And The Cat Came Back, . . .

Well, that didn't take long.

Exactly 7 days was all my sister could manage.

It seems Aya did not take well to her  new owner, or at least not as well as we had hoped that she would, and so Aya is comfortably and happily back home with me.

My sister will look after Aya for the 6 or 7 weeks that I am away, and I am quite certain that will be chock full of interesting tales, but I am also pretty happy with that.

It was only a week, but I missed the little bug.

Come next March-April I am going to have to revisit the whole new-home-for-Aya thing if I follow through with my travel plans, but until then we are both much happier with Aya being right here at home with me.
I know it's not completely uncommon, but the silly little critter loves playing fetch with me, constantly bringing me something to throw - when she's in the mood, of course.

So, life here at casa-Enberg is back as it should be, and all is once again right in my world.

Let me mention Friday - my retire-from-work day.

It started at St. Pius X High School where I was once again invited to speak to a class of grade 11 Law students. The announced reason for my being a guest speaker has always been the same over the past 8 years: "Joe is going to share with you his experiences with the legal system."

I have never failed to be unexpected. To give the kids more.

This time though, it was off the charts. I don't know if I went in with a different mind-set due to it being an already significant day in my life, or if it was simply the way it was supposed to be, but the engagement with those kids was so close, so life-to-life that it left me a little awestruck. And very, very grateful.

I spent most of my allotted speaking time encouraging this class of bright young future leaders to find someone to talk to.

About the dark places in their lives.
About the stuff they are not talking to anyone about.

And I used my past as the backdrop.
Alcoholism. Drug addiction. Criminal activity. Jails. Homelessness.

Heavy prices to pay for keeping the dark stuff a secret.
For being scared to name the monster - whatever it may look like.

I wish that I could somehow impart to you as you  read this the feelings that I experienced as I saw that glimmer in her eye, or that pique of interest in his face as we engaged in a back and forth of question and answer.

I think I have found something that I am every bit as passionate about as I am about adventure motorcycle riding.

Sharing my story with our youth.

It was such an incredible way to start my last day of work, and I thank God for the continued opportunities.

I left St. Pius X at noon, feeling full and empty at the same time. Both invigorated and exhausted.

I drove to Shepherds, parked my car and knew as I was walking through the parking lot that it was going to be a short and emotional visit.

I spent the next hour making the rounds and saying so-long to the myriad people who have touched and impacted my life in that environment of mixed feelings and conflicting personas.

I will remember my days spent at the Shepherds of Good Hope for the rest of my life. Most of them, quite fondly.

I don't think you can ask for more than that.


Now, a final piece of housekeeping. I am going to be traveling a lot this summer and with my travels come all of the expected - and many unexpected experiences. Which, of course, I will be writing and blogging about.

The problem is, I am currently trying to keep two blogs current! And as you have noted over the years - I suck at it.

So - if I may ask - please make a note of my other blog on the ADVJOE website:

http://advjoe.ca/blog/

I will be keeping that one up-to-date on a regular basis as I travel, and I will be treating it as my blog, not just advjoe's blog. The type of stuff that I write here, I will be writing there. So if you are, for some unknown reason still following me here (and I really hope that you are, my faithful few), well, now you have somewhere else to follow me.

This is starting to sound like a Genesis song. . .(or the best Cineplex ad they have ever come up with - remember the one with the young girl, the snow man and the freezer?)

Ok. It is now the first Wednesday - I can no longer call it hump day - of the season of my contentment. I think that means I have to shower today,. . .or shave, . . or something . . .

Later folks,

There was Darkness. . .

Something happened in the fall of 2015 that I never considered possible.

Something so completely out of my left field that had you told me in August that it was coming, I would have laughed out loud.

It is pretty apparent, I believe, that I am a generally happy guy.

Gregarious, some may say.

And why not? I have a lot to be happy about - and grateful for, after all.

Early one morning in late September of 2015, I noticed it was gone.

