Savannah Georgia USA

It was 1974 or there about, the Age of Aquarius had already dawned, those of us boys that could wore our hair long, the rest of us were envious. I fell into the envious group, still at school and subject to school rules, an inch above the collar and no lock to touch the ears, my standing in the cool group was at an all-time low. I attended a strict boarding school, bit of a borstal in fact, that brooked no shit at all, beatings were as regular as clockwork and more often than not administered by a prefect. Happily getting buggered was not… it was not that sort of school.  Mike, on the other hand suffered from none of these drawbacks, he had long blond hair that hung down to his shoulders, was gainfully employed, owned a car and a motorcycle. He was also my elder sister’s boyfriend, the coolest guy I knew and a definite departure from the bad choices in men my sister had been exercising up to that point in time. The motorcycle was indeed the quintessential bike of the era, a 650 cc Triumph Bonneville that he had built up from a scrapped bike with love, care and attention to detail. It was the sort of machine that, had he kept it, would have been worth a small fortune to a serious collector today. It was the first bike that I ever rode on, passenger only, I hung onto that pillion for dear life as Mike carved through the twisties of the Magaliesburg Mountains on a breakfast run one Sunday morning during a school holiday.

Mike - still a cool guy

Today, forty odd years later Mike is still a cool guy and still has more hair than I have, which does not say much because I’m a natural bald – to be honest his is considerably thinner and wispier than the long blonde locks of yore. He and my sister were married before I finished high school and shortly after that happy event they moved to Hong Kong. We have spent most of our adult lives with only sporadic contact, sometimes years have passed with no more than a telephone conversation or two. Many, many gallons of water have passed under the bridge since that breakfast run in the Magaliesburg Mountains, but finally I get to repay the favor. Circumstances have brought us to the same continent and time zone for a few weeks, so we decided to meet-up in Savannah Georgia, which is how, right now, he is riding behind me on the passenger seat of a rented Harley Davidson Softail Heritage.

You can say whatever you like about Harley Davidson, but if you are going to ride two-up on a motorcycle and you are two sizable guys, a large Harley is definitely the bike to do it on. The stock Harley 103 cubic inch v-twin motor has enough torque to plow a corn field and plenty of horses, so there is absolutely no problem with the hardware we are riding. The software is perhaps not quite as good as it once was and mounting the bike for both of us is an inelegant affair, I had to take care not to kick Mike in the balls as I contorted myself to get my leg over the saddle whilst minimizing the pain in my (slightly) arthritic hips .The first few slow maneuvers  to get onto the route, which includes doing a few U-turns, are admittedly quite ropey, getting used to a different center of gravity takes a bit of practice, but as soon as we get going and the power of the bike puts me in control, I start to feel more confident and comfortable. Not only does the Softail deliver considerable brute force and the sheer amount of steel gives it stability, it really is a high spec machine – ABS brakes, cruise control, fuel gauge as well as miles to empty indicator. On the comfort side the seat is as easy on the ass as any seat I’ve ridden on, Mike claims that the passenger seat is not too bad either, but perhaps he is just saying that to make me feel better about his ordeal, and it does have a backrest. The bike has a pair of roomy black leather panniers that on this trip are nearly empty, but would be very useful on a longer trip, or if I owned this machine I’d fill them with the junk I like to carry on a ride. Thank goodness it of course does have a windshield; I am a total whoopsy where windshields are concerned – it is a must have. The suspension is excellent and despite the weight hasn’t bottomed out over any of the bumps we have traversed, oh yes, no false neutrals, not a single one – I really like that. This actually is a very easy bike to ride.   

The first few miles are not entirely what you would call picturesque, it is typical of the outskirts of any North American city, even one as lovely as Savannah, cookie cutter strip malls, car dealerships and ugly warehousing. We are heading south down USA highway 17 to Jekyll Island, just south of Brunswick. Mike is doing a course at the Gulf Steam facility in Savannah which has kept him occupied until two in the afternoon which is why I’ve chosen a route that I expect will get us home before nightfall. Fortunately, the scenery improves quite quickly, soon we are riding through marshy plains. Rivers, both small and large meander through the marches that are covered in tall reeds or grasses. I assume that as summer gets going these will change from grey to green, which probably improves the view... still it is pleasing enough on the eye. The Savannah River traverses just such plains on its route from Savannah Harbor to the Atlantic Ocean, so when you look across the plain to a ship sailing up the river you get the illusion of a ship sailing through the reeds. The route we are on, however, is more the province of small pleasure craft and we pass several little lakes with boat houses and jetties. This is not an area that I would gladly take a swim in and definitely wouldn’t walk the Dachshund through, I suspect that it is well and truly infested with ‘gators. Not that I have any issue with alligators, they were here long before us so I wish them well, will not buy shoes made from their skins, but I will give them a considerable wide berth.

The road is very straight, it’s a bit disappointing as there are so few twisties, but that is the nature of the area, it is flat so when engineers build roads there is no motivation to add a bunch of curves, a lamentable tendency not to consider the motorcycle fun factor and focus only on the cost of building the road. As a break from the marshy reed plains we do get to ride through some forest. There are a lot of pine plantations, but some patches of deciduous forest remain. Here the new leaves are making a light green appearance. It is mid-March, at least six weeks ahead of the schedule that the forests of Southern Ontario are following, but then it is 26 degrees Celsius here and people are wearing shorts and T-shirts, back home it is still overcoat weather.

