Road Madness
“The time has come to travel while the oatmeal-eaters tarry at their fort. To this end, I have chosen a train of stout dogs to pull a toboggan of trade goods. We are eager to proceed and the dogs are baying at their tethers.”
Alexander Henry, Cumberland House, Manitoba, 1797
Background Phase: Alexander had it right, I think. In your life you either get out on the road as often as you can or you hang around your own personal fort, staring at the inside walls and eating porridge ‘cause they say you'll live longer.
Since entering my near-dotage, I have gotten in the habit of taking my motorcycle on yearly trips to remote Canadian locations. Last fall, for example, I decided to sample the highly-acclaimed and private James Bay Road which had been built by Quebec Hydro to service its networks of hydroelectric dams in northern Quebec.
The road had acquired cult status on some motorcycle newsgroups and, according to internet legend, was a 600 kilometre (360 mile) curvy masterpiece that was well-paved and had neither speed limits nor police presence. It also had only one gas station at the halfway point.
I nipped up there from my Ottawa home and managed a multi-day blitz at speeds that would melt a police radar camera. I saw but a handful of vehicles during my stint and, surprisingly, managed to destroy neither my bike nor my own, 55 year-old, chick-magnet bod, although there were a few scares along the way.
After this tour, it took me several months to get my pulse rate back under control, for the occasional spooky flashback to pass, and for the idiotic grimace-grin to be wiped from my face. It wasn’t until late in the trip that some local Cree Indian guys told me that the rumours of no cops/no speed limits were patently untrue, meaning that I was regularly 100 kph (60 mph) or so over the limit, making me subject to immediate arrest and transportation to Syria.
Well, no use crying over spilled milk, it was time to figure out this year’s run. Naturally, it would have to up the ante over last year’s in terms of stupidity and discomfort.
First, however, some background. I belong to a small group of motorcyclists who are not attracted to group tours on massively comfortable 2-wheeled winnebagos. Instead we do what is called “sports touring”, which is code for riding powerful motorcycles for long distances at illegal speeds in a semi-constant state of alarm and discomfort. While this sounds like good challenging fun, it actually carries with it an unstated entry fee which will be redeemed instantly upon even the slightest mechanical failure or error in road judgement.
Like many of the guys in our group I have fallen multiple times, torn chunks from my appendages and been a dependable customer at the fracture clinic at several hospitals. My worst mishap, which was actually bicycle-related, resulted in a spiral fracture of my left leg that also severed all the connecting ligaments, leaving my shifting foot pointing at a 90 degree angle from where it usually aims. The fact that this happened in a remote location permitted me a good period of time to reflect upon my misbegotten ways before I was rescued by someone that happened by. Ironically, they were lost and looking for directions (which they got).
My current ride is a Kawasaki Concours which can do the deed with the best of them and has a theoretical top speed of about 290 kilometres per hour (175 mph). The Concours is perky and can accelerate from a stop to 100 kph (60 mph) in just over three seconds, which is about the time it took you to read the first half of this sentence. It can bring serious trouble in the blink of an eye if you are not constantly vigilant, and the thought of mixing this brahma bull with booze and/or dope is spooky indeed. Those must be done separately, for the sheer aesthetic pleasure.
The Concours can behave like a droning, boring motorhome when in 4-lane, superslab mode (aka the interstate) or like a giant, ripping chainsaw when you crank it up in the “twisties”. It comes stock with 108 horsepower, has hard saddlebags which each can carry 24 beer, has a zero-maintenance shaft drive and features a massive 27 litre fuel tank. Ironically, it looks a bit staid and conservative, which helps immeasurably when discussing matters with the local constabulary or otherwise trying to pretend it wasn’t you that just did THAT.
I had previously ridden across Canada, done Quebec and the Maritimes several times and knew most of Ontario like the back of my throttle hand. Unfortunately, there had been a mix-up some years back with the police services community and, in the aftermath of 9/11, it seemed that attempting to cajole my way past a computer-equipped and armed USA border station might not be in the best interests of either party.
This left The North.
True, I had friends in Whitehorse, Yukon, but I’d already been up the Alaska Highway during a misspent and flower-powered youth. By process of elimination, Yellowknife, North West Territories was determined to be a worthy destination and I set out doing a ride-feasibility study.
I tend toward things impulsive, so my analysis was concluded in less than 5 minutes when I confirmed that the highway north through Alberta and to the highly-touted Wild Cat Café in Yellowknife was indeed finally paved all the way. Caution was thrown to the wind and I began to pronounce my decision to all within listening range.
This included the Concours Owners Group (COG) which is an internet community of about 2,200 lost souls who seem to have no other purpose in life than to ride (usually quickly), to wrench their steeds, to exchange pleasantries and technical tidbits on-line or at rallies, and generally to carouse and create mayhem as best they can.
It was probable that I would encounter trouble on this trip and it was sorta comforting to know that there were at least a handful of loonies scattered about the continent who, quite possibly, could be implored to drop temporarily out of their lives in order to race a few thousand miles to help me trace an electrical fault, or fix a blown shock or drag Connie out from under a Wood Bison (more on that one later). In fact, they would probably like it.
Upon reflection however, I realised that the round trip would be about 12,000 kilometres (7,000 miles) from Ottawa, that I would spend about $800 on gas during some 40 fill-ups and that, even if I didn’t ride like I stole it (unlikely), I would still need a fresh set of costly tires partway through the trip. I suppressed any thoughts that dealt with how my battered and historically-fractured carcass would deal with such punishment. The brain was another story but that could be quelled by nightly dollops of Polish Zabruvka (Big Buffalo) vodka around the fire.
Or so I thought.
These matters began to pale a bit, however, when my research began to raise other…issues. One resulted from reading a news release about the “bear problem” in the north and hearing from a riding friend how his BMW motorcycle had been attacked by 2 grizzlies at a stop on the Alaska Highway a few weeks before. Here’s a clip from the NWT government’s website.