The happy, easy-to-get-along-with Joe was nowhere to be found.

I was spending way more time than usual 'taking naps'

My bikes sat in the garage through the entirety of the week, and sometimes all weekend long as well.

The things in my life that used to bring me joy, weren't.

Whaddafuk?

It all came to a glaring point for me at 0635 one morning as I was pulling into the parking lot at work and verbally snapped at a client who was not following my direction.

Like I am some kind of authority or some shit.

15 minutes later I was in the HR office asking for the contact information for our EAP, or Employee Assistance Program.

By the end of the day I had an appointment set up.

By the end of the next day I had been diagnosed as suffering from depression.

I'm sorry, what?

Me? Depression? Not friggen' likely. No way. Uhn uh.

That mysterious ailment afflicts other people. People less happy than I am. But not me.

No way it had hit me.

Boy, had it ever hit me.

And everything that I had ever heard about depression proved true: you do not see it coming, you do not acknowledge that it is here and you do not have the energy to do a fucking thing about it on your own.

At least, those were all true for me.

Thank God that I just followed my gut and contacted EAP that morning.

I ended up having to take some time off work, and I attended therapy regularly and followed all of the suggestions given me by my therapist.

And not too much later I was able to return to work.

What a strange, heavy dark cloud it was that had settled over me for a time.

It seems that I had some unresolved issues surrounding grief.

Feelings that I neglected to talk about or share with the people that I love and trust.

Feelings that I had just tried to stuff, or ignore.

Man, you would think that a guy with my past, with my fairly deep understanding of the benefits of talking about what is going in in my life would have done just that.

It is the centre-point of recovery for gods sake!

But I hadn't. Or at least, not enough.

So the message for me - and maybe for you as well - is that I really do need to talk about the things that are going on in my life. Not just the good stuff, or the exciting stuff.

But the shitty stuff too.

The things that pain my heart deserve to be spoken, and I deserve to heal.

I am one of the truly lucky ones. I mean that. I am really, really fortunate.

My dark cloud lifted, and it did so very quickly. If I had to guess, I would say that I truly suffered for no more than 8 weeks.

I came away from the experience with a deeper understanding of depression, and a much greater understanding of how debilitating it is.

I also came away from the experience reminded of something: it is vital, for my well being, that I try to remain grateful every day of my life. And when I feel like things are going shitty, if I simply remember how grateful I am that I did not have to use today, the shittyness seems less significant.

If you, or someone you love suffers from depression please reach out and speak to someone. As the saying goes, the life you save just may be your own.

Peace,

From There to Here

As I mentioned in the previous post, 2016 brought with it a really good riding season for me.

I explored a lot of familiar territory in Frontenac, Lanark and Renfrew counties and I also explored some new areas in western Quebec.

I even took it a step further and explored the most remote regions of an entirely different country.

On an entirely different continent.

I suffered the usual mishaps: lots of low-to-no speed ‘offs’ (this is what we like to call it when we drop our bikes while moving at less than 10 kilometers an hour.)

The most impressive of those was an evening ice-cream stop in the Byward Market with Ryan. We decided to hooligan-park up on the sidewalk beside the Beavertail shack and I promptly dropped Betty to the sidewalk while hopping the curb. My pride wasn’t too sorely injured though – there were only about a hundred onlookers, hahahaha...

Of course the most dramatic of my mishaps occurred on the above-referenced out-of-country adventure.

Myself and 5 other riders met in Quito, Ecuador to take part in one of the incredible adventure-riding packages offered by Ecuador Freedombike rentals.

On day 3 of a 6 day ride I sent my DR650 into a low-side slide at approximately 50 or 60 km/h, which ended in a spectacular high-side and me flying through the Ecuadorian rain forest like a howler monkey.

The bike took a bit of damage. I took a bit of damage. The adventure continued.

You can read all about that trip, and see some pretty great photos here if you wish.

