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Donning my rain gear, I had a discussion with my friend regarding the route I wished to take to get from Ottawa to Windsor.
He always liked to take the way that the Greyhound bus took- along the southern arm of the Trans-Canada Highway, then south through Tweed (incidentally, the place where Elvis is supposed to be hiding out) and finally to highway 401. I had taken the bus before on this route, and it was quite scenic, yet was slightly slower than the strictly four lane direct route which I had planned to take.
Decisions, decisions.
I thought I would stick to my original plan because I did not have the foresight to bring a map, and my 22 year old bravado precluded its necessity. Also, because I only had a Petro-Canada gas card and some pocket change for my long ride, I thought I would need to stay close to well travelled highways, and access to the one company at which I could fill up.
At about 9:00 AM, I shook Tim's hand. He wished me luck on my ride, and issued a warning, ?Keep it slow, man. If you get caught by the police, you'll be totally screwed.? I knew that- no money, no insurance, improper license plate, no proof of ownership on the bike. My twisted brain thought all of these factors would actually make my ride much safer. They were an absolute guarantee that I would not exceed the speed limit. Yes, everyone on a bike should ride this way- then there would never be a single motorcycle accident!
I left his driveway, gassed up my GS750 at the local Petro-Canada station, then headed south out of Ottawa on the 416.
It wasn't long before the image of a two lane, tree-lined road started niggling my mind. It was so beautiful in this part of the country, and the rain had just stopped. No, stick to the plan.
The devil and the angel on my shoulders were having the biggest *@%^$*@%^$*@%^$*@%^$ing match I'd ever encountered.
?You can always get directions if you don't have a map.?
?But, what if you run out of gas??
?There's always a farmer within walking distance that can help you.?
?Now Devil, you just be quiet. Stick to the plan and we'll arrive safely.?
?C'mon, you know you want to goose the throttle on this new bike. There are less cops on the back-roads. What? Are you chicken??
?Being afraid has nothing to do with it!?
?Bawk! Bawk, buck, buck, buck.?
The devil was flapping his arms at me when I chose to take the next exit. Chances were some road ran roughly parallel to the 401, maybe. But oh it would be fun!
The speed limit was eighty kilometers per hour, and that seemed much too slow. Nice scenery. If I bumped it up another ten clicks, I wouldn't get pulled over. BUT, I was still going to be later than expected, when arriving in Windsor. It was sort of flat- 100 kph. Now that was really riding. Down a hill- 110km/h. Nice and twisty-120. Oh, the joy of riding! But now I was 40 over the limit- a definite take-down speed, if I got busted.
In my rear-view mirror I noticed a car closing fast. COP!!?!?!
But from where? Wait, I could tell by the headlights now, it wasn't a cop. Whew!
An older, fake-wood decaled station wagon passed me going up a hill. That mom with kids was really flying! Perfect! I'd just hang back and follow her. Near the crest of the hill, my heart sank.
There was the cop staring down the barrel of his radar gun. I was in his cross-hairs, and he picked me off like a kid with his first BB gun waiting at a gopher hole.
The cherries went on, and my blood pressure spiked. I thought, ?This is it! I'm done. There is no way of getting out of this unless I pull over IMMEDIATELY, and beg for mercy. Then, and only then maybe he might not beat me to a bloody pulp with his truncheon, and leave me for the vultures on the side of the road.? I felt the heat rise up my back, just like the first time I got caught shoplifting a five cent Bazooka Joe.
Time to pay the piper.
I signalled, and slowed to the shoulder, devastated. Then he zoomed right by me, and pulled over the mom in the station wagon.
I was shaking so badly, I could hardly squeeze the clutch lever. There was a road a few hundred feet ahead, and I pulled off the highway as fast as I could. It led to a lock where a happy teenager was assisting some pleasure boaters climb the Rideau Canal. I parked my bike behind a van, and ran into the bushes. After a minute or two of hyperventilation, I trembled as I lit a smoke, and made a solemn vow.
