Best Laid Plans, Really Great Roads…and Thanksgiving

I had a plan.

Really.

I did. I formulated it almost two weeks ago.

For the Thanksgiving long weekend, I decided that I was going to go on one last long-distance motorcycle adventure before the season rolled to a stop….drew to a close….came to an end….

You get the picture.

I have not yet gone on a long distance ride in an easterly direction. So, naturally, I decided that I was going to ride to Gaspe. And to the Bay of Fundy. And back. In three days.

I wisely booked the Friday of the long weekend off, allowing me to be back home on Sunday evening, and giving me a full day of rest on Monday before returning to work on Tuesday morning.

I planned on leaving early on Friday morning, and riding all the way to Gaspe – or as close as I could make it – before once again – and for a final time this year – setting up my Hennessy Hammock and sleeping in the great outdoors. I would then spend Saturday touring the area, getting side tracked at every available opportunity, and eventually begin the ride home either late Saturday afternoon, or early on Sunday morning.

The weather forecast, when I originally dreamed up this cockamamie scheme, was lousy. Rain, and highs of 7 or 8 degrees were what I could expect, according to the most maligned of public whipping-posts, the weather forecasters, of two weeks ago.

I was not to be swayed. Every time that a friend or colleague asked me what my plans were for the long weekend, my reply was a grin, and ‘riding to Gaspe – you?’

A ‘good lord’, and a shake of the head was the response that I most often received.

I think that a good many people may perceive me to be slightly crazy.

And that’s okay. Kind of gives me a little leeway to, well, be a little crazy.

The weather forecast, as you are not doubt very well aware, changed. As it sometimes does. And quite drastically, too. Highs of 20, 21, and 23 degrees. And lots of sunshine.

Thank you, oh wise weather sage, for being so wonderfully, beautifully wrong.

So. A good plan. A researched route. Likely fuel and food stops laid out. Weather that was too nice to even wish for. A finely tuned and eager steel steed with a freshly changed oil and filter.

Why, then, are you reading this now? As early as Saturday night?
“He must be blogging from his phone”.
“He decided to bring his laptop and is sitting in a Tim Horton’s somewhere north and east of Quebec City”.
“He decided not to hammock-camp after all”.

No. Nope. And unh-uh.

As is so often true, and as Robert Burns so cleverly penned, the best laid schemes, of mice and men, often go awry…

And though my plans most certainly did change, I cannot say that I am disappointed. Nor left wanting. For I was needed here. To be a friend. And to offer company, distraction, humour and understanding. As the case may be.
You see, Susie continues to valiantly – and successfully – wage her battle against cancer. She has had 36 chemotherapy treatments. Yet she is still able to soldier on, wear a smile, offer a kind word, and quite nonchalantly tell you that she is going to be fine.
All the while, friends who are also suffering from this despicable disease are dying around her.
And so it was that Susie found out, early Friday morning, that she had lost yet another friend and fellow cancer-fighter on Thursday evening.

The Gaspe adventure became very unimportant, very quickly.

I spent all of Friday with Susie. Watching. Listening. Learning. And thanking God that I am able to be ‘that person’ for her.
By days end, we had joined with my other best friend – James – and headed off for that ultimate form of distraction – a Hollywood blockbuster and butter-soaked popcorn.
Tom Hanks does not do bad movies. And ‘Captain Phillips’ is on par with his best. An excellent film, full of tension, that keeps you interested right up until the closing credits.
It was a great end to a wonderful, though at times emotional and heavy day.

Driving home, I figured that I could still squeeze one heck of a long ride out of the long weekend. Maybe just not all the way to Gaspe.

How about Val D’Or?

Yeah. Why not? Seemed logical to me.

And then I received a phone call from another friend, sharing some of her recent good news and asking me what my plans were for Thanksgiving. To which I replied that I had no set plans, other than taking a nice long motorcycle ride.

At which point I was invited to Thanksgiving dinner. On Sunday. In Cornwall.

A pretty lady. Turkey. Stuffing. Need I say more.

Yes – I admit – I am shallow as a puddle at times
.
So I arise bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, all set to head out on the road to Val D’Or – which, not coincidentally, happens to be the birth place of my father – and I started thinking about all that I have to be thankful for.