I took part in the Fundy Adventure Rally for the second year in a row. (and broke my 3^rd rib of the season)

I went to the Horizons Unlimited Ontario event and was given the opportunity to present on my Trans-Lab adventure of the year before.

I traveled to the most remote regions of northern and eastern Quebec, completing one of the most iconic motorcycle adventure rides on the North American continent – the Trans Taiga.

I dipped Big Ethel into the frigid waters of James Bay.

I mean, it was a really great season.

I intend to highlight some of last season’s adventures over the next few posts, but I also want to highlight some of the other bits of life that have happened since August of 2015.

After all, it isn’t all rainbows and puppy dogs. Or motorcycles and good times.

For now, know that I am happy here, behind the keys, sharing some of my life with you. I am learning more and more that it is not what we have, but what we give away – or share – that matters most.

You have the luxury of deciding to stop reading whenever the thought occurs.

I have the luxury of having lived, and enjoying the catharsis of writing.

I have had a wonderful day today, and my hope is that you have as well.

Peace.

Living with a Local...

I got up early Sunday morning, had a wonderfully hot shower and some breakfast, and then sent a text to Jeff to let him know that I was on my way over to Murph's house (or damurph, as he is known on ADV Rider)

Upon arriving I found myself thinking "I shoulda just stayed last night..." damurph is one of those  characters that you immediately feel that you have known for years.

His first words to me - before we had even properly met - as I knocked on his door were "we don't knock ona doors 'round here. Only bill collectors are knockin' ona doors, an' we don't wanna talk to 'em, so don't knock ona door - just come on in bye"

I liked this guy right from the get-go!

Dave, as I came to find out, is a bit of a local personality and somewhat of an ambassador to motorcycle adventure travelers.

He opens his house, and his province to motorcycle riders who have made St. John's, Newfoundland, one of the stops on their adventure.

Dave likely knows more about Newfoundland and it's history than any other islander. I can only hope that the teachers in Newfoundlands public school system know a portion of what Dave knows. It is a province full to overflowing with incredible history and lore, pain and hardship, joy and life, and I would like to think that the stories that we heard will continue to be told for many generations yet to come...

Dave has an ability to tell you a tale that is packed with information and engagingly humorous enough to keep you wanting to hear more.

From the resettlement of dozens of communities during the 1950's and 1960's, such as Long Beach, La Manche, Spout Cove and Deep Harbor, where entire fishing villages were either moved or abandoned when the government decided that services would no longer be provided to these 'outposts' - to the idea of community and togetherness that is so prevalent here (and so often lacking elsewhere in Canada, now that I have seen firsthand what community really means) - Dave filled us with the history of the province that he so clearly loves.

He also took us on a tour of the Avalon Peninsula, giving us a true taste of east coast life, and livelihood that we would likely never have experienced on our own.

                                                             The lighthouse at Fort Amherst

                                                                   Battery at Signal Hill

                                                             St. John's harbor from Signal Hill

                                                                              Iceberg!

                                                                                             A rugged coastline

                                                             damurph with Jeff and Michael on the East Coast Trail

                                                                                      Yours truly at Cape Spear

                                                                                             Petty Harbor

Each stop at a cove or a harbor or a bight found us learning about the history of a particular community - and believe  me, there is a history to each of them.

Dave's knowledge of local lore may be exceeded only by his kind heart, but this subject has been covered by many an adventure rider before me. Damurph has been opening his home up to travelers for years and years, so I will not go on and on - but I will say this:

It is people like Dave that keep people like me and my riding companions seeking out new adventures. Our tour today brought an awareness - and will provide memories - that I will cherish for the rest of my days.

Maybe, if I am lucky I will be able to fashion some of what I learned into my own life, and way of living. That would be a wonderful thing, in my opinion.

Thank you Dave. I will be back, my good man.

Up next - Oil changes, Gander and Dildo Run

Off the Beaten Path...

