Motorcycles and Travel
Motorcycles motorcycle philosophy creative

I was glad I didn’t take the motorcycle in the end: The traffic was poor leaving the city, and I mean poor in the sense of crawling. “the highway and up” makes sense, but only if there are no roadworks and only, and I mean only, if the people with four or more wheels under them know how to drive. Around here, that’s a big if.
And so, for no apparent reason, we hit Ajax and line slows. it’s that dumb spot where they merge the six or seven lanes of both the express and the collectors down to just three lanes of “regular” highway. With so few lanes past the edge of town I guess the premise is that Toronto is so great, why would you ever want to leave the place? Just ask anyone who lives there for an answer. Like most major cities, everyone would rather be somewhere, anywhere, else.
It’s at this point that I have had enough of the Roald Dahl audio books and I place my headphones on. For anyone reading in the future, my choice of music is perhaps somewhat irrelevant (and perhaps lost to the ravages of time, though I do hope not) but for those of you in the present, it was Kid A by Radiohead. Something about that work moves me. In Britain, on the radio, there used to be a show where you picked your desert island discs – works you could literally not live without. This would be one of mine. And as I lost myself in the wash of vintage synths, broken beats and Thom Yorke’s unearthly voice, I surrendered to sleep. I always hated being a passenger in a car and I still do. Sure, I could blame the lulling sound, or the heat or the subtle rocking, but the truth is if I am not piloting the ship, i’d just as rather make the journey go faster. Call it time travel if you will.
Last track: I’m now awake. The traffic is still crawling. An old, old, Ninja 500 creeps past me, all rattles and aching joints. Maybe the weather was holding off after all. The forecast clearly stated rain and likely storms but I’m wondering now if I paid it too much heed. Aching joints aside, the Ninja looks like he’s having more fun than I am. No, that’s not true, but he is having a different kind of fun. He’s in touch with the elements: Wind holding him upright, or at least it would if this traffic would just move. The Sun is warming his soul but I’m thinking how hot I’d be in my leathers in his place. Again, I’m starting to think I made the right decision when he goes and spoils it by twisting his wrist, just a small amount, and catching 50, 100, 200 yards and he’s gone. I can feel the acceleration and wish it was me.
But it’s not and I’m still here.
Turning off and the road, while narrower, is more open. It’s less minivan now than pickup trucks – people with a purpose. The sky is starting to look ominous now. A wonderful mixture of grays that only a military engineer would work with. Fifteen minutes later, the clouds open up and I remember the last time I rode in this weather. The rush to get the rain gear on, the spray misting up the visor, the loss of traction – and yes, even that time I overestimated how greasy the roads were and locked the back brake. Most importantly, I felt vindicated. How could i not? Have you ever ridden in the rain?
We stop for food and it’s still raining. Pizza. Worse, chain pizza, but sometimes that it all you can get. It’s still raining when we leave. Definitely not a good day to ride.
An hour later we arrive at the destination: Cottage country, or perhaps better termed as bug land. I get out the van and immediately two mosquitos the size of penny land on. At least, they are the ones I can see. The creeping of my flesh tells me there may be more, but that could also be the humidity. Even though it is evening and the rain’s abated, there’s enough heat to pick most of the water back up again, but not enough to put it back in the clouds where it belongs, so it clings to the ground and to me and the counter this, I sweat.
Maybe this is what draws those infernal bugs in, but come they do. I get back in the car with a manner that would make a catholic cross themselves for fear St Vitus himself had arisen. That or make make the natives laugh at least.
The place isn’t bad. it’s clean with more space than we need. The TV sucks, receiving only three channels. Two are basketball which has never held interest for me. The other is some poor Canadian comedian who’s failed to grasp that is actually an oxymoron. Just caught some joke comparing the Canadian shield to a whore in a clinic. Now, Canadians are actually warm, funny people, but put them on TV and all they can come up with is pulling faces and non-sequitur.
But now to my present condition. Modern accommodation equals modern equipment, or in this case a DVD player and a cathode ray tube I can just about see across the room. A movie then, from what is actually a reasonably well stocked free selection. A most importantly a whiskey – woodford reserve. A bourbon that actively revels in the smoke. Bourbon – probably the premier cultural export from the US. And now, another, with a little Harold Budd. Another desert island disc if ever there was one.
And I feel like I’m on an island. There’s nothing, literally, outside that I can see. The rain earlier did not clear the sky and as a result there are no stars. But there are bugs. I turn on the outside light and see them swarming and my skin creeps again.
it’s hot now, no air conditioning of course, but how much of that is the whiskey and how much is actually the weather. I no longer care. I stand, walk, my destination sleep; a sleep with no real dream, except probably the anticipation that next time the rain will hold off and I’ll bring my motorcycle and I’ll hit every turn perfectly, gliding this way and that. And the tarmac will be clean and I will be free. But free from what? Who cares, on the motorcycle, you are part of the machine and there is only the road. As a man, what else matters?

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