I've missed the turnoff. Too many cars and road signs. Not enough focus. Ah! well. No point getting upset. Taking the next turn-off I find myself dumped into one of Hull's ultra-residential neighbourhoods with 40km/h speed limits. Not a problem, just change down and trundle along like a 9 year old on a BMX. It is a good day for riding in the city anyway: sunny, but not too warm. Hello! There is an anxious Quebecer behind me. Ok, I'll just change to the inside lane and let her pass... a slowish procedure at 40km/h. Great, she is overtaking me... "Go catch 'd radar, madame". But no, she is barely a car length ahead and she is pulling in front of me indicating a right turn. Ok, I'm slowing down. She is slowing down, looking in her mirror. I slow down some more. She crawls into a driveway... I am barely moving, about four feet from her rear fender. What a lousy driver. I'm sure glad Phyllis is a good passenger, a semi-emergency stop like that could easily unsettle a less reliable partner, as it is, we are all under control.
A short few minutes of back-tracking, and we are on the superslab again: hwy 50, heading east, destination Cheneville. Don't ask me what its like, I've never been there... which seems like a pretty good reason to go visit the place. The head wind is fighting us, making my 110 seem like 140. But the short wind-screen helps, and we are soon at the end of the slab. Curious how it just stops after 30km or so, with a pile of dirt and some barracades. It is always a relief to turn off the slab, or 'motorway' as they are called in England, and get onto a normal highway. The travel is slower, more pleasant. Secondary highways are even better. Usually more winding, with less traffic. This is true today, as we turn onto 315 and start heading N.W. Suddenly we are in the 'country'. No cars in sight. Farmhouses and cows, lakes and horses. Just seeing them brings a smile to my face. At a more relaxed pace the headwind is less demanding, and I begin to mentally relax and enjoy the ride.
Part of the fun of motorcycling, for me, is going places I have never been. New and curious things can be found around every corner, over every hill. We follow the green hiway signs as they jag across the valley, which is, thanks to the recent rain, equally green. I spot a large church ahead. A church and a house and... nothing else. No town, not even a village. And the church has a great red-pebble parking lot behind it, so it obviously still draws a congregation. The architecture shouts: Roman Catholic, and its silver painted steeple is typical of this area. The highway zags right in front of the Church, so we get a good view of its old brickwork, and white-stone saints. I often get an impulse to stop at country churches, to have a look inside and absorb the atmosphere of the building. Such places often have a very peaceful feeling about them. Unfortunately, nowadays, many are locked up to prevent vandalism and theft, so I rarely get the opportunity.
As the surroundings progress quickly from a rural to pioneer atmosphere the road does the same, and I am (thankfully) warned by a sign that the pavement is ending. The hard-packed gravel that replaces it is quite smooth, in fact, at the lower speed we are forced to travel, it is smoother than the paved road. The fact that many of Canada's secondary highways are unpaved provides me with endless amusement. I cannot help but give a wry chuckle when bright new-looking highway markers appear every 5km or so, as if to reassure the skeptical traveller that, 'yes, this really is highway 315!'. Motorcyclists who avoid such gravelly byways miss out on some of the most marvellous scenes. The travel, though slower, is surprisingly pleasurable. Once you get into the rythmn of the road, the miles seem to fly by. It does take a bit of practice, slowing significantly for corners, and when descending hills, using the rear brake almost exclusively. Dodging the soft edges, and sticking to the hard-packed middle, being prepared at any time to make room for an oncoming pickup, or logging truck! But the rewards, both in the beauty of the places, and the adventure of getting there, far exceed the drawbacks.
As we round a corner an old farmstead greets us, and it is as if we are on horseback. I have a strange urge to reach down and pat the flank of my iron steed. The log farmhouse and barns couldn't have looked much different two hundred years ago. I salute an old couple, who are mending fence at the roadside. The farmer has his hands full, but his wife, astride a red tractor, waves back. Their fields are very green, and almost long enough for the first haying. A creek appears beside the road, and delights me with its sparking dance and we climb up the back of the valley. Rising higher, the creek dissapears into a shear walled ravine, which the road follows as it winds uphill. The gravelled edge of the road is terminated by a vertical drop of 40 feet into the ravine, and to make things a little more interesting, the road has now narrowed from two lanes to one. Sharp memories of a Scottish highland road burst into my mind, and I feel goose-bumps speckle my arms as I gun the engine up the steep incline. My wife later told me it felt like flying up into the sky. As we crest the ridge, a small plateau spreads before us, and the little stream tunnels under the road and meanders its way through birch trees. The young, yellowish leaves throw a dappled shade across the road, and the forest looks magically bright and fresh.
And as we ride along we are experiencing the uplifting character of a forest in spring, and our own spirits rise as well. With a swelling heart, I lift my eyes up to the sky and am filled with a feeling of thankfulness.
The graded-gravel goes on for almost 40km, but it seems like much less. By the time we meet the blacktop again, I am almost sorry to leave the gentle dirt. The short distance left to our desination is by no means boring, though. Packed with smooth sweeping curves, and little twisty bits, it seems the pavement is trying to win me back from the gravel. "Bienvenue a Cheneville" says the sign... I check my odometer... better get some gas.