If a Bear Charges
A bear charges at high speed on all four legs. Many charges are bluffs. Bears often stop or veer to the side at the last minute. However, if contact appears unavoidable, you have three options: shoot to kill if you have a gun; play dead if you are attacked by a grizzly; or fight back if attacked by a black bear.
Shooting a Bear: The right moment to squeeze the trigger depends on your nerve, experience with a firearm, and how fast the bear is approaching. The decision can be made only by the person facing the bear, and must be made quickly.
An accurate shot fired at close range has a greater chance of killing a bear than one fired from farther away. The first shot is the most important. If you must kill a bear, aim for the shoulder if the bear is broadside, or the back of the neck between the shoulders if the bear is facing you. Avoid head shots - they often do not kill a bear. Do not stop to check the results of your shot. Keep firing until the bear is still. Try to kill the bear cleanly and quickly - a wounded bear is very dangerous.
Playing Dead: Playing dead may prevent serious injury if you are attacked by a grizzly bear. Do not play dead during a black bear attack or if a grizzly bear is treating you as prey. Playing dead will help protect your vital areas, and the bear may leave if you appear harmless+.
There are two recommended positions: lie on your side, curled into a ball, legs drawn tightly to your chest, hands clasped behind your neck; lie flat on the ground, face down, fingers intertwined behind your neck. Stay in these positions even if moved. Do not resist or struggle - it may intensify the attack. Look around cautiously, and be sure the bear is gone before moving.
Fighting Back: If a black bear attacks you or a grizzly bear shows signs that it considers you prey, and you do not have a firearm, do not play dead. Act aggressively. Defend yourself with whatever means are available. You want to appear dominant and frighten the bear. Jump up and down, shout, and wave your arms. It may help to raise your jacket or pack to make you look bigger.
Well.
I had been running a grudge against the bear population since that time at my brother’s camp a few years back when I had accidentally confronted a big one on the porch. It was the middle of the night and my Lab had been making a racket that I assumed was aimed at his arch-enemy, the beaver.
I needed to pee anyways, so up I lurched, popped open the cabin door and saw a monster staring in at me through the screen door. I’m not sure who was more startled, as my dog roared, the bear took off with a lunge that I could feel through the flooring and I jumped back into the cabin with a shriek that would have qualified me for lead soprano in Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkries”.
I ran into two more of them a few weeks later but this time I had the shotgun which I used with great drama to scare them up the hillside just north of the cabin. Dog Dude meanwhile ran about in great circles looking for geese. Since that time I had been bear-wary and took particular morbid interest in reading the periodic news reports of bear attacks, maulings and other assorted urso-horrors.
When I went through the NWT advisory a second time I rapidly homed in on what was needed. Riding with weapons wasn’t in the cards because, after all, I am a peaceful Canadian. This left the “playing dead” and “fighting back” ploys to figure out and maybe rehearse. I knew I had an ace up my sleeve on the former, due to years of government training and experience (“lie on your side and curl up in a ball”), but the latter left me in a bit of a quandary.
Ordinarily I would use one of my brothers for bear fighting practice (taking role turns just to be fair) but they both lived several hours away and I would need something regular if I wanted to work myself into a fighting peak before I left. Also, I wanted to avoid injury and those two would probably get into the swing of things when it was their turn to be “The Grizzly”.
I decided instead to spend as much time as I could harassing staff at work in hope of acclimatising myself should The Moment ever arise (“…jump up and down, shout and wave your arms.”). This way I would not be caught unprepared.
Preparation Phase: One of the nice things about being a guy is that you don’t really give a crap what you look like when you’re travelling. As such, packing was a relatively simple exercise that was light on the fashion apparel but heavy on the tools, books and beer.
Meanwhile, my route planning was shallow and cavalier as is my practice. A mere 1,000 kilometres a day for 12 straight days should get me there and back, I mused. And in true intrepid fashion I eschewed musical or radio accompaniment in favour of some foam ear plugs whose muffled drone should help with the Inner Dialogue.
These decisions proved to be ill-thought-out.
Starting Point - Ottawa, ON
N 45.19 degrees
W 75.40
degrees
Elevation 381 feet
Odometer 43,651 km
The final sleep is finished and the big day is here. One final
run through the checklist just to make sure I had almost
everything:
1. final desperation
pee? Completed.
2. drop an
aspirin and a hard candy? Yes indeedee, peach to be exact.
3.
hop on Connie and adjust “the boys”? Affirmative - gear up!
4. balaclava, armoured jacket,
gauntlets, ear plugs, helmet, sunglasses? Yip!
5.
gobble down a few more handfuls of chocolate-covered coffee beans to
bring on the right snarl! Chomp chomp.
6.
quick digital shot for the coroner? Click.
7.
final peek around since you may never be back? Dramatic staredown
with 6 year old neighbour.
8. fire
up the big sireeeen and roll out!
Day One – Ottawa to Lake Superior Provincial Park (Agawa Bay)
Odometer
44,584
Agawa
Bay Elevation = 614'
N 47.19 degrees
W
84.36 degrees
Day one started poorly.
The first incident happened just outside Mattawa, Ontario, on the first day of my mission and in my mind anyways, it constituted a gross abuse of power.
I had pulled off the Trans-Canada a few moments before for an emergency leak up some old logging road. With the transaction completed to the satisfaction of the pee-ee and various crows, I manhandled Connie around on the gravel, pulled up to the intersection, signalled dutifully and proceeded to merge lawfully with oncoming traffic.
Years before, I had noted a weak spot in the Ontario Highway Traffic Act as it pertains to vehicle acceleration rates. Simply put, the Act is silent on this matter (as my legal friends would say), which I took as offering me, at all times, the unfettered ability, nay, duty, to rip off from every standing start at the most horrifying rate I can manage, speed-shifting as I hit redline in each gear, and then suddenly lock up everything when I close on the speed limit. It should be noted here that the posted speed limit and my own personal, professional riding limit differ by about 40-60 kph (25-35 mph) depending on how frisky I feel.