An hour later I was on my bike, heading to Chesterville, to be with my mom.

I stayed through lunch, repeatedly bugging mom to eat a little more of this, or finish the last two bites of that, living my childhood all over again, yet in reverse, and realized that this was always going to be part of my Thanksgiving weekend. Even when I did not yet know it.
We had a great visit – and I am going to do something for which I will likely get a smack – and post a pic of my beautiful mom, right…..
….here.I love you mom.

As you have already gathered – my riding plans changed yet again. And this time, I got smart. I did what has always worked for me in the past.
I made no plan. Picked no destination. Checked no maps.
I just filled up the tank, and followed my front tire, allowing the bike, and whimsy, to take me on the adventure that I was meant to ride.

And oh, what a ride it was.

I headed across the river, into Quebec, and followed the 50 to Montee Paiement. I had not travelled this route yet this year, and Montee Paiement always brought a smile to my face and a twist to my wrist last year, so off I went, scooting along her curves, over her hills and through her valleys.

This is a route that is definitely not for the faint-of-heart, or brand-new-to-riding type of motorcycle rider. The asphalt is old and cracked. There are potholes. And bumps. And lots of road-snakes. But man oh man what a ride. Montee Paiement ends at the 366 – a route that I absolutely love, and have written about prior – so it was with a smile from ear to ear, full of anticipation, that I swung left and headed north on Route du Carrefour. The asphalt is smooth. The curves are frequent, but not overly technical, and the hills come at you like whoop-de-doo’s on a motocross track. Add in the blazing colors of the fall foliage, the just perfect temperatures and the warm golden glow of the autumn sunshine and you will begin to understand how easy it is to lose yourself, becoming one with your machine and the road and all that surrounds you, dancing the beautiful dance.

In no time at all I was at the 366 / 307 junction. And this time, instead of heading south on the 307 as I usually do, I headed north yet again. On a route that I had only been on once before. The 307 north, Route Principale, is another wonderful motorcycle road. It will challenge even the most seasoned of riders, and the scenery through which the ride takes place is breathtaking. The one and only time that I had been on this route previously had been during a group ride to Paltimore earlier this season. I vaguely remembered some of the sights along the way, and vividly remembered some of the pucker-inducing curves – yee haaaa!!!
I rode on past Paltimore, all the way up to Val-Des-Bois, stopping intermittently to snap a few pictures, and feeling absolutely at peace again. At Val-Des-Bois I crossed the steel trestle bridge and opted to ride the 309 back down to Gatineau. Which turned out to be a perfect choice, as the 309 is every bit as scenic as the 366 – 307 run is, yet it is far less challenging. The curves are long and sweeping, and the hills are likewise long and shallow, as opposed to the staggered hairpins that are the order of the day on the 307.

I highly recommend this route to everyone who rides. If you love riding your machine and challenging the road, the bike and yourself, then the 366 north to the 307 north to Val-Des-Bois is a must ride. And if you really like ‘em twisty and hilly, get off the 50 at exit 145 and ride Montee Paiement to the 366. You will not be sorry.

In the end, I only racked up about 350 kms – including the ride to see mom – but as it turned out, it was exactly the ride that I needed.

As I am often apt-to-do, I snapped quite a few pictures along the way. Most can be seen right HERE if you are interested.

Now, I have to make my dinner. Pulled pork sandwiches. Home made baked beans (thanks Al). Cole slaw. And bakery apple pie.

That and Netflix sounds like a perfect end to an amazing day.

Oh, and one more thing.

Fuck cancer!

