Journal

A short tale by a volcanic refugee

On a recent business trip to London, I found myself trapped by a volcanic eruption. Iceland was spewing volcanic ash into the atmosphere and it was preventing me from returning home to my family. It was the first time I realized how much I took travel for granted, especially flight. Anyway, I became very restless and decided that I needed to get off the island.

So began my journey as a volcanic refugee. I tried desperately to order train tickets to Paris online but every time I got to the checkout screen their system would crash. So I packed up my computer and walked to Kings Cross station to find myself in the longest line (cue as they say in England) of my life. I waited three hours to get to the front of the line. Met a girl in line from Australia also trying to get to Paris so that she could continue her journey to Turkey where should would meet her boyfriend. I was able to get a ticket on the 5am train the day after next. From Paris, I would make my way to Rome through a series of connections that took me through rural France, Switzerland and Northern Italy to an overnight stay in Milan. It took 14 hours to get to Milan because one of the trains was the milk run and stopped every 20 minutes in Switzerland. What a beautiful place though, I have never seen the Alps before and they are definitely impressive. Worthy of a return trip for certain. Anyway, the next day I caught my train to Rome where I would eventually connect with my flight back to Toronto via Frankfurt.

I was only in Rome for 1 day so I decided to jump on the double decker tourist bus that gave me the 4 hour tour of Rome including the Vatican. St. Peters Basilica gave me an appreciation for why the Italians do the best stone work in the world. I have never seen so much opulence in my life. But somehow it made sense to be there. Anyway, to my point of being disappointed by a landmark that I had never seen in person - After seeing the movie Gladiator, the CGI special effects spoiled my visit to the Coliseum. I expected something more spectacular. I know it’s a ruin but I found it paled in comparison to my perception from the recreation in the film. Hollywood had screwed with my brain.

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I recently returned from a business trip that had taken me to Rome (Italy, not Georgia). It was my first trip abroad since getting my motorcycle license and as a result I was acutely aware of just how many more two-wheeled machines are on the streets compared to North America. Bikes play a role in everyday life for many practical reasons. Price, fuel costs, parking and the sure ease they add to navigating a city that is thousands of years old. Though I think many of us would have some challenges understanding and accepting the rules of the road in Rome, what doesn’t seem to change is the passion riders have for their machines, the culture and the respect they have for one another– at least for the most part. As I mentioned sometimes it is just about practicality, but they don’t count.

I had decided before my trip that I was going to do one thing… Bring back some European motorcycle gear. I managed to make it to a small shop called “Good Guys Racer Store“. It is a small, but well kept shop that had some really great gear. Simone is the owner/operator and a former racer who was happy to share stories about everything from his time on the professional circuit to riding a bike in the center of Rome. As a side note, while he was riding professionally the team owners forbid him from riding in Rome due to the high risk of injury. As our conversation continued Simone let me know that the annual Rome Motorcycle Show was happening this weekend, much the dismay of my colleagues who don’t share the passion. I decided I needed to figure out how to get there at any cost.

Motodays, March 11-14 - Rome, Italy

Our Friday night thank-you dinner for our hosts was about half over when the subject of bikes and the bike show came up. I had learned earlier in the week that one of the people we had been working with was also a Triumph owner and passionate rider rather then one of the “its more convenient” types. In fact, he wasn’t just a rider, he has an entire business outside of his day to day. He restores vintage bikes, imports them, shows them www.ggarage.it generally, a whole lot more than I do. Long story short, he invited me to go with him to the show. The event took place just outside of Rome. As we approached the convention center the first thing I see is thousands of bikes in the parking lot. Bikes of all kinds. American, Japanese, Italian, British, German old and new. It was nice to see that the diversity of riders runs deep in Europe. The event itself address fans of all kinds– they had new bikes, tons of gear, even a swap meet where you could pick up vintage gas tanks, license plates and even old parts you might be looking for.

By the end of the day I can hardly wait to get home and take my bike out for a ride. My friend offers to lend me one of his for the afternoon, but after spending a fair amount of time avoiding the drivers in Rome on foot I wasn’t about to put myself in harms way.

