I’m sitting here in my quiet office cleaning out ancient inboxes from long-forgotten email addresses. I came across a notice about an old post from an old blog. I’d completely forgotten about “Born Filter Free” so I was excited to re-read some very old stories. I never did spend much time on that old blog, but this story had me laughing out loud a couple of times so I’m pasting below. I hope it elicits a chuckle or two from you as well!
Here it is:
The Bowl
There it sat in the bottom of the sink. Was that a scratch? I hope not. That was my Grandma’s bowl! I picked it up to inspect the damage, and rubbed my finger over the discolouration. That was odd. It was so smooth, but this bowl had never been smooth. I brought it closer to my squinting eyes. There in the bottom of my Grandmother’s little blue bowl was a skinny green smudge.
I pressed my finger into it trying to remove it. It did not rub off. In fact, it got bigger! A flood of regret immediately washed over me. I should have left it alone. But wait a minute; this was NOT a blue bowl! I rubbed more vigorously and long strands of flat, blue paint slipped away beneath my finger.
“Grandma”, I thought to myself, “I bet you hated this green bowl.” I wondered who else knew this pretty little dish had been hiding under this dull disguise. I peeled away strip after strip of blue paint to reveal hundreds of precious, tiny cracks beneath the glaze. I wasn’t sure if it was a cringe or a grin that crept across my face as I imagined her watching me uncover this little gem. I had no doubt in my mind it would have made her furious.
She never liked me and I was terrified of her. I remember hiding in her front porch when we would visit. I always hoped no one would remember that I hadn’t made it through the rest of her smelly house. I hoped she was not going to force me to eat one of those awful cookies from the ice cream pail. I for sure hoped she was not going to have those little white cookies with the gooey yellow thumbprint. If I HAD to eat a cookie, I prayed it wasn’t one of those.
Grandma did not like my Dad. In fact, “not liking” Dad would have been an upgrade in their relationship. I suppose that was why she didn’t like me; I look just like him. Whenever we went to visit, I immediately asked to go to the park. Even if it was raining. When I was not allowed to go to the park, I sat in the addition to Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer. I don’t think there was ever any heat in that part of the house because it was always freezing. I didn’t care though. Grandma was the queen of knitting afghan blankets, so there was never a shortage to burrow into.
That room was also her sewing room. My Grandma loved to sew. She used to sew clothes for me and Mom always made me wear them on picture day. I used to get beat up on picture day.
My Grandmother was a talented seamstress, though. She sewed a Raggedy Andy doll for my little brother and a Raggedy Ann doll for my little sister. One Christmas when all of my cousins joined us at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, she presented all the kids with her latest creation; stuffed puppies.
She sewed one for my little brother that looked just like Snoopy. My baby sister’s was chocolate brown. She gave one to each of my cousins too. I watched as she ceremoniously brought out puppy after puppy. They were so big that the littlest kids struggled to carry them back to their chairs. We all sat so nicely waiting for our turn. My cousin Robert got a sandy coloured puppy. He was a year younger than I was. His little brother and sister were soon cuddling light coloured puppies too.
All the kids sat playing with their beloved new treasures. I waited quietly for mine. I was too shy to ask Grandma if there was one for me too. “No,” I imagined her stern reply, “You are too big for a stuffed toy.” I remember how much my heart ached to hold one of those great big puppies with the round, dark glass eyes, the soft red velvet collar, and the big floppy ears. Amidst the squeals of delight coming from six little mouths, I slipped into the icy cold sewing room.
I suppose I felt a little bit better after stealing over to Grandma’s chair while she stirred gravy to slide my whoopee cushion under her seat. I was promptly shooed out of the way and told to go and make myself useful somewhere else. All through supper, I could barely contain myself. I couldn’t share my secret with anyone or my ears would surely have been given a good sharp clip. The insufferable ants in my pants meant a great deal of squirming and my mother regularly shot daggers at me across the table. I didn’t care. I knew I was going to be in the sewing room for the rest of the night anyway, so it might as well be worth it.
At last the dishes were put away and everyone headed to the living room for the rest of the evening. I sat on the floor across from Grandma’s chair and waited for her to sit down. My face burned with anticipation. Grandma walked past me and I half imagined she was going to kick me on her way by. She neared her chair and I had to stifle a premature giggle. She glowered at me and walked back to the kitchen. “NOOOO!” I thought, “I’ve blown it!”
She returned with an ashtray, placing it between hers and Grandpa’s chair. “This is it,” I thought. “This is the last moment before I leave this earthly world”. I held my breath as Grandma lowered herself into her chair. The entire room exploded with horrified silence the moment she sat down.