In this case I had barely gotten into third gear when I was startled to see flashing red and blue strobe lights ahead and in the oncoming lane. Sensing an oncoming emergency vehicle I pulled to the far right of my lane to facilitate his passing, but he was having none of it. He squealed his Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) car to a halt and pointed directly at my face. He looked concerned and I couldn't figure out why. Maybe he was on the way to a domestic and got lost. Maybe he had pulled me over to ask directions. Hmmmm, maybe not.
Constable Mitchell: [blank stare] “Know how fast you were going?”
Idiot Rider: [helpless look] “umm…not sure…just...ummm…getting out of…..second gear….”
Constable
Mitchell: [more blank] “You were going 129 kph. That’s 49 over.”
Idiot:
[suckface look] “jeeeeeezz…I definitely…ummm…shouldn’t
have... ummm… done…that…that was… wrong.”
Constable Mitchell: [staring] “The fine for that is $295 and you lose 4 points. Plus your insurance company will be notified.”
Idiot: [sudden fear of The Insurance Lady who ranks right up there with The Librarian on The Scared Index] “jeeeeezzzz !!...ummmmm …..jeeeeeez!….”
Constable Mitchell: [struts back to patrol car]
Reflective Rider: [squints into mirror big time] “Shitballs, shitballs, SHITBALLS! I am COOKED!!!... and this is just the first morning. Aieeee caramba tabernaKOLA!!!!”
[endless wait under hot sun]
Constable Mitchell: [eventually returns] “I’m letting you off with 25 over – no points. Slow down or you’re going to kill yourself”
Recovering Rider: [1/2 contrite, 1/2 smug] “That’s nothing! Ummm….I mean…umm... thanks…man.”
I wait for him to pull away and go bust some other poor sucker and then digest what has happened. I realise I possibly am fully fucked, for if I return to my terrible ways (and I would) then the tickets would mount, and there would be no slacking off when the successive lawmen and women realised that I could not stop myself. Maybe they would need to Tazer me a few times so I would get the message… and that’s when the trouble would start.
Mulling these ideas over, I check to see that Constable Mitchell had
left in the other direction and then powered Connie up in Revenge
Acceleration Mode. Yes, shake this premature horror by blasting away
as fast as Connie could rip. Like the Honda song on fast forward we
tore…”first gear it’s all right, second gear, hold on tight,
third gear, get it…”
ANOTHER COP!!!!
Heart-pounding, panic-breaking, howling-tire, smoking-fork-bottoming mother-of-all- filthy-pigdogging-mothers-of-sows it was ANOTHER of the buggers and YES, I was just at that instant hitting the same spot that Mitchell didn’t like one bit. Nail the speed limit and watch time stand still. Closer, closer, yet closer he came, but in slow motion. Watch his hand, watch his lights…no eye contact…no eye contact…pray…
Sweet Jehovah I can’t bear it. Yes…we passed…now laser squint into the mirrors. Is he turning???? Is he turning???? No…no…no…NO! Thank the Big Biker in the Sky for that one!
As the pulse slows slightly the big Connie gets back into the grove and starts to strain at the reins. Let her rip a bit and…CHRISTLY HELL…ANOTHER ONE!!!! I’m going to SUE!!!!! Another blast of massive panic braking and then the slow motion endurance wait and YES…you squeak through yet again!!
As the heart went back into its socket my mind raced. Maybe they were just playing with me and howling with laughter into their mikes as I passed each in succession. I doubted there were even 3 OPP cars in the entire area, let alone on the outskirts of downtown Mattawa, Ontario (population 2,538).
Turns out I was about 2 miles from the town limits when the whole stroke-thumping cavalcade went by. I needed gas so I pulled into “Gauthier Garage”, I also needed to take another leak, but that just wasn’t going to happen until I got out of this OPP beehive and was once more with police who acted in a reasonable manner or better still, stayed in the donut shop. Sheeesh.
Mister Gauthier himself aided me at the pumps and as I pulled off my helmet he started to chat:
Gauthier: [neat French accent] “Ca va bien?”. (howz it going eh?)
Idiot Rider: “Not great, I just got nailed for speeding”
Gauthier: [smiling] “Bahn” (“Yeah, I know?”.
Idiot: [staring] “...What do you mean, it just happened like 1 minute ago?”
Gauthier: [gazing across the lot at rusty pickup truck] “Oh, Robaire was following you and saw you get pulled over. How fast were you going?”.
Idiot: [murmers] “129”
Gauthier: [shouts to Robert and unidentified passengers in truck] “129!”.
From Inside Truck: “Aaaiiiieeeee!!!!!!!”
Idiot Rider: [louder] “But he knocked it down to 105”
Gauthier: [2nd shout to truck] “He knocked it down [dramatic pause] 105!!!!!”.
From Inside Truck: “Mmmmm!!!!!!!” [smiling eye contact with Robert]
Gauthier: [confidentially] “That was Chris Mitchell that got you. He used to play junior hockey for us but then moved to North Bay. One of Bobby Mitchell’s kids. He’s a good boy”.
Idiot: [staring protest voice] “What about those other 2 cars? Is that normal for you guys to have 3 cops in town?!?”
Gauthier: [shocked] “Where have you been man? This is Friday of the long weekend and the OPP have been announcing Operation Full Force for about a week. Zero Tolerance! Zero Tolerance!!”
I left on that note, bewildered and set back in only my first morning. How could I ever be comfortable over the next 2 weeks knowing that the resumption of further speeding patterns (and resumptions there definitely would be) had the potential to draw compounding speeding tickets and points losses? My throttle hand started to shake and cramp under the stress.
I plotted, I pondered, my brain hurt, but then I came up with the biggee. I would simply drop into OPP Headquarters in North Bay (it was on my route) and see if they had some sort of exemption program for veteran, high-speed riders who clearly should be permitted to ride at whatever speed they deem, in their professional and superior opinion, to be appropriate for the circumstances! I had a lifetime of forms completion under my belt and I knew with certainty I could fire up a rationale piece replete with documentation and testimonials that would make a police superintendent weep.