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I’ve mostly ridden in the tropics of Asia and the filthy-hot deserts of Australia, and did not fully comprehend or respect the unseemly magnification of coldness that mid-October riding in Ontario confers on the optimist.

Last Sunday, even though it was weirdly cold-seeming at first sniff in the early a.m., I resolved to do a 4-5 hour leaf tour in the northwest — Caledon, Escarpment, Albion Hills, maybe Elora Gorge — this time with wife bolted astern. She’d only ridden with me once before and loved it — the previous weekend when I took her to see Scarborough Bluffs via the beaches.

So I put on longjohns, jeans, longsleeved t-shirt, sweatshirt, sweater, a moderately-insulated leather jacket kindly given me by the administrator of this site, heavy socks, big leather gloves with the fluffy inserts, and a scarf. She wore tights under jeans and I don’t know what else — anyway I warned her to dress warmly, and to bring along her fancy new Nikon.

I was comfortable at first, having stayed on Allen Rd and off-highway to maintain speed and wife-freakage at a minimum. But it was taking close to forever to get anywhere non-ugly, so when I saw Hwy. 400 I slid on and locked in at a lawbiding 100kph.

Within three or so minutes, my knees felt like they’d been hit with frozen crowbars, areas of my hands — the bits not touching the heated grips — were past numb and into hypothermical and spazzy. This was not helped by my gloves, so thick the throttle and clutch had become more on/off switches than instruments permitting nuanced, controlled locomotion.

Honestly, the entire ride was not an experience defined by subtleties. By the time we arrived at some actual leaves, I was wondering about my undying enthusiasm to embrace anything with a decent likelihood of going all wrong. Lily couldn’t be heard over the ice wind, and last I’d recalled, 20-30 minutes prior, she’d declared herself cozy.

So when I stopped and said, ‘Let’s get some pictures of us out here in the woods on the bike!’ she replied with, ‘No fucking cameras. I want to go home, NOW! I have never been this cold, ever. I cannot feel my ass.”

Now a few years ago, I would’ve persuasively attempted to sweet-talk her into staying with it a little longer and adopting a toughened attitude. But three days of no food, sex or conversation seemed barely worth the effort I would need to summon to make my half-frozen mouth form the words, and then get a ‘no’ anyway, so I grunted ‘OK’ and pointed Naomi the bike back to Toronto.

Home in under an hour, she ran straight for the bed and balled up under the duvet, groaning. I joined her a few moments later, after I was able to straighten my knees enough to walk. Spooning for warmth, I placed a hand on her bare bottom, and the hand auto-recoiled in terror: That ass was as frigid as a boneless, skinless chicken breast straight out of the freezer. I rubbed, slapped, intensively spooned and cajoled it, but it remained nothing but ice-like a good 15 minutes.

‘You need a hot bath,’ I said, ‘and I will draw it for you.’ I made it medium-hot so she’d be able to take the temperature contrast. She stepped in and with great haste stepped out again, holding herself over the tub fearfully, like it was full of piranhas. I had to chill it back down to near outdoor temperature just to get her to dip a toe. Once in though, she adapted fast and after she’d got the water hot again, invited me to join her.

It was the first time we’ve done that in years.

Damn, I love my wife. And my bike.

Paul Fenn

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Sunday last delivered me a fine offroad session up Albion Hills way — just some trail that the ATVs use. It was gorgeous and it scared me. Intermittent sand patches, which are pure Hail Mary on a bike wearing street tires — you just have to remember to give’r on the throttle and steer like a man awakened by poisonous snakes in each hand, and hope you make it across to the traction again.

Almost lost Naomi (that’s what I’ve named she-bike) when I ran out of bite going up a hill and had to back it down — bike’s so heavy it wouldn’t even roll backwards downhill through sand and rocks. Was I sweating and whimpering, please don’t let me drop her, she’s too young? Yes, and in several tongues.