Stephenville was an interesting stop along our journey - due to both the physical landscape of the area as well as our first real clash of personalities.

Michael and I had a minor row, pissed each other off, and that was pretty much that.

In the morning, we quickly touched back on the subject, agreed to try not to actively push each others buttons, and packed up our gear with a hand shake and a pat on the back.

For our first night camping, I have to say that it was somewhat less than ideal. I mean, we were camping in a parking lot, with no camp fire, and little to shield us from the 30-40 kmh winds blowing in off of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

                                                      Parking lot camping in Stephenville

The morning's ride would bring smiles to all of our faces.

We left Stephenville and rode highway 480 - the Caribou Trail -  east for about 49 kilometers before leaving the asphalt for a gravel forest road.

 This was the kind of riding that we had come to the island to do, and Big Ethel was just raring to go. I stayed with Mike and Jeff for about the first 15 kilometers, but the 45 kmh pace that they were setting just wasn't doing it for me, so I gave my right grip a twist and flew off down the trail, stopping whenever I lost sight of them in order to let them make up some ground. Big Ethel actually becomes more manageable in the bumpy, loose stuff when she is moving at speed - many riding companions have repeatedly drilled it into me that inertia is my friend in many off road situations, and this basically straight gravel and dirt forest trail was one of them.

Another benefit to my picking up the pace and racing ahead was that it allowed me the opportunity to get some candid shots of the lads.

I had an absolutely great time blasting down the trail, and by the time that we came to the end of the road, just past Red Indian Lake, we were getting ready to find something to eat. We followed Buchan's highway to Badger and stopped at a small mom and pop diner known as Helen's Restaurant and Motel. It was here that Mike decided to really become adventurous as he ordered the deep fried cod tongues for lunch.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Apparently no part of the fish is wasted here in Newfoundland, lol. They cut  the rather large tongue right out of the cod fish and serve it up, pan fried, deep fried, broiled, baked...you name it, they have a way to serve it.

                                                        Michael enjoying deep fried cod tongue

After lunch we headed back out on the TCH heading for St. John's.

It only got gloomier and colder the further east that we rode, and by the time that we were at Terra Nova we pulled over to put on another layer of gear.

I took this opportunity to put on my BMW Motorrad 1 piece rain gear for the first time...

...and discovered that it provides a wonderfully warm layer to my riding gear. I have not yet tested this banana suit out in the rain - that will likely come on Wednesday as the forecast is calling for rain right across the island.

After a long 455 kilometers of riding the slab, we finally arrived in St. John's at about 7:30 in the evening on Saturday night. Cold to the bone and every joint stiff, I was not feeling 100% up to par, and although we had lodgings provided to us by another ADV Rider member known as damurph (Dave) - I was not prepared to spent yet another night around a bunch of alcohol  - I needed a break from having it right in front of me every night - I opted to grab a hotel room downtown.

A night at the Delta Hotel, with a hot tub, a sauna and a swimming pool was exactly what I needed to get back in the groove.
I took a stroll down by the harbor, looking at all of the fishing vessels and enjoying the smells of the sea, as well as some of the liveliness of Water Street, before returning to the hotel and getting a wonderfully good night's sleep.

It felt good to be in St. John's - and I was really looking forward to tomorrow...

Up next - Living with a Local...

I'm getting a little excited...

The Epic East Coast and Trans-Lab Adventure is now less than 2 weeks away.

To say that I am getting excited is an understatement.

I have outfitted Big Ethel, my 2014 V Strom 1000, with some new gear – including the Shad ZuluPack waterproof soft-luggage and a Rotopax 1 gallon fuel can – and she is ready to go.

I will be writing an in-depth review of the Shad luggage as the 8,000 kilometer adventure progresses, and I just put it to use on a much smaller adventure this past weekend.

I attended the Horizons Unlimited Ontario 2015 Overland Travellers Meeting just outside of Orillia on Friday and Saturday. There were dozens of like-minded adventure riders in attendance, and we were able to sit and listen to – and learn from – some amazing individuals who have blazed new trails and shared their experiences with us. 