Thanks for riding along,…

The last long-weekend ride of the season

The labor day weekend is upon us, and for those of us who eat, breath and sleep either riding or thinking about riding motorcycles, that means planning that one last, long adventure of the riding season.
Having decided to take Friday off as well, I was able to think a little bigger than some about just where this ride - this adventure - might take me. Mentioning the idea of planning an adventure at the Monday night meet and greet brought forth an added bonus - the piqued interest of another member.
brian2tall and I had ridden together several times in the past and have a similar personality, so the idea of making this a shared adventure all of a sudden became quite appealing. Brian and I came to no decision as to where we were going - not even whether we were heading east towards the townships or west towards Turkey Point - but that was secondary. We were going on a ride. A long ride. That was all that mattered at that point.
Two hours after leaving the meet and greet, after spending about an hour researching great motorcycle routes, I knew where we were going. And a few minutes later, so did Brian, as well as everyone else in my Facebook universe.
I had stumbled across a blog written 4 years earlier by a writer for a motorcycle magazine. In that blog the author vividly and enthusiastically described an adventure that he had been a part of, on a 750 ACE, no less. This adventure took him on a long run through Algoma county, and in recounting his adventure the author made mention of Ontario highway 129, which he referred to as "Ontario's Tail of the Dragon"
And that was all it took.
Those of you who ride are likely already aware of the legendary Tail of the Dragon at Deal's Gap. For those of you who do not ride, check out any of the hundreds of YouTube videos. Then you will understand why I had to come out to Thessalon, Ontario to ride the 129.
And if you have google-mapped Thessalon, those of you who do not ride are by now convinced that I am completely crazy.
You see, highway 129 is a full 700+ kilometers from Ottawa. 1400 kilometers, there and back. To check out a highway I had never heard of before based on a reference made by another rider. Whom I had never heard of before.
Brian was in. And as simple as that, the adventure began to take shape.
I have to give credit to Brian. He wanted to go for a good long ride. And it had to be one that could be completed in 4 days. Other than that, the details were up to me. So, figuring that Wawa is in the same vicinity (kind of), I decided that we would stretch this ride out to over 2000 kilometers. Ottawa to Thessalon to the 129 to Chapleau, to Wawa, to Sault Saint Marie, to Thessalon and back home. In 4 days.

We left Ottawa at approximately 0900. Fully aware that we were riding head-on into a huge storm system that was forecasted to dump over 50mm of rain in Wawa, carrying torrential rains all the way from Manitoba to North Bay.
"I get wet every time I shower" I had quipped to our 1st officer at Mondays meet and greet when he pointed out the extended forecast. 5 hours of riding in some really heavy rain later, I was eating my words and praying for sunshine.
My prayers were answered just before Blind River, and Brian and I stopped to strip off our rain gear, allowing the sun to warm the chill from our bones and the wet from our clothes. We spent the last hour of our riding day relishing the warmth, a renewed step in our dance, and finally entered Thessalon around 7:30pm. I snapped a few pics of a glorious sunset (sorry, I won't be able to post pics until I get home - I am blogging from my phone) and then enquired as to a recommendation on lodgings from a couple who were walking hand in hand enjoying the beauty of a late-summers eve. They directed Brian and I to carry on another 20 kilometers to Bruce Mines, Ontario. To the Bavarian Inn. And it is from a soft, comfortable, dry bed that I tip-tap-type this post. And it also from here that I now bid you...
Good night. It was a long day. It was a wet day. It was a day spent riding a motorcycle. Which means it was a great day. Tomorrow, we ride the 129.
Thanks for riding along friends,

Riding, rally, and time travel…

 

Friday morning was so much nicer than Thursday morning. I was up early enough to watch a glorious sunrise over Lake Erie, enjoyed a breakfast of French-toast and coffee at the Sunset restaurant, and leisurely made my way further west along the waterfront trail. The ride from Turkey Point to Long Point is beautiful. A quiet little two-lane full of twisties and small dips and rises, it is a few minutes of pure riding pleasure.

All along the lakeshore, the scenery is beautiful, and one could easily spend a day exploring some of the small towns along the way. Port Rowan, Clear Creek, Port Burwell, Port Royal, Port Stanley, on and on traveling through some of the most scenic and picturesque little towns you are likely to see anywhere.

The locals told me that the ride from Turkey Point to Sarnia is roughly 2 1/2 hours. Being very good at finding the longest distance between two points, it took me closer to six. And I loved each and every minute of the ride.

I finally pulled onto the 402 from Port Stanley and headed toward Sarnia, thinking that if I did not hit the big highway I would surely end up traveling the more scenic waterfront trail until sometime in November, and well, I had to be at work on Tuesday, so...

I headed up the 402 and pulled off when I saw the sign for Grand Bend. A few people had mentioned that this was one spot that I had to stop, the scenery being quite exceptional in the form of bikini wearing sun worshippers. So I decided to make the detour,....