Next day I went down another ATV trail I noticed going off the tertiary. What a night-fugging-mare. Gravel. Deep, skiddy, corn-flake dry, hurtful, mean gravel, perfect for an ATV with fat tires, and the opposite of perfect for me. Got about 200 feet in, realized I had to turn around or have no end of drama, but as usual, when I try Naomi just sits there like a 250kg carcass, mosquitoes coming in like a million Spitfires and it’s a wall of jungle on either side, no room for my proven 20-point turn escape technique. Needed, located, my superhuman, turned the blob around like she was balsawood and roared out of there, drenched and panting, sticks and stones for a wake.

Stayed on road from then on. Stumbled into Cayuga, home of the Cayuga International Raceway, and what was there but roadbike racers. Watched the superbikes peel a beautiful course for an hour or so, had a burger back in town on the river, let the sun drop and then headed home via the escarpment, the 400-mile long, 400-or-so-foot-high limestone scar mostly covered with forest and farm that I am eternally discovering the wonders of. I’ve climbed it, caved it, hiked it, mtn biked it, contracted full-body blooms of poison ivy on it and now I’ll be touring it. Tomorrow, I hope.

Finally got a (mediocre) shot of Naomi and me out west of Hamilton. Will try to do better in the coming decades.

Paul Fenn

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First, I’d like to thank the Lilyboys for giving me an opportunity to share my motorcycle experiences as a new rider. I hope that for those who are considering taking the leap there is some educational value in them and for the experienced, some nostalgia.

May 15, 11:30am

I enter the Driver Examination Centre in Brantford Ontario. Mostly full of kids who are trying to get their drivers licenses and elderly people who are trying to keep theirs. My number is called, I inform the government employee that I am here to take my M1 written test. I am handed three test and promptly state “Huh?”. I learn that I not only have to write the motorcycle rules test, but the road rules test, and the road signs test. I state that this could be a very humbling experience, after all I have been licensed to drive a car for more than 20 years and haven’t cracked a road rules or road signs book since I was 16. The results;

1. Road Signs; 1 wrong
2. Motorcycle Rules; 2 wrong
3. Road Rules; 4 wrong (5 and you fail)—Damn you, you graduated licensing questions, damn you to hell!

Never the less, I pass. I could drive out of the parking lot on a motorcycle if I had one. Next step is to inform my wife of what I have done. That evening I tell her while standing well out of striking distance, she pretends that she didn’t hear me and life continues as usual. That night I sleep with one eye open. Various discussions ensue over the next months, kids are really excited about Dad becoming a “motorcycle guy”, wife not so much but in the end she understands that this is something I want to do. I sign up for Sheridan College’s motorcycle training course and wait anxiously for July to come.

July 9, 5:51pm

The class room portion of the course is about to begin. I fill out all the necessary forms—who I am, next of kin, “it’s not their fault if I die”. We watch power point slides, which is easier for me than most since I have been a victim of many hours of corporate training.  We see some pictures of road rash, talk about equipment, 4 hours and 3 coffees later I go home and great ready for 16 hours of riding on the weekend.

July 11, 7:55am

The class meets at the Canada Centre for Inland Waters. A perfect spot to take the test on a not so perfect day. Our introduction to riding motorcycles begins with a morning of rain and humidity. If you are interested in the sensation of what it is like to ride a motorcycle in these conditions, wrap yourself in plastic (over denim), turn your shower on hot and stand in it for 2 hours. The sun showed up in the afternoon, we stopped pushing motorcycles and started riding. The basics seem, well, basic. Pull the clutch let it out slow and feel how the bike engages. If you’ve operated a standard transmission on a car you will understand the principle. Barely an hour later we’re riding around like bear’s at the circus, circle after circle with the ringmasters (instructors) yelling at us, EYES UP! KNEES IN! SPEED UP! The afternoon continues, we do fun cool stuff like push steering, and not so fun stuff like slow riding through pylons. By 2:00pm or so we have our first incident, a guy went down. His ego and foot are bruised and after the paperwork is complete, he hops back on and completes the day. We end with some “real-life” riding around the CCIW—it’s a blast, this is why I wanted to do this! I get home and talk about what I learned incessantly to my wife, who doesn’t really give a shit, but humors me none the less. Be prepared the day leaves you exhausted.