Chantal Cornoyer and Patrick Trahan are two incredible adventure seekers from Quebec who have been living their dreams to the fullest – and inspiring people like me – for years.

Suffice to say that this past weekend has watered some of the seeds that were planted in my brain when I began to research adventure travel on a motorcycle. Europe, Africa and South America will roll out beneath my tires one day...

But first – it will be Quebec, the Gaspe region, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, the Cabot Trail, Newfoundland, Gros Morne, L’Anse aux Meadow, Labrador, Happy Valley-Goose Bay, and so many places along the way....

I will do my very best to portray all that I see and experience – of that you can be sure.

I do hope that you come along for the ride...

Joe

It’s kind of like ‘Misery’, without the sledgehammer……

 

Those are the words that my sister wrote on the cast on my right leg.

Yes. I have been hobbled. And thankfully, that is just my sister’s sense of humour. Because she has been an absolute godsend through this ordeal.

I have to tell you that I have a new found respect and appreciation for anyone suffering a physical disability. Going from fully-abled to having lost the use of my legs – even if only temporary – is a jarring new reality.

The fact that I am able to make the best of it is less a testament to my nature and positive outlook, and more a reliance on the idea that this is in fact, only temporary.

I am not sure where my emotional and mental barometer would be had I lost both of my feet. But I am fairly certain that it would not have me eagerly tapping away on my laptop to furnish you with another post in my blog, feeding my ego and satisfying my urge to write in one fell swoop.

So. Let me try to incorporate a lesson into this, my own one-sided mental discourse with you, my readers.

The lesson that I am going to try to illuminate is one that I feel cannot be taught, spoken of or illustrated enough.

It is the importance, nay, the critical nature, of wearing all of the proper motorcycle gear all of the time.

I was missing one piece of gear when I had my accident. I was not wearing fully armoured leather riding pants. Not even leather chaps. In fact, I was wearing denim jeans. So, lets take a look at what I was, and was not wearing and examine the effects of my choices that morning.

On top of my noggin – brain pan – skull was my Bell Pit Boss helmet. A light-weight helmet designed and manufactured by an industry leading company, it cost about $150.00. .

Certainly not what you might refer to as expensive. And yes, I made the conscious choice to wear a 1/2 lid. DOT approved, this helmet did its job completely. My gray matter remained inside of my skull. In fact, I did not even suffer any bruising, let alone a concussion

On this occasion, circumstance allowed me to save face. Literally.

I will not test the fates in that fashion again, and going forward you will see me in a full face helmet only.

On my torso I was wearing my Scorpion Stinger EXO fully armoured leather motorcycle jacket. Weighing almost 12 kilos, it is anything but lightweight. There is armour in all of the critical locations, including a semi-rigid back plate.

I landed on the asphalt on my upper back / shoulders after colliding broadside with a car at 70 km/h.

My Bell helmet and my Scorpion jacket took all of the impact with the asphalt.

And as I lay here writing this, I want you to know this: the very first thought to go through my head immediately after my body came to rest on the asphalt was – ‘wow, that could have been a lot worse’.

I suffered no bruising to my back or shoulders whatsoever. No concussion. No tenderness to my skull or scalp.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Almost as though I had not been in an accident at all.

As already mentioned, on my legs I was wearing a pair of Jeans. Solid, heavy-weight Levis, but jeans nonetheless.

The left leg of my pants was sliced from knee to shin (as was my left leg) by the top, trailing edge of my windshield.

That is why, dear reader, I will be wearing chaps of fully armoured leather riding pants in the future.

On my feet I was wearing my 3 year old pair of Exustar model E-SBT 120W motorcycle boots. They come about 1/2 way up to my knee, are rigid and very snug. They feel a lot like a downhill ski boot when they are on, which is the way they are designed.

