is in near perfect condition, twists and turns, forest and lakes and today the traffic is super light, really perfect. We hit highway 11 and turn south for home. This is a real balls to the wall ride, one of those roads that separate the quick from the dead. It’s a four lane motorway, but it isn’t quite a motorway with odd little roads and driveways coming into the highway with T-junctions. Shops and gas stations right next to the road, sometimes barely ten feet away from traffic whizzing along at 130 km/h... 90 limit be damned. It’s riding on the edge, but to quote the old cliché, if you’re not, then you are taking up too much space. Its little scary, but I enjoy every second.  From Bracebridge to home is 144 km, we do it in less than an hour and twenty minutes. 

The whole ride has been about 500 km, not too shabby for an afternoon ride. 

Lake Erie

It was a sort of a spur of the moment decision, though admittedly I had been toying with the notion of riding around another of the great lakes. For the benefit of readers that haven’t been with me from the first post on this blog, I started this blog off with a ride around Lake Huron. It’s the Victoria Day long weekend, also known as the May long weekend for those of us of a more republican disposition. It’s Saturday evening and I have spent the day doing the frivolous things that a home owner does, sorting out blocked eaves troughs, planting herbs, buying groceries and getting the irrigation system working after the winter. My mind has however turned to the more serious matters of motorcycle riding, “what to do, where to go?” Google Maps indicates that I could do a round trip of Lake Erie in two days. Hard riding to be sure, but I decide to give it a go. I will leave on Sunday morning early and aim to get back Monday night, in time for the annoying fireworks that get fired off to celebrate the birthday of a constitutional monarch that died more than a hundred years ago and who never bothered, not once, to visit her faithful subjects in Canada. That all said, a statutory holiday in spring and the Boulevard all serviced and with new spark plugs, I couldn’t care if it was called Genghis Khan Day!

On Sunday morning the fart of sparrow comes and goes and I fritter away the time with packing lunch, packing clothes, polishing boots, shaving, showering and making breakfast (not to mention hitting the snooze button three times), eventually it’s 9 a.m. and I hit the road. I am  little disgusted with myself, really there is no reason why I didn’t get going two hours earlier, but as a wise boss I once worked for used to say, “we are where we are”. I take the 404 south to the 401 westbound, my goodness does the 401 ever sleep? It’s 9.30 on a Sunday morning and already it is damn nearly bumper to bumper, can this be church traffic? I somehow doubt it…no hats. I take the QEW, named for another constitutional monarch, but who has at least actually visited a few times. Now the trouble really starts, not only is it bumper to bumper, but grinds to a halt on a regular basis, and seems not to be able to get above 40 km/h. Then one of those information signs indicates that the road becomes very slow after Burlington road, they mean worse that the stop start hell I am in now, so I escape the motorway just after the Burlington sky bridge onto the regional road 20.

Lake Erie - from Ridgeway

Not a bad choice as things turn out, it’s a pleasant ride, much nicer than the sterile and now clogged QEW, not quite as picturesque as the roads I ride to the north of Newmarket, and straight as a die, mostly farm lands with very little forest. This is prime farming land, the more interesting rides tend to be in areas that are too rocky for farming, still it’s nice and the occasional vineyard and orchard reminds me of the valleys in the Stellenbosch area in the Cape of Good Hope. I remember being somewhat surprised when I first arrived in this part of the world to discover that Ontario has a vigorous wine industry, and indeed makes some pretty decent wines. The Trius brand do a fabulous oak matured chardonnay, really good, crisp yet buttery. They also market a wine called Truis Red, it is a superb ‘drinking’ wine at a mere $22 a bottle, it’s a Merlot /Cab Franc/Cab Sav blend aged in oak. There are a few other pretty good brands and then there is the ice wine which is a desert wine, similar in taste to the noble rot wines of the Cape. It is produced from grapes that have been frozen while still on the vine. The sugars and other dissolved solids do not freeze, but the water does, resulting in a smaller amount of more concentrated, very sweet wine, it’s not bad at all. Of course they make some pretty horrid plonk, the French Cross brand comes to mind.