A few minutes of riding up highway 21 brought me up behind another pack-laden rider. Naturally assuming that he too was headed for the CMC Rally, I fell into an easy-paced staggered position to his right and carried on.

When we passed the sign indicating that the town of Forest was a mere 24 kilometers away I realized that my being distracted by thoughts of sun-bronzed beach babes had actually caused me to get off the 402 precisely where I needed too. See, the rally that I am attending, while hosted by the 016 Sarnia chapter, is actually being held in Forest.

And then, synchronicity being what it is and all, I pulled up alongside my fellow traveller at a stoplight and was greeted by the broadly smiling face of ‘Pusher’ – a fellow member of the Ottawa 016 chapter – with whom I had just had dinner at a meet and greet 2 weeks prior.

We cruised into the sleepy little borough of Forest and found our way to the fairgrounds, where perhaps 40 or 50 members were already lounging around fully equipped travel trailers, motor homes, RV’s and a few tents. We registered, shared some traveling stories with new friends, and then took to taking care of our own lodgings for the night. Pusher headed off to Sarnia, and I went to a local pharmacy to introduce myself to Debbie.

See, the CMC is a family oriented riding group of approximately 5,000 members across our great country. And family is always there to help...

In this particular instance, a couple of members from the host-chapter, the 016 Sarnia, opted to open their home to anyone who needed a placed to rest travel-weary bones. And I, being no fool, opted to accept their gracious offer.

Debbie and Ewen were spectacular hosts, offering a warm bed for the night and a hot shower in the morning as well as entirely enjoyable camaraderie and conversation. Ewen rides a beautiful Triumph Bonneville, and we managed to get out for a short scoot together, if only from his house to the fairgrounds where the rally was held. I truly hope to be able to return the hospitality one day!

I went back to the rally for breakfast Saturday morning – mingled with a bunch of my fellow Ottawa 011 members and several new friends from other chapters – and then....yes, it was time to go. I had remained virtually stationary for long enough – and Manitoulin Island was only a few short hours away.

The rest of the weekend was a whirlwind tour through the Georgian Bay – Manitoulin Island area, and I cannot stress this enough: if you have not yet had the opportunity to ride Manitoulin Island and to sail the Chi Cheemaun ferry, find the time to do so. The ferry acts as a sort of time-travel machine, taking you back some 20 years, and allowing a glimpse of what life was like at a slower, less digitally-enhanced pace. Manitoulin Island is the living definition of ‘laid-back’, and visiting her by travelling her arteries on a motorcycle was an experience I shall fondly remember, and repeat as needed.

I spent Saturday night camping in my Hennessey Hammock at a small but extremely well appointed camp ground that is less than a 1000 metres from the ferry landing, staring up at the most brilliant carpet of stars I can remember seeing since I was on the Mediterranean Sea, oh so many years ago. A hot shower at the campground, and a delicious breakfast at a small diner directly across the street set me off on a great start to an amazing day of riding. I covered the island, seeing all of the recommended bays, inlets and overlooks, and then headed north towards Espanola at about 2:30 in the afternoon.

Hennessey hammock camping

The ride home was a sort of ‘remember when’ all of its own, as I had made the same run last year on my way back home from the Rockies. Espanola – Sudbury – North Bay – Deep River – Pembroke – Arnprior – Ottawa, all in a little less than 7 ½ hours.

Some pics from the rally can be found here.

And pics from the journey are found here.

My apologies for taking a week to get this post up – I was riding when I could have been writing...

As always – thank you for riding along...

Ridin', rain and the CMC National rally

I had grand plans of heading to the east coast later this summer. Specifically to ride the Cabot Trail - in both directions - but also to explore some more of our beautiful country and further enrich my life.

And then my dad died.

How are these two seemingly completely separate life events related, you find yourself wondering?

Well, I am about to tell you. When dad died in June I found myself pondering what I was going to do. Both to honor my father, as well as to survive the grieving process in a safe and sober fashion.

Sitting at breakfast with my friend James the morning after dad passed away, he posed the question. "So, what are you going to do now?"

The unspoken but weighted tag to that question being "to make it through this healthy and whole".

'I don't know' I replied. 'Several people have suggested that I take a ride in memory of dad'.

"Where would you go?" enquired my own personal Yoda.