They keep everything in place. So although I suffered multiple fractures in my ankles, there were no green-stick breaks; no torsion breaks; no ligament damage; so ‘shattered’ bones. Just a few clean, aligned fractures that were the result of my ankles hitting my handle-bars at 70 km/h.

Had I been wearing street shoes, or even ankle-high riding boots, I could very well have lost both feet.

I imagine shifting without a left foot is challenging. As challenging as using the back brake pedal without a right foot.

I will wear these boots again. And my next pair of riding boots will be of a similar height, weight and design. No question.

Finally, on my hands I was wearing my fully armoured leather Z1-R Reaper motorcycle gloves. They are far from expensive at only $28.00 / pair, and I admit that after about 18,000 kilometers of riding the stitching was starting to let go on the tip of the thumbs – but they have solid armour on all knuckles and pretty heavy padding on the palms. And in the case of my accident, my hands suffered not even a scratch.

 

I have been guilty, in the past, of riding a short distance in my Nike’s. And only a T-shirt on my torso.

I have taken my jacket off in 30 + degree temperatures and stowed it in my saddle bags while riding through the Laurentians, or down Tatlock road.

I will not do so again.

And I urge you…no, I implore you – please, do not sacrifice safety for comfort. Or worse, for the ‘cool’ factor.

On hot days, if fully armoured leather is just too much for you, then spend a little extra money on a high-quality (and Hi-Viz) convertible, armoured nylon riding jacket.

Joe Rocket, Tour Master, Spartan, Icon, AGV, and Scorpion are just a few of the companies that make a superior product that will help to keep your skin where it belongs – on your body.

The decision to wear tight-fitting, armoured, below-the-knee riding boots is as easy as deciding if you enjoy walking.

We are a class of people who have discovered that we are truly at peace, and truly happy, while pursuing one of the most inherently dangerous forms of self-expression out there. We ride motorcycles. It is in our genes. It is in our blood. It is in our souls.

In this area, we have a single obligation to ourselves, and to our loved ones. To pursue that passion as safely as we can.

Get out there and ride!

Peace.

And just like that, the season is over…

The 2014 motorcycle season got off to a pretty slow start in the Ottawa area. As a matter of fact the first real adventure of the season had been thought out, planned, arranged and organized long before the weather allowed for it to happen. The May long weekend found 5 of us from the Ottawa chapter of the CMC riding to Sudbury to meet up with a couple of members from the London chapter as well as a big chunk of the Sudbury chapter for a ride to and through Manitoulin Island.
The weather on the Friday morning of our departure was cold and rainy, but the conditions improved as the weekend wore on, and before all was said and done we had put 2,100 kilometers behind us and had enjoyed some truly incredible riding.
Manitoulin Island is a riding destination all unto itself, but if you are going to go, leave a little time in your schedule. Because you are going to want to ride highway 6 from Espanola to Little Current more than once. And if you are coming from the east and really want to get as much amazing-riding-bang-for-your-buck as possible then leave time for a little detour on your way home. The Temiskaming Loop is a top-rated motorcycle adventure tour and the scenery is absolutely breathtaking. Though it is approximately a 450 kilometer detour, it is worth every minute of the ride.