The 20 takes me right into the City of Niagara, from the least salubrious side of town, and this is a somewhat seedy place to start with. A few rub and tug joints advertise their services with almost no pretense at being anything else. I am no prude and make no judgements, but I haven’t seen anything quite so blatant in Canada so far. Niagara is a place devoted to the less cerebral side of life anyway. I have a bit of an odd relationship with the town, I think it is a truly ugly place that ruins the sense of awe one has at seeing the falls, which are utterly spectacular. Ugly and nasty though the garish attractions, shops and casinos are, the place has some great memories for me. I brought my daughter here for a weekend to celebrate her 21^st birthday, we had a lot of fun together. It is also the place where as a family we walked across the Rainbow Bridge to the USA, in order to ‘leave ‘ Canada so that we could return to do our first landing as immigrants rather than temporary workers and students. An odd ritual, but it was fun and significant in its own way, especially as it was February, about 25 degrees below, snowing and blowing a gale.

 I thought that Niagara would be a good place to start the Lake Erie trip. Stop for a few pictures of the falls then ride onto the shores of the lake, perhaps at the Peace Bridge. Scratch that idea, Niagara is heaving, wall to wall people and almost grid locked roads. It takes me an age to get through the town and past the falls. I only manage to get a glimpse of the falls from the corner of my eye, there is no way I’m going to stop, find parking and walk with the throng. It was clearly a silly idea and I could have saved myself a good deal of time and frustration by taking the 406 and meeting up with Lake Erie at Port Colborne.  Eventually I get through and ride along the Niagara River on Niagara Parkway and end up in Fort Erie. I have visited the fort before, it’s interesting and worth a visit. For most of the war of 1812 it was held by the Americans, under siege by the Canadians, perhaps more accurately the British. I just ride past today and look over a narrow stretch of lake to the city of Buffalo, then find Highway 3 and travel west.

With all the slow traffic and getting away later than planned I am several hours behind schedule. It is already almost 1 o’clock, I am hungry and have progressed almost no distance along the lake. The chance of making it to Toledo (about half way around) by this evening is zero unless I abandon the scenic routes entirely and take the motorway… hardly a lake ride, so I make peace with a reduced ambition and stop for lunch at a public park in Ridgeway. The park is on the lake shore, but not really a beach. I take my packed lunch of chicken and steamed vegetable and a tin of diet ginger ale - I’m trying the Paleolithic eating plan, high fat and protein almost zero carbs – find a spot on some rocks under a tree with a good view of the lake. There are several large family groups of Indians, not the First Nation kind, but folks that originate from the Indian sub-continent. I have noticed this about Indians, they love to picnic and they do it so well, they cook full on meals that fill the air with mouthwatering aromas. I love good Indian food, my lunch, whilst satisfying is not lamb curry with fresh steaming roti… oh well I’ve got to get rid of some of the ballast around my waist. It’s interesting to observe these family groups, mostly there are at least three generations. The grandmothers all wear sarees, and the grandfathers wear trousers with a sort of safari jacket, the parents are a mix of that and standard western casuals wear, some of the younger women are wearing very colourful stylish sarees, clearly a fashion statement and the younger set wear exactly what all the other Canadian kids wear. I even see one teenage boy sporting a pair of jeans in that ghastly fashion, hanging off his ass, underpants showing.  What is odd is that the teens and younger children all speak English to each other and to their parents, whilst the older generations converse in some or other Indian language. 

Lunch done I ride north to get back to highway 3, next stop is Dunnville on the Grand River. Another interesting piece of history. After serving the British during the American Revolution (or War of Independence) Joseph Brant, a Mohawk chief despite the English name, led his band of Mohawks and other Six Nation’s people from New York State where they faced persecution for fighting for the British, to this part of Southern Ontario. The Haldimand Proclamation granted them land on the left and right banks of the Grand River from the shores of Erie, north to the source of the river.  A total of 3,800 square kilometers. Today there remains an area of only 190 square kilometers near to the town of Brantford (named after Joseph Brant) under First Nation control. As good a tale of treachery, corruption, fraud and broken promises as you are every likely to read.

The Haldimand Proclamation as surveyed in 1821 

At Dunnville I part company with highway 3, and take regional road 3 instead, hoping to see a bit more variety, be closer to the lake and maybe encounter a twisty or two. So far since leaving the QEW it has been mostly farm lands with very limited patches of forest. Nice enough, but it gets a bit monotonous… that ambition of riding across Canada to Vancouver through the Prairies, several thousand kilometers of same, same, grass and more grass, maybe a rethink on that one’s due. Regional road 3 keeps pretty much to the pattern, straight, farmlands and parallel to the lake, but not close enough to see it. There is actually a road that hugs the shore, but poor planning and not looking properly at the map on my part, I missed it, damn. I’ll put that info away for another ride. Highway 3 takes me through a lot of little hamlets like Sweets’s Corner and Selkirk, little too many for my liking, barely get up some speed and have to slow down to 50 km/h.