'I really have no idea', I answered. And then, just as quick as that, I knew.

40 years ago, dad took my younger brother and myself on a camping trip to Turkey Point and Long Point, Ontario.

It remains my fondest father-son memory.

I looked at James over the rim of my coffee mug and said "yes I do. Turkey Point. I am going to ride to Turkey Point."

After 7 years of friendship James is used to my rather disjointed and random statements of fact and clarity, knowing that what makes perfect sense to me will soon be explained. It generally only requires having to wait a minute for me to slow the brain enough to sort it out.

I shared that camping trip of 40 years ago to a patiently listening friend, and realized as my eyes began to well with tears that there were still very strong emotions tied to a 6 year old little boy inside of me. And in that moment realized that I had just experienced the first of what I hope are many moments of my dad offering me a little 'nudge' from wherever he is stirring things up now.

Thanks dad.

I went on a 5 day tour to Sarnia, Turkey Point and Long Point to say goodbye. And serendipitously spent those days with dad. He was with me every moment, and made his presence known with a subtlety that he never possessed in life.

Another one of the gifts that I received while on that journey to honor my dad was the opening of my eyes to just how beautiful that region of Ontario is.

Which brings us back to the beginning. And the connection.

I have decided that, for the remainder of this year anyway, my vacation(s) will come in the form of long-weekends.

And And so, here I am, at 8:45 on Friday morning, drinking from a steaming mug of black coffee and looking out over the water in...

Yes, Turkey Point.

The motorcycle group that I ride with- the Canadian Motorcycle Cruisers, or CMC, are holding our annual National Rally in Sarnia over the August long weekend.

A mere 3 hours from Turkey Point.

It was obvious to me that the way to truly maximize the enjoyment that this event offers was to turn it into a wee bit of an adventure, so I made my long-weekend longer by taking to the road at 10:00am Thursday morning and heading to Turkey Point.

Did I mention 'adventure'?

The first 4 hours of my ride took place in the heaviest rain that I have ever ridden in. Falling in sheets made up of marble-sized raindrops, people were pulling over in their cars because the could not see. Through their windshields. Of their climate-controlled, and very dry, cars.

It took me a little more than 4 hours to cover 300 kilometers. My gloves were soaked through and could not have been wetter had I showered with them on. My right foot was a little damp. And I spent a lot more time on the slab (401) than I had intended. But the sun finally broke through. And my gloves dried out. And I arrived in Turkey Point. And smiled.

Thanks again dad. I love you man.

More from the road later...

“Cat’s in The Cradle”, or more aptly titled,……….I love you dad

21:40 on June 21, 2013. That is the time, and the date, upon which my father died.

The end of the first day of summer.
And the end of a protracted period of suffering for a man that I loved.

And at times despised.
Admired. And often resented.
Feared. And respected.

My dad.

For all of his faults – real or perceived, observed or projected – he was the man who shaped much of the man that I was to become. The man who provided me with the foundations to build those parts that were to become my best, as well as my worst.

Let me tell you a little about my dad.

Dad was driven. Driven to succeed. And driven to excess. A self-made millionaire, he perpetuated the ideology of the ‘dream’ of our neighbours to the south. Starting from the hard-scrabble of nothing – and I truly mean nothing, if the stories that I heard as a child are to be believed – he forged his way into the world of business, proving to be a salesman that laid definition to the term, and discovered that he had a talent. And a tenacity. And that when these were combined – drive, talent and tenacity – my dad always succeeded.

In business, dad was virtually golden.

In affairs of family – and being a father – I thought that he failed miserably.

I learned at a very young age that I would never be able to be ‘good enough’ for my dad. To coin Stephen Stills, “I never failed to fail; it was the easiest thing to do”

And that remained true until the moment that I began to truly take responsibility for myself, and who I was, and began to stop blaming others. Mostly, my dad.

When I entered into the realm of recovery from a life of alcoholic drinking and drug addiction, the entire world in which I live began to change. Because I began to accept things as they are, and as they were. Rather than lamenting how I wished they might have been.

When I began to truly examine some of my own inner demons; my personal failings; my shortcomings and character defects, I began to be see them more objectively in my dad.
In beginning to understand myself, I started to understand a little more about the man who helped to raise me. About the man who tried his damnedest to love me, and managed his failings with anger.