Manitoulin Adventure pics here

Alex and I also made another little detour that is now ranked right near the top of my ‘must-ride’ list. Instead of riding straight home from North Bay on Monday morning, we opted to go to Ottawa via Huntsville. Yes, another little detour. I had never been through the Muskoka region before and I now have a much better understanding as to what all the hoopla about this ‘cottage-country’ is all about. Wow. Highway 141 is just gorgeous and it leads you to a little gem of a road – probably the most technical I have ridden in Ontario – known as Peninsula Road, or highway 632. Alex and I rode her length 4 times and I cannot wait to ride her again.
Ride her again. I guess that brings us to the meat and gist of this post. And the reason for such a slamming-of-the-door-title.
You see, I am tapping out this post on the keyboard of my laptop from a retirement residence. While lying in a hospital bed. With 2 broken ankles.
Let me set the stage.
Sunday, May 25, 2014. 26 degrees Celsius and crystal clear with a warm breeze blowing. I put on all of my gear and hit the road at about noon, figuring I would ride to Lancaster to see my buddy Derek and maybe get a ride in his awesome ‘71 Z28, and then head up highway 2 towards Cornwall to see my older brother.
I left my place and immediately decided that it was a zero-slab day, meaning I was not going to ride any 400 series highways at all. The weather was just too nice – the day too perfect – to waste it on a 4 lane expressway.
So, I decided to follow the Vanier Parkway until it became River road and continue along that way until I hit highway 43. Then I would turn left, heading east and ride all the way to Apple Hill where I would grab county road 20 to county road 18 and ride to St. Raphaels, On, eventually turning right on highway 34 and heading south into the town of Lancaster. The town that I grew up in.
Well, needless to say, I never made it that far.
Having just cruised through Manotick – or alongside it would be more accurate I guess, since I was on River Road south – I remember looking at my watch and thinking that I would be in Lancaster between 3:00 and 3:30pm. It was 1:33 and I was just passing Kelly’s Landing.
The ride was beautiful and my soul was singing. I am truly never happier than I am when I am out on my machine, living my life on two wheels.
My grin faded and rapidly twisted into shock and then momentary terror, followed by resignation and acceptance when the car that had been stopped in the oncoming north-bound lane, without hesitation turned left immediately in front of me. Directly across my lane and into my path of travel.
I was traveling at approximately 70 km/h when she turned no more that 25 feet in front of me.
In the instant that I was allowed, every nuance from every motorcycle accident preparedness video that I have watched came into action. I did not think. I actually do not believe that I even reacted. I merely acted, and did the only thing that I had been taught that I can do. I held my course. Kept the bike upright. Shifted my seating angle to a positive upright position and grabbed as much front brake as I could.
The front end dove under braking. The back end got really light. And I just went for the ride.
It was over almost – but not quite – before I knew what was happening.
I was ejected from the saddle. Up and forward, over the handle bars. The inertia of my body mass traveling at 70 km/h arguing with the impact of 500-plus pounds of motorcycle coming to an abrupt halt after colliding with 2530 pounds of compact car.
My ankles lost the argument. As my body was thrown up and forward, my ankles smacked the handlebars of my motorcycle. Throwing me into a forward summersault which had the desirable effect of causing me to land on my upper back, shoulders – and helmet.
I say desirable because I al pretty sure that had I continued in my up-and-forward 70 km/h trajectory I very likely would not be typing this right now. Shattered wrists. Broken knees. Exploded elbows. And a face-full of asphalt would have been the likely end results.
Instead, I have 2 broken ankles. And while certainly anything but fun, and not without a degree of pain unlike any I have experienced before, I consider myself a very, very lucky man.
It could have been so very much worse.
I am recuperating. A day at a time. And have much more to say and to tell you. But at the moment I am tired. And with nothing but time on my hands for the foreseeable future, I do not think I am being remiss by ending this one here for tonight.
Some pictures from an album aptly titled “The Accident” are here

It’s been awhile…

I have been away for quite sometime.

Hmmmm…

There was a time when that meant one thing, and one thing only.

Thankfully, that is no longer the case. Being arrested, locked up, in custody, in jail, going to court, facing remand, pleading my case….

All things that I remember well. And I remain grateful that today, they are not part of my life.

I am also grateful – believe it or not – that they once were a part of my daily existence. The chaos. The uncertainty. The unbelievable amounts of stress. The pain, and heartache. The darkness.

For they all helped to bring me to where I am today. To shape the man that I am now, and the man that I will become tomorrow. To provide perspective. Contrast. Point of view.