By mid-afternoon I reach Port Dover. This is a bit of a motorcyclists’ destination. On any warm enough Friday 13^th all and sundry that own a motorcycle head to Port Dover, probably something invented by the Port Dover chamber of commerce. Personally I am adverse to crowds so it doesn’t tickle my fancy. Port Dover turns out to be a typical seaside town, albeit actually just lakeside. It reminds me of Sauble Beach (http://not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2014/09/closing-loop.html) crowded beach, lots of scantily clad people, some beautiful and others not so much, shops selling completely useless junk, pubs and restaurants...and no shortage of motorcycles. It’s nice, but not really my sort of place anymore, I’m too old and too grumpy. I had a notion of staying over, but decide that it’s not where I want to spend the night, besides I have not actually traveled far enough along the lake. Port Dover is not even a third of the length of the north shore of Lake Erie. My ambition to circumnavigate the whole lake in a mere two days seems a little ridiculous now, but Port Stanley, about a hundred km away seems to me to be a destination that at least would be a little bit honorable.   

Port Dover

By now I have realized that I have ridden the less scenic route so far, but I am tired, hungry and my ass is sore so I decide to take the most direct route to St.Thomas, then to head south to the lake shore and overnight at Port Stanley. I’m back on Highway 3 and travelling at a pretty good speed. It’s straight and relatively un-interesting. My mind wanders a bit to the name of the town ahead, St. Thomas. I’m not sure, but it is probably named after St. Thomas Aquinas. He of the five proofs of the existence of God, the arguments from bullshit baffles brains, very tiresome tortuous reasoning. I wouldn’t have too much of an issue with this particular saint if all he was guilty of was woolly thinking, and who wasn’t back in the 13^th century, but his stance on heretics reveals his true colors. ‘With regard to heretics two points must be observed: one, on their own side; the other, on the side of the Church. On their own side there is the sin, whereby they deserve not only to be separated from the Church by excommunication, but also to be severed from the world by death.’ I am guessing the man was a humorless, mass murderer in the name of god, devoid of a single drop of the milk of human kindness, of course being a decent human being is not a prerequisite for sainthood.

St. Thomas, Ontario, on the other hand, seems to be a nice enough town, though I don’t really get to see a whole lot of it. I had wanted to see the life sized statue of the world’s most famous elephant, but tired and sore of ass as explained I give it a miss. St. Thomas is where poor Jumbo met his end, at the relatively young age for a pachyderm of 24 years. He was killed by a freight train whilst crossing the tracks on his way to his own boxcar after a circus act, as the guys at GO Transit say, “Crossing the tracks at platform level is both dangerous and illegal.”

The short distance from St. Thomas to Port Stanley is quite a scenic little route with the encouraging name of Sunset Drive. It traverses some expensive looking areas residential areas, golf courses, bits of forest and so on, a peasant ride and hopefully the end of my day’s ride, I have not booked ahead so who knows. The town is at the bottom of a gentle incline which makes for a nice feeling of arriving from the hills. As I enter the town the air becomes cooler as expected, freshened by the lake. A thin mist has rolled in making it even cooler and lending it an aura of a seaside fishing village. Well that’s not actually inaccurate, it is engaged in fishing and Lake Erie (like all the great lakes) is more like a freshwater inland sea that a mere lake. Despite the mist it is evident that Port Stanley is a much more genteel place than Port Dover. I pass a theatre, a few art galleries and some expensive boutiques, clearly the arts take precedence over beach gear, tattoos and T-shirts. Now I would hardly classify myself as a particularly upmarket person, but I do prefer this sort of place to the Port Dovers and Sauble Beaches of the world.

Port Stanley - an artier place

A short ride around town yields up only a few places to stay, no doubt there are more than I can see, but between the mist and my tiredness I don’t try too hard.  The Kettle Creek Inn looks like a good option and they have one room left. A little expensive, but they do discount it for me as I am alone and the rate is generally for two, bed and continental breakfast. It is a lovely little place, fresh and clean, beautifully decorated, quaint, but modern in the things that need to be modern. There are no room numbers, rather the rooms are named after local artists, I get the Dobson room, and indeed there are several watercolors by Diana Dobson in the room. I am not sure if they are originals or very good quality prints, not entirely my taste, but very good nonetheless. I Google the artist and find some more of her stuff, http://www.portstanleyartguild.com/artist/diane-dobson. It’s an interesting idea to promote local artists… as I said this is an artsy town.