I am 46 years old.
I have a work ethic that is second to no one.
My name is my bond. And my bond is golden.
I have a passion for learning that is nigh-on insatiable.
I am a voracious reader, and will devour everything from Whitman to King, Thoreau to Cervantes, Tolstoy to Koontz.
I am good at what I love. And I love what I am good at.
I am as dependable as a Saint Bernard, and as loyal to boot.

And all of these things I owe to my dad.

But that is not the best part.

No, the best part – the part that raises a lump in my throat and brings a tear to my eye as I type - is the other thing that happened when I entered into recovery.

I met my father. The man within the man who had always been my dad. And we talked, and we talked, and we talked……
We laughed. We cried. We hugged and in many ways we began to get to know each other for the very first time. And to love each other as I thought that we never would.

I have so much to be grateful for in my life. And nothing more so than the friendship that I was able to share with a man that I came to begin to know and understand in these last 7 years.
I am so very happy to know that my father loved me, and to have had the chance to let him know just how much his son loved him.

This one will always be ours dad. I love you man.

A loving son,

Peace

On public speaking; whimsy; and dancing the twisties…

The weekend of May 11 and 12 was a rainy, cold, no-riding weekend. We will not talk any more of that.

I did, however, buy mom some mum’s, and I visited with her over lunch of Wendy’s take-out. Mom and dad are both in a retirement residence now. Mom is thriving. Dad is dying. And so the story goes… 

On Wednesday, May 15 I was invited to speak at Algonquin College in front of a class currently studying in the Trauma and Addictions Recovery program. I am currently studying in my final course of this 22 course program, and I have enjoyed it thoroughly. So when one of my past teachers invited me to come and speak in her class I readily accepted.

Boy, I do love to talk, lol.  Starting at 6:00pm,I had planned on speaking for about 45 minutes, then answering questions for another 15 or 20 minutes, and being back home by 7:30pm.

Heather laughingly pointed to her watch when everything appeared to be winding down and chuckled, “see, I told you we would keep you until 9:00pm”
I really do have to focus some energy on turning this whole public speaking thing into a regular part-time gig. I am consistently vitalized by the experience.

This may sound strange – and out of context it would sound rather baffling – but I am so thankful to be an alcoholic and a drug addict. For I have realized gifts, and blessings, that so often go untapped. Un-awakened. Under-utilized. Unnoticed.

We truly are the lucky ones, those of us who have lived to tell the tale.

And then, quickly as that, the weekend was upon us. And a long weekend to boot. The weather forecast for Saturday was brilliant, and that was all that mattered.

A bunch of members from the riding group that I joined two years ago – the Canadian Motorcycle Cruisers, or CMC , Ottawa chapter - the 011 – had organized a ride to Mont Tremblant in the Laurentians for lunch, with a spectacular opportunity to dance the beautiful dance along highway 327 on the way back to Ottawa.

 A ride not to be missed, to be sure. We met at one of our regular points of departure – a Tim Horton’s in Orleans, and by mid-morning we were riding in formation along highway 148 in Gatineau on our way towards an exceptionally great day of riding, camaraderie and laughs. We ate lunch at the resort at Mont Tremblant – a couple of pictures are included below, and a link to the rest on my Photobucket page is HERE – and as always we had a great time, with a couple of really random moments, such as a group of young college girls – one a bride-to-be – approaching our table and asking if someone could get her a blow-job. I am afraid the rest of that story must remain on the mountain.



Ahem.

Sunday was another cool and rainy day. So I did what anyone would do in my situation, and spent 6 hours rendering and editing the video that I shot during our ride the day before.

If you are interested, you can watch it HERE.

Then, having completed that task, and wondering what to do next – it was still pouring rain, you see – I decided to start researching the painting of my bike on the internet. And before long, I was outside shaving the ‘American Classic Edition’ emblems off of my gas tank.

I have a new inspiration.

She is known as FLAT BLACK.

Rattle-canned, no less.
I plan on starting this project in earnest sometime this week. I will post photos and info as I go. I just hope that at no point do I scratch my head wondering what the hell I was thinking on that cold, rainy Sunday afternoon.