?OK. For the rest of the trip, no more than ten clicks over the speed limit. Period!?
He always liked to take the way that the Greyhound bus took- along the southern arm of the Trans-Canada Highway, then south through Tweed (incidentally, the place where Elvis is supposed to be hiding out) and finally to highway 401. I had taken the bus before on this route, and it was quite scenic, yet was slightly slower than the strictly four lane direct route which I had planned to take.
Decisions, decisions.
I thought I would stick to my original plan because I did not have the foresight to bring a map, and my 22 year old bravado precluded its necessity. Also, because I only had a Petro-Canada gas card and some pocket change for my long ride, I thought I would need to stay close to well travelled highways, and access to the one company at which I could fill up.
At about 9:00 AM, I shook Tim's hand. He wished me luck on my ride, and issued a warning, ?Keep it slow, man. If you get caught by the police, you'll be totally screwed.? I knew that- no money, no insurance, improper license plate, no proof of ownership on the bike. My twisted brain thought all of these factors would actually make my ride much safer. They were an absolute guarantee that I would not exceed the speed limit. Yes, everyone on a bike should ride this way- then there would never be a single motorcycle accident!
I left his driveway, gassed up my GS750 at the local Petro-Canada station, then headed south out of Ottawa on the 416.
It wasn't long before the image of a two lane, tree-lined road started niggling my mind. It was so beautiful in this part of the country, and the rain had just stopped. No, stick to the plan.
The devil and the angel on my shoulders were having the biggest *@%^$*@%^$*@%^$*@%^$ing match I'd ever encountered.
?You can always get directions if you don't have a map.?
?But, what if you run out of gas??
?There's always a farmer within walking distance that can help you.?
?Now Devil, you just be quiet. Stick to the plan and we'll arrive safely.?
?C'mon, you know you want to goose the throttle on this new bike. There are less cops on the back-roads. What? Are you chicken??
?Being afraid has nothing to do with it!?
?Bawk! Bawk, buck, buck, buck.?
The devil was flapping his arms at me when I chose to take the next exit. Chances were some road ran roughly parallel to the 401, maybe. But oh it would be fun!
The speed limit was eighty kilometers per hour, and that seemed much too slow. Nice scenery. If I bumped it up another ten clicks, I wouldn't get pulled over. BUT, I was still going to be later than expected, when arriving in Windsor. It was sort of flat- 100 kph. Now that was really riding. Down a hill- 110km/h. Nice and twisty-120. Oh, the joy of riding! But now I was 40 over the limit- a definite take-down speed, if I got busted.
In my rear-view mirror I noticed a car closing fast. COP!!?!?!
But from where? Wait, I could tell by the headlights now, it wasn't a cop. Whew!
An older, fake-wood decaled station wagon passed me going up a hill. That mom with kids was really flying! Perfect! I'd just hang back and follow her. Near the crest of the hill, my heart sank.
There was the cop staring down the barrel of his radar gun. I was in his cross-hairs, and he picked me off like a kid with his first BB gun waiting at a gopher hole.
The cherries went on, and my blood pressure spiked. I thought, ?This is it! I'm done. There is no way of getting out of this unless I pull over IMMEDIATELY, and beg for mercy. Then, and only then maybe he might not beat me to a bloody pulp with his truncheon, and leave me for the vultures on the side of the road.? I felt the heat rise up my back, just like the first time I got caught shoplifting a five cent Bazooka Joe.
Time to pay the piper.
I signalled, and slowed to the shoulder, devastated. Then he zoomed right by me, and pulled over the mom in the station wagon.
I was shaking so badly, I could hardly squeeze the clutch lever. There was a road a few hundred feet ahead, and I pulled off the highway as fast as I could. It led to a lock where a happy teenager was assisting some pleasure boaters climb the Rideau Canal. I parked my bike behind a van, and ran into the bushes. After a minute or two of hyperventilation, I trembled as I lit a smoke, and made a solemn vow.
?OK. For the rest of the trip, no more than ten clicks over the speed limit. Period!?
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