Port Stanley in the mist

The mist lifts and the sun is still up when I take a walk around, it’s a very pretty little village, but not a great deal to see and not much is open, it is after all a Sunday evening and it is still out of season. There is a guy singing and playing guitar in the courtyard of a restaurant, Stanley Tapas and Grill. I decide to have some supper there as the music is the type of thing I like, sort of Jack Johnson sound. The musician is also a talented performer that knows how to interact with his audience. It’s great, but by now I am really hungry, and now find myself studiously ignored by all six waiters (five young ladies and a middle aged man). They seem to be rushing around in a bit of a frenzy as if there is a huge rush on the go, but the place is not in the least bit full, I count 23 patrons in all, that’s less than four per waiter and all patrons are laid back listening to the music. I wonder what sort of froth they get their pee in when things really get busy. After about 25 minutes I get noticed, the last 10 of which I have been waving at the waiters as they bustled past me. I ask if they have Scotch, the young lady does not know, so calls over the middle aged man, I ask if they have Johnny Walker perhaps, “Yes,” he says, “but that’s not Scotch, it’s more like Irish whiskey.” Really, I’m sure that he has just offended two nations in one sentence, but I don’t argue, and order a double with ice and club soda on the side. I order chicken wings, it seems to be a good option that doesn’t have carbs. It takes another 15 minutes for the drink to arrive, now anyone that serves club soda on the side accompanying whisky should know that a limp slice of lime hanging over the rim of the glass of club soda is not required or even wanted. I don’t want a hint of lime with my Scotch, if indeed what I have is Scotch. I am not an expert whisky taster, but this tastes rather like bourbon to me. Still it’s cold and alcoholic so I deal. Another 20 minutes pass and finally I see the waitress with my wings emerge from the kitchen, only to be called back in. Five minutes goes by and she comes out again, this time with my supper as well as someone else’s… a time and motion specialist would certainly approve. The wings were not grilled as I had expected, but deep fried in batter, cold and totally drowned in gooey sauce that is not spicy in the slightest as I thought I had ordered. Perhaps my fault for not establishing how they are prepared, still, not a good way to make wings.  I ask for the bill as by now the singer has taken a break and I have eaten three wings and the celery, enough to take the edge off my hunger and the paltry two paper napkins provided are saturated with goo… a further 25 minutes wait ensues, but by now it is in line with expectations. The bill charges me for Jim Beam Kentucky bourbon… Jim/Johnny, Beam/Walker WTF am I so picky about?

I return to the Inn and after ablutions climb into bed and enjoy a deep sleep only periodically disturbed by a hen party going on in one of the rooms down the hall. Vaguely I note the point that things go from happy squeals of laughter to tears of drunken regrets. In the morning an abandoned handbag, shoes and wallet litter the hallway, no doubt heads will be hurt when it’s time for rise and shine. I’m not keen on the baked goods breakfast I could help myself to, but I’m able to get a cheese omelet and an excellent Americano at the coffee shop across the road.   

Interesting house  in Port Stanley

I have mapped out a route home, straight north until I reach the 401 motorway, east until Guelph, north to Orangeville via Fergus, then home through Hockley Valley. It’s a pleasant three and a half hour ride and I’m home for lunch. Altogether the trip has been just over 700 km, not anywhere close to the ideal of riding around the lake, but it’s been fun and I’ve learned a few things.

One Week in May

By the time I’m able to slide backwards down the drive on the Boulevard its noon and the Sunday action has got going in earnest around here. The good folks of Newmarket are walking dogs, cycling, driving and the occasional dulcet tones of Vans & Hines pipes on V-twins rents the air…lovely. The gardeners are also out, that season has started albeit with caution, mid-May frost is not unheard of.  A smell of cow shit pervades the area, someone has ordered a load of manure.  Indeed it is that time of year when this part of the world goes BOING, it will happen this week, all the signs are there. I too have been busy gardening in my own way, background stuff, like emptying and sieving the composters, a big job by any standard, and yesterday I laid a 170 square foot concrete slab (with assistance from the eldest of the offspring). As the cliché goes, I ache in places I didn’t know I have. Still, sprits are high, the weather is great and the road calls me by name.

