A
Anonymous
Guest
The route taken after my close call with the police remains a mystery to me.
At one point, I remember leaning hard rounding a corner too fast, too wide, and coming perilously close to the gravel on the shoulder. There was the little town with the one general store where I asked for a glass of water and directions to the 401. I remember cursing myself for not bringing a map. I remember being scared to death that I would run out of fuel, and not be able to buy any because there wasn't the proper company that would take my gas card. And riding, and riding twisty highways at precisely ninety kilometers per hour through scenic eastern Ontario.
Eventually, salvation! The four lane limited access MacDonald-Cartier Freeway- the 401. No more getting lost for this young lad.
I was behind schedule, and if I was now relegated to keeping the speed limit, I might get to Windsor before night fall. Maybe.
I kept my rain gear on because of looming clouds, but never was caught in a downpour. It seemed mother nature wasn't punishing me for my stupidity, merely scowling in disapproval.
Kingston, Belleville, Trenton, Cobourg... I was passing these somewhat familiar sounding cities and towns with a now aching posterior, and sore arms. I wished the man from whom I purchased the GS 750 in Ottawa had left the fairing on it. I took a break, then another, then another. I was torn between enduring the pain, and pressing on while the weather and daylight were good, but this decision is difficult when your mind is clouded by the cacophony of a half shell at 110 clicks, a delicate stomach, and the stress of poverty far from your destination.
When would Toronto come? I was familiar with the stretch from Toronto to Windsor. I longed for the boring flatness, the ca-thunk, ca-thunk, ca-thunk of poorly laid pavement at Tilbury which means you're on the home stretch. But it just wasn't coming, and it was late afternoon.
Ride, ride, gas up. Smoke break. Disgusting microwaved submarine sandwiches purchased on credit at Petro-Canada stations. I threw up by Bowmanville.
Toronto traffic was harrowing, as usual, but it came and went. I was half way to this ride's conclusion.
The sun was setting as I pulled into a strip mall on the outskirts of London. I was cold, and spent my last bit of change on a scalding, horrible McDonald's coffee with the stir stick that wasn't a spoon, because people had used the little stir-spoons to snort cocaine, and McDonald's didn't want to tarnish its image with strung out, malnourished bikers ambling in to buy coffee. Hmm.
I decided to wear every stitch of clothing I brought, except for doubling up on my Fruit of the Looms. It kept me warm for about five minutes, then the sun went down, and the temperature became more stereotypically Canadian.
Two hours to go assuming no breaks. But I'd have to- I would need to fill up once more, and my rump was numb.
When the highway traffic all went to bed, I noticed that my low-beam would not light up the road ahead of me, but the high beam would project on the road a normal beam.
After passing a transport, I realized that my headlight was hopelessly aimed up, and to the right because of a cracked housing. I more than likely temporarily blinded the trucker. More safety issues and legalities to worry about, but that worry list was now topped by freezing cold.
The road flattened into dark farmland. At Tilbury, with forty five minutes to go, I was shivering uncontrollably, and unable to use my thumbs. Ca-thunk, ca-thunk, ca-thunk- the home stretch!
Finger, by finger I was becoming disabled. Finally, when I arrived in Windsor, I exited the 401, and had to stop to put my hands under my armpits to warm them so I could use the clutch in the city.
I pulled straight on to my front lawn, as I could not turn the bike's handlebars to park it. It was about eleven o'clock at night. My legs trembled as I climbed the rickety steps to my smelly, almost empty apartment. The stained walls, and crumbling plaster on the living room ceiling was so welcoming. And there was HEAT!
I telephoned my friend Tim in Ottawa, to tell him a few details, but mostly that I made it home in one piece. To which he replied, ?Wow, man! I wouldn't have done it, but it must have been great!?
Years later, with more miles, both literally and figuratively under my belt, I wouldn't ever do it again in that particular way.
But yes Tim, purchasing my first GS was indeed, great.
At one point, I remember leaning hard rounding a corner too fast, too wide, and coming perilously close to the gravel on the shoulder. There was the little town with the one general store where I asked for a glass of water and directions to the 401. I remember cursing myself for not bringing a map. I remember being scared to death that I would run out of fuel, and not be able to buy any because there wasn't the proper company that would take my gas card. And riding, and riding twisty highways at precisely ninety kilometers per hour through scenic eastern Ontario.
Eventually, salvation! The four lane limited access MacDonald-Cartier Freeway- the 401. No more getting lost for this young lad.
I was behind schedule, and if I was now relegated to keeping the speed limit, I might get to Windsor before night fall. Maybe.
I kept my rain gear on because of looming clouds, but never was caught in a downpour. It seemed mother nature wasn't punishing me for my stupidity, merely scowling in disapproval.
Kingston, Belleville, Trenton, Cobourg... I was passing these somewhat familiar sounding cities and towns with a now aching posterior, and sore arms. I wished the man from whom I purchased the GS 750 in Ottawa had left the fairing on it. I took a break, then another, then another. I was torn between enduring the pain, and pressing on while the weather and daylight were good, but this decision is difficult when your mind is clouded by the cacophony of a half shell at 110 clicks, a delicate stomach, and the stress of poverty far from your destination.
When would Toronto come? I was familiar with the stretch from Toronto to Windsor. I longed for the boring flatness, the ca-thunk, ca-thunk, ca-thunk of poorly laid pavement at Tilbury which means you're on the home stretch. But it just wasn't coming, and it was late afternoon.
Ride, ride, gas up. Smoke break. Disgusting microwaved submarine sandwiches purchased on credit at Petro-Canada stations. I threw up by Bowmanville.
Toronto traffic was harrowing, as usual, but it came and went. I was half way to this ride's conclusion.
The sun was setting as I pulled into a strip mall on the outskirts of London. I was cold, and spent my last bit of change on a scalding, horrible McDonald's coffee with the stir stick that wasn't a spoon, because people had used the little stir-spoons to snort cocaine, and McDonald's didn't want to tarnish its image with strung out, malnourished bikers ambling in to buy coffee. Hmm.
I decided to wear every stitch of clothing I brought, except for doubling up on my Fruit of the Looms. It kept me warm for about five minutes, then the sun went down, and the temperature became more stereotypically Canadian.
Two hours to go assuming no breaks. But I'd have to- I would need to fill up once more, and my rump was numb.
When the highway traffic all went to bed, I noticed that my low-beam would not light up the road ahead of me, but the high beam would project on the road a normal beam.
After passing a transport, I realized that my headlight was hopelessly aimed up, and to the right because of a cracked housing. I more than likely temporarily blinded the trucker. More safety issues and legalities to worry about, but that worry list was now topped by freezing cold.
The road flattened into dark farmland. At Tilbury, with forty five minutes to go, I was shivering uncontrollably, and unable to use my thumbs. Ca-thunk, ca-thunk, ca-thunk- the home stretch!
Finger, by finger I was becoming disabled. Finally, when I arrived in Windsor, I exited the 401, and had to stop to put my hands under my armpits to warm them so I could use the clutch in the city.
I pulled straight on to my front lawn, as I could not turn the bike's handlebars to park it. It was about eleven o'clock at night. My legs trembled as I climbed the rickety steps to my smelly, almost empty apartment. The stained walls, and crumbling plaster on the living room ceiling was so welcoming. And there was HEAT!
I telephoned my friend Tim in Ottawa, to tell him a few details, but mostly that I made it home in one piece. To which he replied, ?Wow, man! I wouldn't have done it, but it must have been great!?
Years later, with more miles, both literally and figuratively under my belt, I wouldn't ever do it again in that particular way.
But yes Tim, purchasing my first GS was indeed, great.