July 12, 7:42am

I arrive at the CCIW for day two. We go right into riding. We all carefully go over the rules of starting the bike (FINECC—Fuel, Ignition, Neutral, Engine, Choke, Clutch) and take off for a few warm up laps. The day starts early with someone going down on the first corner. A cardinal rule was broken, never squeeze the brakes in a lean. The rider tries to tough it out, but it’s her shifting foot that’s hurt, the course is done, but can be retaken at no charge (nice move on Sheridan’s part).  A little more slow riding (dread), emergency breaking, emergency swerving, accelerating through a curve all good stuff, 3:00pm is test time. My nerves have gotten the better of me, I demand of the instructor a play by play of what is on the road test, but he doesn’t give in and his response is simply “it’s easy”. They line us up in particular order , I am behind the class superstar and instantly assume that this will only accentuate my mistakes. Slowly we go through the exercises one by one. Shoulder checks are paramount and for heaven’s sake, don’t drop the bike which results in instant failure. Testing takes about 90 minutes and then the waiting begins.

After some banter about mistakes we made, I lament that test was easy, but made no promises that I passed. The senior instructor comes out of the trailer like Moses coming down from the mountain, gives us a speech (get on with it already) and announces that the entire class has passed. Inside I breathe a sigh of relief and am pleased I won’t get any abuse from friends. I walk back to my car as pleased with myself as I have ever been and then begin to think about how I will tell my wife that I passed and I would soon begin looking to make a capital purchase.

-Gleason (up next… my first trip to the motorcycle shop)

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I’d been hoping to join an accomplice on a Sunday morning ride up the 507, but bad babysitting planning on my part prevented it.

So at around 2pm yesterday I got my 1/2 day pass and rode the QEW around the Horseshoe exiting at Fruitland and along the Escarpment to Niagara-on-the-Lake and then the Falls. I had no map and don’t know the area well. Seemed like that fact might make it a slight adventure.

The Escarpment, if you don’t know, is a limestone welt that rises anywhere from 100 to several hundred feet above the ground it passes through and runs about 400km from the Niagara area to the end of the Lake Huron-Georgian Bay peninsula at Tobermory. I’ve hiked, mountain biked, climbed its rock, but never had I ridden a motor along the old ’scar.

I took the first road going up it, working east toward the Falls. That would count as the first time putting the new bike on a steep bit of switchbackery. And just when I was really starting to like it, I was up. So I found another road down and then another up, and so on for most of the day.

This bike eats the steeps like they’re gasoline pills. No grade can affect its performance. It’s a cheeky player through the corners, too. Hit a bit of sand and gravel on one curve, but kept looking to where we wanted to be going, and though both wheels shuddered and chirped an inch, they stayed true to intent. No time even to locate my fear.

But now that I know the bike really handles, as well as grunts, I guess I’m fully stoked. What else can it do, I wonder? Guess I’ll need knobbies to find that out. TransAmerica Trail, anyone? Seriously. I’d like to take a few weeks off next summer and engage that ribbon of mud and heartbreak in some light battle.

As time went on yesterday, though, my ass began to feel kicked. Tailbone seems to bottom-out on the seat after a couple of hours. It can be relieved by leaning down onto the non-gas tank on my left arm, or by adopting a perfect arched-spine sitting posture or by standing on the pegs like a twat, but these only help for so long. At some point you have to get off and walk your arse back to civility. I can’t tell if the seat is iffy or my cheeks are still in training, but I was fearsome glad to get home at 9pm and back to walking.

When I look back, it was a seven-hour ride with, at most, one of them spent off-saddle. Guess I expect too much. Fill me in, fellow F800GS owners, and others.

P.S. Niagara Falls and the grounds around it are quite nice, but what’s up with the dowtown? It’s as if they hired the worst urban planner in Nevada, fed him a few expired Oxycontin and let him go nuts. ‘Uninspired’ woefully understates that mess. And, while I’m at it, Ontario casino culture is not quite delivering the Vegas/brat-pack/black tie/bon mot/martini classes that might’ve been hoped for. More like morbid obesity meets the dacron track suit. Good luck with that, Niagara.

Paul Fenn

paulfenn.com

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