And finally, yesterday, the holiday Monday of the Victoria Day long weekend, several members once again got together to ride. We had originally planned on heading out to Westport – always a great ride – but plans changed, as they are so often apt to do, and we instead headed into Gatineau. We rode the 105 up to Wakefield and stopped for lunch before continuing on up to Paltimore. And I have to say, the ride was amazing. I was re-introduced to a dance partner that I had not danced with in two years – Rue Principale 307 and chemin du pont in Paltimore. The curves were many, the twisties just right, and, to coin a song, ‘we danced. Like a wave on the ocean, romanced.’

I managed another 600+ kilometers during 2 days of riding. And writing about it makes me wish I was riding right now.

I will allow you two guesses as to why I am not.

One if you heard that thunder-clap.


Thanks for continuing to ride along. Stay dry, and keep the rubber side down.

I’m baaaack. I’m baaaack in the saddle agaaaiinnn…

Well, the season is finally underway. A little late, when compared to last year. And a little bit of a rougher start. But all is well now.
I actually picked my bike up from the dealership where I store it for the winter on April 17. Having a new clutch installed over the winter season, as well as two new tires, brought my season opener bill up to just shy of $1500.00. I paid that happily, envisioning a season of incredible adventure ahead of me.
The adventure started a little sooner than I anticipated. When I parked the bike at home that afternoon – riding straight home from the dealership – my buddy Shawn, who was following me home in my car, announced 4 words that caused my skin to crawl, and my bones to chill.
“Joe, you’re leaking oil”.
I looked up at Shawn, hoping that I had somehow heard him wrong. “It’s all over the windshield of your car dude”.
Fuck! There was no denying it now. I thought that I could smell something a little, well, off, on the way home. Turns out that smell was the stink of brand new oil burning on the rapidly heating cooling-fins of my front cylinder. I had a blown head gasket. And the truth was plain to see as soon as I looked. Freshly changed clean oil was dripping off of the bottom of my coolant reservoir. It was burned into the fins on my cylinder cover. It was running down the feeder tube from the front of the cylinder. It was freakin’ everywhere.
My heart sunk. For a moment.
And then I picked up the phone and called Maurino. He sent a truck out the next day to pick up my bike, and after another interminable 2 weeks, on May 2, I picked up my bike. Again.
I have pretty much been smiling ever since. I racked up 600 kms on the odometer during my first weekend of riding. I went to a swap meet. I’ve already dragged my footpegs in the twisties twice.
The season of my discontent is past.
The first riding weekend of the season was glorious. The weather could not have been better. Warm and sunny, but not stifling. A few of the lads from the CMC invited me to meet up Saturday morning for breakfast before heading off to the always popular Capital City Bikers Church Swap Meet. Lots of bikes, lots of really neat stuff to check out, and as always, lots of friends happy to see each other after a long, cold off-season.