We make our first stop in the little town of Eulonia at the Piggly Wiggly, yes for all the fans of ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ not privileged to visit the South, there actually is a chain of grocery stores called Piggly Wiggly. We park under a massive oak tree, liberally hung with Spanish moss, dismount with all the dignity we managed when getting on, and buy a couple of Coke Zeros and sugar free Red Bulls which we suck down our patched throats – it has been a warm afternoon ride so far.  Next stop Jekyll Island.

Piggly Wiggly and Oak tree we parked under 

 View from Piggy Wiggly

It isn’t long before we pass through the western side of Brunswick, not hugely attractive with the main feature being a large factory with a smoke stack that belches a constant belch of white smoke, it smells like a paper mill, but I’m not quite sure. I know that the town has a whole lot more to offer, with pretty squares in an old town center and the several islands attached to it are serious tourist attractions, but that smelly smoke stack does detract form it’s many virtues.  A short way beyond the town we cross over a lovely graceful suspension bridge. Americans certainly know how to build bridges and as you know, if you have been following this blog, that I love bridges, especially suspension bridges. This one is a decent height to allow for shipping to reach the Port of Brunswick a few miles inland along the oddly named ‘Fancy Bluff Creek’ which is no mere creek at all, but a sizable piece of water. We get a glimpse of a great view as we cross, but there is just no place to stop. Memo to bridge building engineers, would it add that much to the cost to make a few lookout points where a chap can stop and admire the view and your brilliant work?  Shortly after crossing the bridge we turn right to Jekyll Island.

Along the USA Highway 17 

There is a $6 toll to get in which is fine, only we are not planning to stay long, possibly just long enough to have an early supper before heading back the way we came. I’m not entirely sure what I had hoped to find, perhaps something a little more rustic, maybe a seaside village like Tybee on Tybee Island close to Savannah, with little greasy spoon diners, bistros and shops that sell beach crap like belly boards, postcards and flip flops – I like that sort of thing though I wouldn’t actually buy that stuff. Instead Jekyll Island is very upmarket, manmade and a little clinical, it’s nice for sure, but just not what we are looking for. We stop and take walk around, mosey onto the beach which is pretty empty. 

Tybee Island 

Best T-shirt ever - don't know why I didn't buy it

Mike mentions that he spotted an interesting place a few miles before the bridge that we could have supper at, it sounds like the sort of place that would suit my mood. The Marshside Grill turns out to be a pleasant, busy, noisy place that serves good food at reasonable prices. I have fish and chips, which is grouper, washed down with copious glasses of diet coke, no Scotch for me, no sir, not while riding a motorcycle. We eat inside, although there is a verandah overlooking a river which looks pleasant, already the midges are becoming a nuisance, I bet the mosquitoes here are something awful in summer. While we eat I notice that the sun is setting at an alarming rate so chivvy the proceedings along a bit. I want to minimize the distance that we will ride in the dark.  It’s the critters I’m worried about, nocturnal forest animals, I’m not sure if skunks are common here, but I’m sure raccoons and coyotes are plentiful. Hitting one of these creatures would probably undo us in a spectacular way. The wrath of my elder sister for returning Mike in a less than pristine condition does not bear thinking about.

In the end I drop Mike off at his hotel in one piece, we rode the last third of the distance in the dark, but without incident. I ride the final few miles to my hotel, a little closer to downtown Savannah, but still outside the area that would be classified as the historic center of town. I’m booked into a crappy Days Inn hotel/motel and lucky to be there, Savannah is busting at the seams with visitors. This is March break and St. Patrick’s day week to boot. Savannah is the second most popular city for this drunken street party in America, second only to Chicago, apparently bigger even than Boston, this is a piss-up that goes on all week. I wonder what St. Patrick, a sober character by all accounts, would have thought about this boozy annual celebration in his name that takes place more than a millennium and a half after his death, on a continent that hadn’t even been imagined by the Irish people he had supposedly converted to Christianity. I guess most of what he is thought to have done is more modern myth than real history, certainly he did not banish snakes from Ireland and did no better than anyone else to shoehorn a polytheistic doctrine into a monotheistic mold…. and he wasn’t even Irish at all. 

Party gearing up for lift off - time to get outa there - River Street Savannah,  St Patrick's Day week  

El Niño

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballasbak

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

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

Green Christmas 

Long eerie shadows, just past noon 

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

Hockley Valley Road Christmas day 2015 

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

The Screaming Heads of Muskoka

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

 

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

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

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

Bunny Trail

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

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

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

Midlothian Castle

 Few of the screaming heads 

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

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

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

 Orrville Bakery

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

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

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

Planes, Trains and Motorcycles

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

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

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

Fall colours in Muskoka  

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

Southwood Road with cemetery in the middle of nowhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trestle railway bridge over Seguin River

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

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

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

On and Off…The Road That Is

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

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

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

The Not-So-Easy Rider in Storm Trooper Disguise 

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

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

Clinton Smout of SMART Adventures 

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

Nice easy trail, perfect for KLR and me

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

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

Deer in Algonquin 

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

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


Some of the places I've been:

Kinmount, Kawatha Highlands - Saturday morning fair

Hockley Valley Road

Bruce Peninsula 

Musicians on Sidewalk Washago 

Historic Main Street Schomberg 

Dorset, Muskoka 

Algonquin 

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

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

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