Life After Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Green and Purple Machine 

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

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

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

Can go places I could not before   

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

The After - Pimped my Ride

Death of a Boulevard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.