In the interim, I placed my summons in the left inside breast pocket of my riding jacket, covering my wallet and driver's licence. I posed that this would shield the swipe strip on my licence card, rendering further police radar attacks inoperable much in the way that a western sherriff's badge would often stop a heart-bound bullet. I liked this image and immediately resumed my personal riding speed, warm in the belief that my ticket/talisman would preclude any further rude interruptions to my mission. The hell with wasting time on the exemption angle.
With that settled I got back into the groove. The Ottawa Valley is a cool riding place and the Trans-Canada highway sweeps you north, following the river to its source up beyond Mattawa. Lots of mixed forests, rivers, lakes and outcroppings of the Canadian Shield, a massive pre-cambrian granite semi-circle that wraps around Hudson Bay and covers about 2 million square miles of bush and tundra.
Things go smoothly up the rest of the Valley (“Holy Liftin’!!”) and over to North Bay on the eastern shore of Lake Nipissing. Too much damn traffic and lights for my liking, but finally we get freed and scoot along over to Sault Saint Marie. Lovely vistas of Lake Huron accompany us on the south side as we drift through bush and the occasional hay field. Many police cars going the other way and I began to worry that the Mitchell family might have more than one cop amongst its membership. Maybe they had a ticket contest going and were on the lookout for guys going fast on bikes.
It wasn’t until 1960 that the 5,000 mile Trans-Canada highway was completed that connected eastern Canada (Ontario, Quebec and Down Home) with the west. It would appear that some rough patches of the existing 46 year-old road have survived, meaning that Connie was a'jumpin' and a'hoppin' on occasion.
The ride north from Soo to my camping spot was fabulous as there were no police cars even though I did get caught up in a bit of competition with 2 American Gold Wing loonies (of all things sacred!). They hung in for a while but then Connie put her head down and away we sparked. Overnight in Lake Superior Provincial Park at the Agawa Bay campground and enjoy the stunning power and beauty of this, the world's biggest inland ocean.
Day Two – Lake Superior Provincial Park to Great T’underin’
Bay (Lake Shebandewan)
Lake Shebandewan, ON
N 48.39 degrees
W 90.17
degrees
Elevation 725 feet
Odometer 45,245
God was on a roll when he did the north-of-Superior stuff. Magnificent granite cliffs, the scariest lake in the world, especially during the November gales (google Edmund Fitzgerald if you want some details), fine sand beaches, surf, and a wonderful twisty highway with continuing little in the way of a police presence.
Between Soo and Tee Bay there are 2 sections that God dedicated to fast bikes. The first runs about 150 miles(!) up from the start to Wawa (yes, stop and getcher picture taken with the giant goose) and the second goes for about the same distance, resuming at Marathon and continues up past Nipigon. The in between part is bare rock and dense bush punctuated by the occasional moose or bear and the wondrous town of White Lake which, at 62 below, wins the prize for being the coldest spot in Ontario. Best leave the winter tour for somebody else.
This day I enjoyed the segment yet another time and managed to make it a bit past Great T'underin' Bay (as the Newfs would say) and to the cottage of my good buddies Stew and Scapa – not their real names I think. In the north however, there is no such thing as cottage – the word “camp” is used instead. So stay on your toes or be forever branded as someone from “down east” (cursed Toronto), which in itself is not the “down east” used by Torontonians since, in that center of horror, it denotes one as being from the Atlantic provinces.
If there is a heaven then it must be very much like “camp”. Perched high on a hill overlooking a northern lake, hearing loons cry across the waters, seeing bald eagles soar overhead, seeing drunken people fish and pull out nice pickerel, hearing the cries of those emerging in a stunned fashion from the sauna (every camp in the north must have a sauna – this is based on the Finnish Compact that was negotiated when we brought gangs of them over after the war), pigging out on BBQ and beer, and going on the nightly booze cruise.
This latter tradition involves the use of pontoon boats and plenty of suds. In this case we also added “Jimmy”, a 4 month old, deranged goldie/lab cross that had 3 forward gears – chewing something to tatters; racing about and tumbling end-over-end; or, (wait for it) humping its favourite blanket for hours on end. I kid you not on the latter since we had a stellar, non-stop performance for the full-cruise. Talk about dedication!
The black rum went down well around the campfire and tales of hippie lore and excess were exchanged amidst cries of shock and astonishment. One advantage of frying your brain on a regular basis over the years is that you get to re-relish tales of addled heroism from yesteryear that previously were embedded in the brain cells that have since turned into grey ooze.
A deep, well-drugged rum-sleep and then, a few hours later, a lovely sauna and breakfast to get the day moving. Renewed cautions from Stew about moose on the highway and vague directions about how to find The Donkey Trail.
Day Three – Great T’underin’ Bay to Winnipeg, Manitoba
Winnipeg, MAN
N 47.51 degrees
W 97.02 degrees
Elevation 762 feet
Mileage 45,801
It seemed like I was only gone a few minutes from camp when I spied a great plaque on the roadside. As I pulled in to see what it said, several turkey vultures and a bald eagle leaped into the air from a feast they were having at the roadside ditch. As I passed I saw what appeared to be a freshly killed black bear, entrails glistening in a fast-rider-warning manner. Obviously somebody had had their early morning drive along this highway interrupted in an unforgettable way.
The roadside stop marked the Arctic Watershed. All waters north and west of this elevation somehow made their way thousands of miles up into Hudsons Bay or directly into the Arctic Ocean. I pondered this for a moment and then gave it a break. It was a bit too big for my brain that early in the morning.
I had taken the southern route towards the Ontario-Manitoba border, heading for Fort Frances where most people would head so they could then turn north to Kenora along the Lake of the Woods. I had a different plan however - one whose essence began some 26 years before.