"What does the Chene part of Cheneville mean?", I ask the pump jockey. "Don' know. I'm new to dis town. Ask da guy inside". I wonder, for a moment, whether he understands my question is about the word Chene, not the town Chene... but I let it go. 'Da guy' inside is the owner. He is tall, and friendly, and he catches on right away. "Oh. Its a name." "Like Richard? Or John?", I ask. "Yeah, That's right" I wonder if its a male or female name... but instead of asking, I decide to leave it as a mystery. Probably a surname anyway. I spot a coffee machine, which also serves hot chocolate. The machine looks brand new, and the owner helps me find which buttons to press. This is obviously his new toy. Phyllis takes a sip of her hot chocolate. "Its hot", sucking air in through her lips. "How is it", asks the owner. "Good. But it needs more chocolate". He nods thoughtfully, and reaching under the machine, taking out a couple of silver tins, with Hot Chocolate printed on the sides. "I'll fix it, then you can have another one, for nothing". Nice guy. "This one will be fine. Thanks" My wife's long-term liquid-storage capacity is limited to one beverage only.
We munch our way through a rubber-pork sandwich and a plastic-cream cake, and having bought along a camera, I think its time to take a picture of the bike. "Would you take a picture of me and the bike?", I ask Phyllis. "You want a picture here, behind a gas station, and not out by a beautiful view?" "Well, I want a picture of the bike, not a view". I've got my priorities straight at least. I hand her the camera. "Ok, say cheese... Its not working" "You might need to turn it on" "Oops!", the camera flys through the air and seems to explode on impact with the ashphalt. "Oh dear. I don't know what happened.", Phyllis explains. "You dropped it", I observe, picking up the batteries and inserting them back into the camera. "I hope it isn't broken", she says, sounding a little worried. "Try again", I say, smiling and handing back the camera. "Ok. Err. It won't click" "Perhaps dropping it took a picture. Try winding it on" The winding produces a surprisingly loud grinding-clicking sound. But that is normal. "That's got it" "Ok. Smile now." I oblige, and the camera does too. And so I find another good reason to stick with the cheap $25 camera. The $300 model would certainly have broken.
Back on board the GS, the homeward journey begins. Now the wind is helping us along, and our riding pleasure increases. The turn-off for Thurso catches me a lttle by surprise, and I decide to find out just how good the double disk brakes on this machine really are. From 95 down to 35 in about 70 feet, now that aint bad, two up. I easily make the gravel-strewn corner, and we are treated to 20 km of beautiful, winding, smooth highway. A couple of corners go by with the bike giving a pronounced 'wiggle' whenever we hit a bit of a bump. I realize that Phyllis is not leaning with me, but instead is fighting the angle a little. I encourage her by tapping her leg at the next corner and emphasising my own body lean, and she quickly gets the idea. I didn't marry no dummy. Soon the corners are tracking smooth and clean. Awesome. She's only been riding with me a few weeks, and I couldn't ask for better progress. As we enter the small town of Thurso, I look around for the ferry signs. Can't see any... that's odd. I spotted a gas-station attendent, and pulling over, I cut the engine. "Which way to the ferry?" "The ferry?... Next town." "Oh" I guess the Thurso ferry is no more. "Thanks" Ah well... off to Masson, the next town. I know for sure there is a ferry there.
Ten kilometers later we are first in the ferry lineup at Masson, and there is not one ferry, but two running at the same time. In fact the motorized barges are numbered "3" and "4", and the sign says "24 hour service". These guys really know how to run an operation! In less than five minutes we are being waved on board. I pull away smoothly, but as the concrete landing changes to metal ramp, I hear/feel a ominous clunk. Uh-oh. Another bump, another clunk-clunk. The vibrations feel like part of the engine is hitting the ground. I daren't look down for fear of upsetting the balance of the bike. Low speed on metal does not give the best traction. I glide to the end of the ferry, stop and worriedly look down. Dummy! It is the kick stand. I had put it down, intending to get off the bike in the ferry lineup, but I never got off. Having no excuse, I chalked it up to lack of concentration, and decided to watch myself for the remainder of the trip. Fatigue is a dangerous thing when riding, and I have trained myself to recognize the warning signs. Forgetting the kick-stand is definitely a warning sign.
Crossing the Ottawa river is very pleasant, though short, only about 200 meters. Cheap too, at $2.50 for the bike, $5 for a car. The wind is blowing the water into short waves, but the deck it rock-solid. It is Phyllis' first time on the Masson ferry, and I can see she is enjoying it. It gives me great pleasure to share her joy of 'first-time' things. The ferry runs year-round, even when the river is solidly covered with ice. They have a device to prevent ice from forming on this short stretch. Soon we are riding ashore, but the weedy-tangy-freshness of the river stays with us, as the highway skirts it for several kilometers. The sun is warm on our faces. The wind is unnoticed at our backs. Another delicious afternoon ride.