I’m still just revisiting the good rides of the area, easing into the season. It’s all a little familiar, except that in so many ways it isn’t. The scenery changes all the time here and some of the spots I’m visiting I last saw in the dying days of last fall, it’s like different places all together. I realize that I can’t always ride new routes every time I get on the motorcycle, there are just not that many different routes to follow for a ride after work or even for a Sunday outing. That’s ok, it’s not necessarily about the destinations. So bear with me if I write about places I’ve taken you before – there will be plenty of rides to the as yet unvisited before the season is through. Today I’m heading to The Kawartha Highlands Provincial Park area, I want to ride the Kawartha regional roads 503 and 507, two really fabulous roads for motorcycling. Gorgeous scenery, decent pavement and lots of curves, some of them heart-stoppingly tight.

                                           Still grey, but promise of spring

Getting to the 503 is a couple of hours ride. I’m in the mood to take it relatively easy, so I take the country roads through farmlands punctuated by forests. It’s still mostly grey and brown, but there is a sheen of light green on the trees in the forests. It’s the buds, everything is in bud, the darling buds of May, darling because I have had about enough of grey and brown, spring has been too long in coming, and it is all scheduled to burst forth this week. The ride though the farmlands is also great, all the spring activities are on the go, animals in the fields instead of in barns, tractors plowing and fields with rows and rows of green dots as crops start to push through the soil. I know that what I am looking at is not nature at her best, but something of an industrial process, mainly to produce inputs to other industrial processes that produce the semi-poisons (like high fructose corn syrup) that here in North America we call food. Still there is a nice rural feel to it, that re-assuring cycle of seasons is… well re-assuring.   

From the road to Kawartha Highlands

I’ve been looking forward to this ride as the Boulevard was serviced this past week and it’s always nice to ride just after a service to feel the added smoothness and how everything jells just a little better. But it isn’t working out that way, the bike feels ‘out of tune’, and performance is not there, it has been declining over the last few hundred kilometres and the service hasn’t improved matters. I know why and I am annoyed and to some extent it is spoiling the ride. I am annoyed with the dealer and annoyed with myself, perhaps more with myself. I have so far treated the maintenance and service of the Boulevard much as I have treated that of my car…more or less when a service is due I take it to the dealer and I assume that the mechanics do their bit and let me know when the next service is due. When I booked this service the person taking the booking asked me what service I wanted, I gave them the mileage and asked what service was required. This seemed to throw him a bit, but after consulting something on his side, he advised that the ‘spring special’ will be fine. When I took the motorcycle in for the service I was told that actually the ‘spring special’ does not quite cover what I need, the spark plugs need changing. So I accepted the additional quote of about $200, but when I came to collect the motorcycle I was advised that they don’t have the spark plugs in stock and would need to order in. So now I’m riding and the engine is as ropey as all hell and I’m annoyed.

Lake Simcoe, Ice has melted

It’s been awhile since I wrote a Chautauqua, a la Zen and the Art of Motor Cycle Maintenance and actually what I have to say is very much what Persig wrote about, until now I have just never thought  quite how much it applied to me. Persig weaves a theme of quality throughout the book, and what it means to different people. There are the ‘romantics’ that view quality from the perspective of the exterior, whereas Persig views quality from the ‘classical’ perspective, he needs to how the parts fit together and work in order to assess quality. I have been adopting the romantic approach, having a wonderful time riding the Boulevard, but expecting that others will take care of maintenance. Now in the complex technological world we live in there are definitely many areas that even the most devoted classical thinker has no choice, but to revert to the romantic approach. I believe that on the whole I am more classical then romantic, but I have been wrong with the motorcycle, mechanical failure can have dangerous results, much worse that a ropey engine on a Sunday ride. I decide that this is about to change.

The quality experience I have had with the dealer, and this isn’t the first hiccup, makes me concerned about the quality of the work that is going down on my motorcycle when services are done. Do the mechanics have the same sloppy attitude to my machine as the person that looks after inventory? After all the showroom has several brand new motorcycles just like mine, so the call for this specific part must be a regular occurrence. I wonder if the mechanics attitude to short-cuts is like the guy that took the booking and didn’t actually bother to look up the service record, and if their dedication to quality is like the service manager that promised me the spark plugs are on order and I’ll be contacted before the end of the week… that didn’t happen. In my day job I implement ERP/financial systems, over the years I have been doing this I have been exposed at very close quarters to many organizations. I’ve found that if careless attitudes are tolerated in one part of the organization, you will find it all over, and where a culture of pride in the job exists, it generally will be pervasive.