I recall reading in the early 80's about a new highway that would be built to connect the southern route with the stinky town of Dryden up on the Trans-Canada highway. Essentially, the new highway was to connect no-where with no-where and the folly of the waste of tax dollars drew the ire of most of the population of north-western Ontario who annointed the road as “The Donkey Trail”. Well, maybe there was at least one purpose for this expenditure of millions of dollars. Maybe its sole purpose was to rest idle some 2 and ½ decades until a single, highspeed motorcyclist had a chance to sample its wares.
It took me a while to find the intersection but then we started to get on famously. Pretty-well zero traffic, a good surfaced roadway, oodles of ups and downs that would make an anaconda envious and one idiot ripping away and murmuring to himself with a Brit accent. Of course it took me well out of my way, but these sacrifices are needed when such a splendid opportunity presents itself. I actually had to back off at a few points in the ride due to Connie's increasing tendency to scrape her pegs. I stopped later in Dryden and banged a few pounds of air into the rear shock and things came around in good order after that.
The drone along the Trans-Canada was pretty bad. Truck traffic had increased enormously since I'd last been this way last and I found myself either slumping along at the speed limit(!) or scaring myself silly by passing several 18-wheelers at a time along the curves of the highway. It was a relief to get to the Manitoba border and its 4 lane divided highway.
I wasted zero time in cranking things back up and became mildly amused by how many people actually drove at the speed limit in this province. This amusement turned into concern when I started to pass sports-bikes droning along at 100 kph on the button. Man, these people are real wimps up here, I remembered thinking to myself. Some actually seemed to be making signs to me and a few of the bikers appeared to be forming their fingers into an “O” in front of their face shields for some indecipherable reason. Boy, strange people indeed!
I bedded down for the night but at about 3 in the morning I bolted upright in my tent. PHOTO RADAR!!!!!!!!! Aiiiieeeeeeeeee!!!!!! No, they couldn't have god-damn radar cameras out here. Could they? The more I thought, the more it fit together. And the more it fit together the more my pulse raced. Shit! I had done about 140 kph for several hours in the province so far. Could I have gone through a photo radar unit?!? Maybe two?!? My panic increased. What if I started to get dozens of summons in the mail when I got home?!? Was there a cap or statute of limitations on this stuff?!? Oh no...the Insurance Lady!!!!
Next morning at dawn I confirmed with a trucker at the gas bar that, yes indeed, Manitoba had a very widespread, merciless photo radar infrastructure and I was very probably totally cooked. I rode away with a puke feeling in my lower extremities. There was only one way to deal with this stuff and that was to head for the back roads and let 'er rip again. Forget lawyers, points, penalties, fines and gigantic insurance premiums – just go for it today and let tomorrow figure itself out.
Our roadway paralleled the CNR line on its way west and I had a few moments enjoyment riding beside a great long freight train. I sorta get the competitive itch at times like this and usually give Connie a goose, but the battle is unfair and time must be made to understand the fundamental purpose of a sister means of transportation.
Sir John A. Macdonald was Canada’s very first Prime Minister (1867) and we was reputed to be a feisty sort who relished nothing more than a train ride, a scrap or a bottle. I recall one story of Sir John A. when he was doing a train-stop electioneering tour with his Liberal counterpart.
At one small town the train pulled up at the station and a crowd gathered around the caboose to hear the politicians rip into each other. As the Liberal began, the crowd hushed as Prime Minister lurched about behind him, two sheets to the wind. Suddenly, Sir John hunched forward and vomited onto the floor. The crowd was silenced immediately and the Liberal cut his caustic criticism short with a gesture that implied “see what I mean about this man?”.
Undeterred, the PM wobbled to the podium and uttered a short but
famous line.
“I don’t know about you fine people, but whenever
I hear a Liberal speech it just turns my stomach!”
The crowd roared their approval, the train whistle shrieked and the PM flopped back in his seat, waving weakly as the train pulled out to its next stop.
Day Four – The Peg to Regina, Skatch-yeeeeew-ann
Regina,
SASK
N 50.29 degrees
W 104.32 degrees
Elevation
1987 feet
Odometer 46,719
Any series of day-long rides across the prairies are apt to lead to periodic, light touches of Road Madness, and this was to be no exception. As a matter of definition, Road Madness begins when you stop being aware you are riding and having a dilly of a time and, instead, you lose yourself and start to dwell on and ponder deep and ill-defined matters. For example, one might begin to see Manitoba and Saskatchewan not as bountiful crop lands but instead as the world's biggest drag strip.
Once you make this paradigm transition the rest is easy. Yes, there are the lanes and the safety strip between them (the Trans-Canada). Over there are the scoring booths and staging lights (weight scales areas), the officials that sanction the meet (cops), and your fellow competitors (mini-van occupants whom you are set to stomp into cow flaps).
Lean forward so Connie doesn't wheelie too much off the line, watches the revs climb...wait for the staging lights....and then BANG down the hammer and race away, speed-shifting at a furious pace!!! Then enter the cool-down area and brake gently, dropping the chute out back all the while listening to the calm Brit announcer call off your record-setting E.T. And Top End. Then slow down, only to suddenly fire back up yet again before They can intervene.
After watching two 18-wheelers come the closest I have ever seen to annihilating each other I stopped in Portage la Prairie for a coffee and a quick reference to the road map. I was damned if I was going to continue my trip on a straight prairie highway and I was itching for something to start, maybe some twisties that would eventually lead me to the Qu'Appelle River valley just east of Regina. I heard stories about this neat cut into the middle of the flatlands and had seen the valley many times as I'd passed overhead in a jet plane. This time I was going in for a ground-level big bite.