I am looking out of the window of my apartment in Vanier, lamenting the mid-March blizzard that has befallen us. Pining for the warmer weather, the melting of the snow, the cleansing rains of spring – all so that I may once again climb into the saddle of my iron steed and commence yet another season of travels, explorations and discoveries.

God I miss my bike.

Yet neither of these two facets of my life are what brought me back to the keyboard.

No. What brought me back to writing this blog is love.

And my absolute joy about being free to accept it. And to give it. To feel it, and acknowledge it. To learn of it, and grow with it.

Susie brought me back to you, my friends and fellow travelers.

You remember Susie. I introduced you to her on May 30 of 2012, just as I was preparing to head off on my Epic Motorcycle Adventure to the Rockies.

During that trip out west, I made a lot of discoveries. About myself and my life. About travelling the open road. About how infinitesimally small we are in the great big scheme of things. About the things that are important to me. About what friendship means to me.

And it was on that trip that I came to realize that I loved this woman.

Susie underwent 39 chemotherapy sessions between May of 2012 and December of 2013.

In December she was told that the chemo was no longer working.

This is the type of news that can, and often does precede the quick downturn and eventual death of stage 4 cancer victims.

Thankfully, Susie has never considered herself a victim. Nor have any of those who surrounded her and buoyed her through these last 2 years.

Susie and I became very close during this time. I expressed my love, Susie smiled and gave me the ‘I am flattered, but…’, and a friendship began to blossom that is quite unlike any that I have had before.
There is a great amount of information available espousing the undeniable benefits of laughter. And the healing power of love.

Susie and I have shared an inordinate amount of time engaged in belly-clenching, tears-streaming, gut-rolling laughter. And she has been surrounded by love every day. From her parents, her brothers and sister, her cousins, her boyfriend, her aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews – just an incredible number of people took the time to make sure that she knew – and knows – that she is loved.

On Friday, February 28, 2014 Susie underwent 9 hours of surgery.

Surgery that at least one surgeon tried to talk her out of. Because it was, in that surgeon’s words – a waste of time. Because Susie was certain to be filled with cancer – both old and new. According to the surgeon.
We protested. We invited the surgeon to consider quality of life aspects that may have been overlooked.

Having been told that chemo was no longer working, quality of life was Susie’s focus.

Several weeks and 9 hours of surgery later, that same surgeon came to address the family members who were present, as well as Susie’s boyfriend Mike and myself.

And the surgeon looked at each of us. Smiled. And said “it is really quite a miracle, actually.”

It seems that they found no disease, only scar tissue.

Susie’s stage 4 colon cancer – which at one point had metastasized and spread to her lung, liver, abdomen, lymph nodes and ovary – was no where to be seen.

Through 39 chemotherapy sessions this woman kept telling everyone that she was going to be fine.
Through more than half a dozen CT scans. Countless blood tests. Twice weekly visits to the Ottawa Integrative Cancer Center. Hair loss. Weight gain. The never-quite-gone looming darkness and fear of the disease.

Through all of it Susie kept her smile. Shared her laughter. Loved and received love.
There is an undeniable and incredible healing power that comes from within all of us and that is all of us. It is the one thing that can connect us to all that is and all that ever was. For thousands of years we have tried to ascribe ethereal identities and nomenclature to it. We have written rules to be abided by and oaths to be given. We have taught and been taught that it is a power to be deigned upon the deserving. The worthy. The righteous.

It is the power of love.

It is free. Just open your heart.

I discovered on my trip out west in 2012 that I was capable of loving another person as I do myself.
The greatest gift that I have ever received.

Matched very recently by a team of surgeons who said “she is doing great. It looks like she is going to be fine”

“I have always known in my heart that I was going to be okay” Susie said just the other day.

None of us is certain of what tomorrow holds. But today brought the promise of a tomorrow.
That is more than enough.

You are undeniably the strongest person that I have ever met Susie.
I love you. And am so very grateful to have you in my life.
Joe E.

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...

“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.