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...

“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