I was joined in the Tim Horton's parking lot by 2 Crow Indian guys who told me they'd been sleeping in the bush, waiting for some housing to open up. We had some XL “4X4's” (yep, “double-double” has been replaced in Manitoba) and shot the breeze. Like most natives that I know, they were self-deprecating, humble and witty as hell. Neither had been to Yellowknife and wondered about riding along with me. I mused on this one for a while and then had to turn them down, considering that 2 passengers would definitely screw up Connie's aerodynamics and lessen her top speed. But I was tempted, even if just to see how far we would get.
As I cut away from town in a north-west direction I recalled younger, more eventful days when taking multi-passengers on a motorcycle was standard fare. Usually this was done on the way home from high school or from the Algonquin Tavern with a full load on. To ensure we would evade police interest, the passengers would simply slip under the jacket of each guy in front. This also solved the no-helmet quandary effectively, even if it did occasionally mean riding past a cop car with 1 helmet-head, a giant hunchback torso hidden under the jacket(s) and 6 or so legs trying to be inconspicuous. I can't remember ever getting stopped.
I began to pass strange things on the road. First was an old school bus, packed to the hilt with “Fireworks!!!”. I had just got a gold credit card from American Express for the trip and thought deeply about buying the whole she-bang and then setting it off all at once while Connie and I did burn-outs and wheelies in front. There was also an election lawn sign up for a guy named “Inky” something and I thought about calling him to see if he might want to get in on the action for the photo op if not for the thrills and chills.
Later I saw several snowmobile trailers that also had a “for sale” sign on them and further, in all its camo'd majesty, was an entire battle tank turret, complete with gun. I sought purpose in all this and eventually realised it was another sign from God. Somehow He wanted me to go to Hollywood and kill Oprah and that bellerin' asshole, Dr. Phil. The solution had been placed under my nose and I had almost missed the clues.
Here's how it would work.
First, I needed to get back to Portage and find those Crow guys and Inky. I would explain the 6-legged Hunchback to them and they would mount up behind me without question so we could go shopping. Then they would use my gold card to purchase all the necessary ingredients. The tank turret would be affixed atop a snowmobile trailer and loaded to the brim with the most lethal stuff from the fireworks bus. This assemblage would then be hooked up to Connie, Inky would stand on Connie's passenger seat to orchestrate things, the Indians would get into the turret and we would turn south, straight down to the North Dakota border.
This we would pass without incident or even slowing down. Instead, I would call ahead to the outpost, describing Inky and my diplomatic immunity (well, I had a government passport that might work). I would also fax them a copy of the Jay Treaty which, arguably, allows natives unhindered passage at the USA/Canada frontier. The armed border guards would wave us through and then we would make a beeline for California.
Once there, it would be a simple matter to locate Oprah's Hollywood studio, take numerous ranging shots and then give 'er shit!!! Boom, they wouldn't know what hit them, and we would make sure to time it during one of their live shows, so we could write a book and live off the fortunes after the fact. Then dump the weaponry, make a quick run back to Manitoba to drop off my accomplices and then on with the trip. I couldn't see any problem with this but then I got lost and had to return my thinking prowess to finding the Qu'appelle Valley.
Eventually God took pity on me and I enjoyed a wonderful ride along the river, which seemed quite out of place right smack in the middle of the prairies. The roadway rose and plunged and twisted along in a nice fashion. Connie got back into the groove and we actually started to use some of the tread up toward the tire sidewalls. You might not realize it, but it is tough trying to take in wonderous scenery at the same time that you are riding like a moron and taking Connie close to her limits. But nobody said it was going to be easy.
I took one of my “shortcuts” into Regina which typically got me immersed somehow in an industrial area just north of the city. I saw some cars going down a laneway toward what appeared to be a factory and thought I'd follow them. Maybe I could ask directions when they were parking. However, the path started to narrow a bit and ended ahead at some type of security gate. The car guys had their arms out the windows, swipe cards at the ready.
I started to turn around, slightly pissed, but then saw that the gate had some type of grilled speaker where presumably, one could ask questions of a remote attendant in an office somewhere. I pulled up and began shouting questions like “D'arcy's house...where is it? I need a brew!” but then realized that my helmet and balaclava must have muffled my enquiries to the point of being indecipherable. Furthermore, my ear plugs and helmet rendered me almost unable to hear anything incoming as well.
The speaker crackled with some strange zaps and garbles so I turned and rode away, shaking my head. As I did so, I noticed the roadway was actually corodoned with frost fencing topped with razor wire. Down the road a bit was a sign that said “Regina Correctional Institution – Authorized Personnel Only”. After a quick glance into the mirrors, it was time to give Connie a touch of throttle, for it probably wouldn't take them much time to punch in Connie's plate and have the bells and whistles go off on the Mitchell Bros. (tm) police network laptops.
I finally discovered my buddy's place and was soon crouched by a big screen TV watching Regina get pummelled by the Calgary Stampeders and sipping on a nice cool one. I noted that it was quite chilly in the house – when questioned, buddy tightened a bit and then advised me that it was 61 degrees Fahrenheit and had been for the last 7 years. Apparently this had something to do with his lovely wife's increased sensitivity to heat and other things possibly related to the ageing process.
We spent the evening drinking wine around an outdoor fire and recounting historical acts of suicidal stupidity and nonsense that would make the “Jackass” movie crowd bow their heads in embarrassment at their puny efforts. Slept under 23 pounds of blankets and my breath was visible. It was cosy and great to be with good people.
Day Five – Regina to Vegreville, Alberta
Vegreville, SASK
N
47.19 degrees
W 84.36 degrees
Elevation 614 feet
Odometer 47,426
Day 5 started poorly in a manner quite different to the poor start suffered on Day 1.
Simply put, Connie fell off her kickstand whilst I was fucking with her load, crashing to the ground and breaking off a footpeg. In hindsight, this setback changed the tempo of the rest of the trip and lead to a number of unexpected future events, including one close encounter with several cast members from "Naughty Schoolgirls Meet The Fratboys".
I immediately knew God had a hand in this, probably to pay me back for previously writing a song called “Kickstand Crash” that poked fun at Connie's unfortunate habit of falling over whenever she felt like it, often uphill, always in soft dirt, and sometime while actually being watched.