Quality is not an easy concept to define and Persig spends many pages exploring the concept in Zen and the Art of Motor Cycle Maintenance, so for this short blog, I’m going to go with, “you know quality when you see or feel it”. It’s the difference between a factory made chest of drawers and a hand crafted one from the Mennonite furniture store. I know the quality of care the Boulevard and I are getting, and it is not anywhere close to Mennonite furniture quality, not even IKEA, it is Walmart pressed wood chips and it’s not good enough. I resolve to take the maintenance manual and work my way through it and see what I can do, and what I can at least check on if I have to pass it over to the tender mercies of the ‘professional’ mechanics. Starting with spark plugs.

                                                  Burnt River near Kinmount 

I have brought a tin of sugar free ginger ale and a snack of cheese and walnuts with me, I’m stopped at Kinmount, the starting point of the 503, to eat and drink and enjoy the warm weather. There is no shortage of motorcycles out and about, as well as hobby cars (I think I am coining a phrase here, cars that people own for weekend drives, like restored Mustangs, 1950’s pick-up trucks and so on). Kinmount is a nice little village, quite picturesque, but to my dismay I discover that it does not have a gas station. I am running rather low so I hope I’ll make to the next hamlet, Irondale, which apparently

has one. The ride up to Irondale on the 503 is as good as I imagined it would be. Well into the Canadian Shield, I have left farming land behind, hill and forests, lakes and ponds, thankfully none still ice bound, line the route. Eeverywhere the deciduous trees are in bud and that lovely light green sheen promises good things are coming.

There is indeed a gas station at Irondale, but they have run out of premium grade, so I am forced to put in regular as there is just no way I’ll make it to the next gas station, damn. I put in just enough to
get me half way home. Now the motor really feels rough, but perhaps it’s just my imagination. A little way further on the 503 and I take the 507 south. This is the real McCoy, it’s a great experience to weave through the hills. I have one bad moment, one of the curves has another road joining it in a T-junction and there is a nasty patch of gravel just where I should be leaning my way through the corner. Happily I spot the gravel and turn tight to miss it. From then on I keep an extra beady eye out for gravel. The regional road 507 ends, far too soon, at a junction with regional road 36, which I follow west to Bobcaygeon, then to Fenlon Falls where I stop for gas. Fill up with premium grade so hopefully the octane in the tank is acceptable. I’m home before dinner. The ride was good, but I decide not to ride again until the spark plus have been changed.

It’s Saturday and a week has flown past, busy as all hell at work, hardly had the time for a ride, but I have acquired the requisite spark plugs and an appropriate socket to do the job, total outlay including socket $45. A two minuet call to the local NAPA outlet and they ordered the plugs and got them in within four hours of my call. I’m still waiting for the Suzuki dealer to contract me. I’ve read the manual, at least on the section on how to change the plugs and feel ready to go. I’m not entirely sure if I needed to remove the seat and gas tank, but with that out the way I have a bit more room to work. The part that stumps me for a bit is removing the cover on top of the cylinders, they are chromed pieces of plastic and the manual says “unhook the clips and remove the cover”.  Clips? Unhook? For the life of me I see and feel no clips to unhook. But I am a resourceful fellow and figure out that what they should have written in the manual is “grasp the cover, wiggle and pull a little more than gently”. It’s an easy job and I have it all wrapped up in less than an hour. Flipping the ignition switch I’m rewarded by an engine that sounds the way it should, appreciate the advice Mr. Persig.

Blossoms - crab apple in our front yard 

It’s a warm afternoon, little windy and maybe a few rain drops in the offing, but otherwise a perfect day to ride. I head up to Barrie, to meet Helena at the Harley dealership to get her 883 Sportster out from winter storage. What a nice ride, as predicted spring has sprung. It is hard to describe quite what happens in just one week here every year in the early part of May. The light green sheen on the trees I spoke about is now full blown leaves, the grass in the meadows seems to have turned from brown to green and there are blossoms everywhere. In our own garden ferns have erupted like fountains, and the hostas are coming out all over. The gardeners’ curse, dandelions are in yellow bloom, lovely to behold, but nasty to control. I once heard someone say that this makes up for the winter, it doesn’t, but it is a wonderful thing to experience every year, and perhaps the true start to the riding season.  

Grey no more - in just one week in May