After leaving the swap-meet Dave, Brian, John and I decided that it was time to go ‘dancing’, so we hopped astride our bikes and headed for Calabogie via the 511. Our timing was not great – just as we were approaching the section of 511 that includes some of the sweetest twisties in the area we fell in line behind a group of that really rare breed – ‘Sunday morning Harley riders’. And it was freakin’ Saturday! I swear this must have been a group of Harley riding seniors, because the needle on my speedo never touched 75 kph over the next 15 minutes. Oooohhh, the agony…..the 511 is not a ‘slow-dance’ partner. She wants to be grooved….move those hips….drag those pegs….
We stopped for lunch at Munford’s and after that I split off from the guys. I headed a little further into the hills to a small camping spot that my friend James introduced me to the weekend before and brought him the coffee that he forgot to pack in his camping gear. It was while dancing along the Centennial Lake road that I dragged my pegs for the first time this season.
Calabogie Camp
I remember the first time that this ever happened to me. I was riding on the 327 coming back from Mont Tremblant 2 years ago. It scared the crap out of me at first. But then I took the time to reflect on what had actually happened. My bike and I were no longer ‘my bike and I’. We were one together. Sensory input became muscular output converted to engineering dynamics, horsepower and physics. We flowed through the dance moves with a smoothness that defies my ability to describe through words. And the scraping of the pegs, for me anyway, is almost a sort of ‘sweet-spot’. Maybe simply because of the utter exhilaration that comes upon realizing that the scraping sound of metal on asphalt, in this case, does not bring with it disaster, but instead a sense of triumph.
Don’t get me wrong. I do not go out and make a point of trying to mark the asphalt with the soft white metal of my foot-pegs. That, I believe, would be akin to inviting disaster. But when my bike and I are dancing with the right partner, and all of our moves are in tune, it sometimes happens. And it always elicits an ‘ah, there it is’ feeling for me.
After leaving the camp site I headed home on the 508, another of the local roads that I will never tire of riding.
Then, last Sunday morning I decided to head for my hometown – Lancaster, Ontario. There are several different routes from which to choose when traveling from Ottawa. Some fairly direct, and some less so. I usually choose the less-direct routes, however that morning I decided to travel the same way that I did for years when I was still living in Lancaster but working in Ottawa – the 417 to the Highland Road – Maxville exit, then through Maxville, Apple Hill, along the Chapel road to John Street (another sweet little dance partner) through Williamstown and on to Lancaster.
The day was one of memories. Hundreds of them. Riding down the Highland road I was transported back to 1983, to an evening in January that found me driving home from Ottawa after work one Friday night. A typical Friday night that involved a few too many beers with the guys before hitting the road in my Cutlass. I missed a curve, flew through the snow bank and went airborne off an embankment, my car coming to rest just a few feet shy of a 15 foot wide, 10 foot deep drainage ditch. Just one of many times where, all things considered, I should have been severely injured or killed. Yet I walked away unscathed, having learned nothing, turning it into a story to laugh with the guys about over beers every subsequent Friday night until the next moment of reckless stupidity took its place.
Missed curve
Approaching Apple Hill I began to start focusing on how sweet it was going to be to really push it on John street, a twisty little two lane that follows the river into Williamstown. I had just slipped into fourth gear, throttle cracked wide, when I noticed the flashing blue-and red’s of an OPP cruiser that had an unsuspecting speeder pulled over. That was the only clue that I needed. I kept the needle at or below the limit for the rest of the journey, and considering the condition of the asphalt that was a very good choice. I may have remembered the road, and all of it’s twists and turns. But I had not danced her length on my bike yet. And the crumbling, washboard-rough asphalt may have taught me a hard learned lesson if it were not for that cruiser being there to slow me down.
I do not believe in coincidences.
Arriving in Lancaster I rode to my friend Derek’s house. I went for a ride in his absolutely gorgeous 1972 Camaro and we caught up on each other’s lives. I think it is safe to say that we are both doing much better than we ever thought we would.
Derek’s ‘72  
I then headed down highway 2 to drop in and say hi to my old friend, Trevor. And the memories continued to come. Passing by the mail box that stands at the end of the driveway to the big old Victorian mansion in which I grew up elicited thoughts of waiting for the school bus each morning, and the abilities that my younger brother and I had to find adventure in the ordinary and the mundane. Ah, but for the imagination of my youth.
Childhood home
Just past the old house I rode by the Ontario Tourist information kiosk where I rolled my snowmobile at 65 mph some 30 + years before. And once again walked away unmarked, and unfazed. I can still here Trevor and Scotty laughing about that one.
After a short visit with Trevor, and a promise to get together soon, I headed back to Lancaster and stopped at the Tim Horton’s. There I met another rider named Jo – short for Jocelyn – who goes by the handle ‘Pink Floyd Jo’
The pics here tell that story.
Jo has gone through some life recently, and like many of us has found calm and serenity dancing the beautiful dance on two wheels . Though we had never met before, I know Jo. And he knows me. I shared some information about the club, and invited Jo to check out the CMC 011. I believe that he will. And I believe that he will be another man who has found a place. A place to belong. And a place to be.
I left Jo at the Timmies and headed to Summerstown along highway 2. There I stopped in to see my older brother, and as always, I left feeling even better than I did when I arrived. I love you bro’.
And that was the weekend. I headed back to Ottawa from Cornwall on the 138 to the 417,and clocked 603 kilometers for the first two days of riding this season. As I write this it is cool and rainy at 10:45 on Saturday morning. But the weather channel says it is going to clear by early afternoon.
Hmmmmm….whatever shall I do?
Thanks for riding along….
Peace.