I will spare you the shocking cursing and moaning that ensued, the futile ride to the Regina Kawasaki dealer for a non-existent replacement peg, a disjointed call to the Edmonton Kawasaki dealer instead, who promised me they would air-order the part and have it waiting within 24 hours if I would be so good as to ride a full day or two with only 1 footpeg across the prairies over to their shop.
Some of you newer riders haven't had the pleasure of riding battered motorcycles for long periods but I have. As such, I prepared for 1 or 2 days in the Three-Legged Dog riding position. I had twice before been driven to using the Dog and I wasn't looking forward to this third experience.
The Dog stance involves both hands on the respective grips, left leg on the shifter peg and right leg, abnormally, pushed 'way back to the right passenger peg. Initially, there is a tendency to fight the Three-Legged Dog, as it causes the rider to lean at a 45 degree angle to the machine and to acquire leg cramps after a few hours. As well, the body weight moves more heavily onto the right grip to which the throttle is attached. This in turn causes the bike to go faster than normal. But fighting the Dog leads nowhere – you must go with the flow. Yes, you must become the Dog itself, otherwise you go mad.
Dismounting after a day or two of the Three Legged Dog is a bit more disjointed than usual and it is common to almost fall over when pulling in for gas as you also have absolutely no use of the rear brake. Walking is an even more haphazard affair, as the right leg starts to only take a half step with every stride while the left, compensating nicely does 1 and ½ steps per stride. This works well when, say, going around the circumference of a hill (clockwise only, mind), but is less majestic on the flat.
Imagine the poor proprietor of an isolated prairie gas station watching such a man and machine approach. The first, uncertain landing attempt is waved off and the duo round the pumps for a better parking position. Neither the stop nor the dismount is smooth.
Perhaps the rider has been drinking or using non-prescription drugs. Again. Eventually the gas fills the tank and the rider begins a very queer side-hopping motion as he comes into the store to pay. In fact, he veers off course a bit and has to do a double-jumping type of manoeuvre to get aligned. He seems to be muttering to himself, in code.
In the store the paying interaction goes OK but the discourse doesn't work. Could this be attributed to the fact that the rider, once again, has forgotten to remove the earplugs, balaclava and helmet that turn incoming sounds into underwater moaning? Could the constant Connie engine ringing in his ears, bloodshot eyes, and facial twitch make him look even stupider than usual?
Pull into Vegreville. Does this place have a nickname or what? I got so self-conscious about pronouncing the name that I soon began to say "ViagraVille", despite all my worries. This had last happened about 15 years ago when I had to present a guest speaker at a conference. His name was William Annis...
Day Six – Vegraville to Grande Prairie, Alberta
Grande
Prarie, ALTA
N 55.11 degrees
W 118.47 degrees
Elevation
2,206 feet
Odometer 48,155
Breakfast in
Viagraville was interesting. I was seated within earshot of 4
farmers who had watched me do the 3-Legged Dog into the restaurant
but were too polite to ask questions – I was ready to murmur
“Korea...” if push came to shove, but it didn't.
They were
having a dilly of a conversation. Three were dressed in
familiar overalls and baseball caps while the 4th had on a leisure
suit from the 60's. He was pronouncing on the fact that
“...only a damn fool could lose his arm in a combine... only a damn
fool...”, while the others nodded and got on with their toast and
coffee.
Topics followed in rapid succession, crop prices, those idiots in
Ottawa (head down a bit) and the upcoming Viagraville “Pony Rodeo”,
which lost me. Finally they were getting ready to move out when
one mentioned he had to paint the shed. This caused a brief
silence and I looked over more closely. After a decent
interval, one of the farmers muttered, “there's only one paint you
want to use when you paint a shed”. The others stopped in
their movements and then three recited slowly, separating the
syllables “...yep...Ben...Jamin... Moore...”. The 4th
nodded as if in prayer.
The ride to Echo Cycles in Edmonton
took another ½ day, but it drove deep into my spirit the poison pin
of the 3-Legged Dog. Like Frodo after the stabbing, the marrow
in my bones started to ache and then ebb and flow. I was
starting to leave my skull and ride above the body.
Eventually
I made it to the bike shop after getting off at the wrong exit and
riding clear across some sketchy parts of town ("Keep
Prostitutes Out of Our Neighbourhood!"). This with no
balance and no rear brake if you need reminding.
Miracle of miracles but the part actually had been air-shipped from
Toronto to Edmonton (2,000 miles or so) in the space of 24 hours.
I was elated and quickly put on a sidewalk clinic on how to replace
the brake-side peg bracket to several kids and an old lady while two
dogs fornicated in the abandoned lot across the street.
Connie's are renown for their ability to tip over without provocation
and this was my 3rd time replacing the same part.
As I pulled
away, I concentrated on my schedule, which was now in tatters.
Maybe God did this for a reason. My brow furrowed and some
smoke was produced within my helmet – then I had it! Yes, He
wants me to go to the Rockies! They are just over there and I
can probably catch a side road that will eventually get me back on
the original track that heads due north.
As you approach Jasper in the town of Hinton you will see a very cool road sign. It indicates that those wanting to take the “Scenic Highway to Alaska” need simply turn right at the next intersection. It neglects to mention that Alaska lies well beyond Yukon, which itself is a thousand or so kilometres north. Nevertheless, I liked the sentiment and immediately powered up, passing over the fantastic, glacier-blue Athabaska River and staring the climb along Highway 40, skirting Jasper National Park and entering into a vast elk preserve. I saw 2 dead ones within the first few miles as well as a Bighorn ram, which must say something about the preserve's success rate.
I took it relatively easy for the first half of the run, noting that there was only one gas station between here and Grande Prairie Also, and perhaps unreasonably, I continued to fear a run-in with other members of the Mitchell Boys, whose law enforcement clan I started to imagine webbed across Canada and ensured a constant look-out for the usual suspects. I bet there was even an RCMP sister in the mix.
The ride along the side of this mountain chain was indescribable and the road was in great shape, having limitless turns, climbs and seemingly endless plunges down into shady valleys.
I gassed up in Grande Cache where I ran into a Honda ST 1300 rider who laughed at my radar/cops worries. “Run as hard as you want. There's nothing up there except elk and bears until you get to Grande Prairie. Watch it at around 6 though, the logger and mining boys are coming off shift into town and they are thirsty”.
I fired Connie up and away we went. First at around 140 kph, then up to 160 which had a nice feel to it and then, when the highway started to really get winding, up to 180 with bursts beyond, especially on lonnnng descents. Connie started to do a nice gentle weave above 180 or so, probably due to the load weight and also the screwed up airflow thanks to the mountains of tools, beer and books I was toting. After a while, we steadied up at 170 and had a blast.
Tremendous scenery, a fantastic bike and total freedom. Who needs heaven when you've got this at your command?
I pulled into Grande Prairie, Alberta expecting to find the same sleepy little town I had been through some 30 years before but it seem to have been paved over and replaced with box stores, massive malls, non-stop logging trucks and innumerable crews from the burgeoning oil and gas sector. The town population was listed as 43,000 I think, which had to be a lie – the place was BOOMING.
I rolled into the first cheepo motel I could find only to find that “every hotel and motel room in town is taken”. Apparently the housing industry couldn’t keep up with Alberta’s economic boom and, although there were oodles of high-paying jobs, places to sleep were few and far between.
I guess I must have looked more vacant than my usual stunned and helpless self because the office lady took pity on me and said she’d phone around to see if anything could be found. “It won’t be pretty”, she added.
After a number of calls she hit on Suzie at the “Prairie Nook” who said she had an unexpected vacancy that she could hold for about 30 seconds if I could blitz over there right away. As I left the lady smiled and reminded me “it won’t be pretty”.
I followed her directions and rode down a few hellish-looking back alleys between what seemed to be either toxic waste dumps or movie sets for “The Alien”. I rounded the final corner and saw ahead what appeared to be a penitentiary and, yes, the inmates were obviously out for their allotment of fresh air time.
The place was done up in a nice turquoise paint theme which was offset with a touch of rust every so often. In marked contrast, the balcony, doors and the bars over the windows were a cute blood colour. Groups of my fellow inmates stopped drinking momentarily and stared down at me from their perches as I pulled in.
There was a line-up at the front desk of what appeared to be either mental patients eager for their daily electric shock treatment or survivors from a bombing mission gone awry. I nodded and murmured polite nothings as I edged through the throng in hopes of locating Suzie and was eventually successful.
The fee and key negotiation went more smoothly than anticipated, probably because I was the only one they had probably ever seen who possessed a charge card. This magic piece of plastic had me back on my bike within seconds and I wheeled over to “the addition out the back”, once again falling under the scrutiny of the Prarie Nook’s denizens.
As I unloaded Connie and made my way up to my upper level I studied the boys near my suite. I nodded and made brief eye contact in the gruff manly way that they expected, but I was puzzled a bit by their familiarity. Then it struck me - I was one of them! Maybe not as young, but certainly every bit as road-worn, battered, stupid looking and dirty. I was home.
Several came over to make bike talk and I puffed up a bit, explaining I was a “senior member” of the Concours Owners Group and was doing a little shakedown run to see if there was much of interest should the COG army decide they just might mosey up this way. I provoked cries of astonishment and admiration as I murmured modestly that I actually was going to take a little ride further up the road to Yellowknife next…yep, from Ottawa, Ontario, a mere 6,000 kilometers away. Then, a quick blast back.
I wandered up to my room before questioning got tough or they noticed my facial tick. Just as I closed my door there was a polite knock and I opened it to find a pretty, young lady who I wrongly assumed was Suzie’s daughter or something.
Young Lady: [sweetly] “Hi, I’m your next door neighbour, just dropped by to say hi.”
Hogboy: [cleverly] “ummm…ummm…that’s very nice of you – I’m…ummm…your neighbour too.”
Young Lady: [sweetly again] “That’s a nice motorcycle you have there. Where you from?”
Hogboy: [explains with numerous “ummmms”] “You work here?”
Young Lady: [serious] “Oh no, I work over there [nods towards factory-like building].”
Hogboy: [curious in a mechanical sense] “What do you ummm…ummm…make over there anyways?”
Young Lady: [sweetly] “Oh, about $600 a night.”
Hogboy: [not so cleverly] “ummm…ummm…Wow, what do you do?”
Young Lady: [sweetly] “Oh, I’m in the entertainment business. We’re doing a show called “Naughty Schoolgirls meet the Fratboys (I kid you not – author)”
Hogboy: [not so cleverly] “So is that…like…a play?”
At this point a face that looks remarkably like Mike Tyson’s fist peers around the corner. A small hole in the fist opens and a sound like a crow is emitted.
Crow: "Whatchew you doin' with him!”
Young Lady: “Oh, he was just asking me about the show.”
Crow: [suspicious] “What’s he meddlin' with it fer?”
Young Lady [undeterred] “I think he’s cute…[to me] Would you like to be in the show?”
Hogboy: [lost] “ummm…in what... umm... capacity?”
Young Lady: “You could be…like…like [inspiration] Our Father!!! Yes, our father. And you could come in when we were with the Frat Boys and…get mad …yeah…real mad!!!”
Crow: [quiet but sinister] “The we could tie 'im up...”
Young Lady [undeterred] “Yeah! And then dance around him while he gets into a rage!!!!!”
Hogboy: [coming to] “ummm…I’m not really the...ahhh... tieing-up kind of guy…sorta…ummm.”
Crow: [with sudden malice] “Let’s get out of here. He creeps me out.”
Young Lady [hurt look] “We’re on at 11:00 if you change your mind.”
Hogboy [fading] “...at night?!”
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