It was too much for my little 9-year-old body to contain. I rolled on the floor, one hand clutching my straining abdomen, the other shoved into my mouth trying to stop the fits of laughter. I stole a look at my Grandma as she rushed out of the room and into the washroom. That was the last I’d seen of her that night. When I came out of the icy cold sewing room for breakfast the next morning, I couldn’t raise my eyes to meet Grandma’s. I knew I had embarrassed her.
I rinse my little green bowl and inspect it more closely now. It is a lovely bowl. It doesn’t have to hide behind that flat blue paint anymore. The light can bounce off its shiny glaze. The dark hues compliment the lighter ones in the most amazing way. The multitudes of tiny cracks intertwining themselves over the entire surface add so much depth and splendour to this bowl. With the heavy, flat, blue paint all washed away, my little green bowl can let its true beauty shine.
Do you remember that time I said I was going to ride across Canada….and then I did?
It took leaving the world of work for a couple of months, but taking care of myself means I’ll be a better leader upon my return.
I’ve been home a week now and I’ve just finished writing all my stories in my leather bound journal. I’m not sure when this one will hit my blog; it’s taken 7 days to finish my journaling!
If you’ve been following along, you know that I’ve dodged hurricanes, forest fires, gone through torrential down pours, heat waves, and waited for hours for the removal of a jack-knifed semi truck! I’ve made friends along the way, spent time with loved ones, and picked up a side case full of treasures. The real treasures, though, have been the ones that have taken permanent residence in my heart.
I’ve grown so much over the course of this 7 week adventure! I’ve returned to my self-confident, exuberant self. I’ve left my sorrows behind and have become resilient and peaceful. I’ve seen some beautiful things in our country; Canada’s vistas are as diverse as her people. Some of my favourites are:
I remember riding west into Regina as the sun rose up behind me. The daylight kissed the top of crops awaiting harvest in a magnificent array of golds and greens. I remember a roadside pond with its glass surface serving as a brilliant canvas for the reflection of the sun, the puffy white clouds and the azure blue sky.
I remember riding west into a a Saskatchewan valley into an explosion of fall colours popping amongst the evergreens. I had no idea the prairies held such beauty.
I remember the pretty roads, the century-old homes and exquisite churches throughout Quebec. Every kilometer revealed scenery more breathtaking than the last.
I remember the feeling of awe I had when I walked along the red beach in Prince Edward Island. This one was such a special moment.
I remember the beauty of the lakes at dawn in Ontario
I remember the laughter and joy with Donna et. al. in Moncton. I remember the laughter and friendship with Tanya in Quebec.
I remember the sand between my toes at Oka Lake.
I remember walking along the each near Yarmouth hunting for treasures.
I remember the moments in my helmet when I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that it spilled over my cheeks in salty streams of joy. Oh, so many moments!
I remember letting go in Biggar, Saskatchewan.
I remember feeling my son’s arms around me upon my arrival for his birthday.
I remember the moment my daughter’s eyes met my own and the unspoken acknowledgment that she is my ally.
I remember my daughter’s encouragement to take this trip and her unfaltering faith that her mom really could do this alone.
I remember riding down my driveway at the end of this epic journey to see Brian sitting on my front step waiting for me.
I remember how full my cup is. I am blessed beyond measure, and so grateful I could give myself this adventure.
I woke up about 3:00 am in Moosomin, Saskatchewan. A day earlier, my son’s girlfriend asked him if I’d make it for his birthday dinner. He told her it was unlikely as I was still in Ontario. That stretch of my adventure was a bit of a feather in my cap. Although it had only been 816 kilometers, this was the first time I could boast biking through three Canadian provinces in one day; Ignace Ontario to Moosomin Saskatchewan. Now that only 1,111 km laid ahead between me and my boy, nothing would keep me from that birthday hug.
I set out at 6:34 in the morning. I wasn’t worried about riding in the dark, and I wasn’t stressed abut the heavy rain. Been there, done that. By the time I had Jules packed, the rain had stopped anyway. Actually I had pretty solid luck with the rain always just far enough away that I could see it, but not feel it. After a stop for breakfast in Regina and a bunch of loopty-do’s in Saskatoon, I was on the home stretch by about noon that day.
I need to stop for a bit of a sideline here so my Saskatchewan experience makes sense.
When I was on the east coast, I really wanted to put a message in a bottle and toss it into the north Atlantic. The message I’d planned was going to be more like an ‘unloading’ than an actual message to some unknown recipient. I have a lot of unresolved bullshit in my head, and I was ready to let it go. I guess I figured the symbolism of releasing a that baggage and letting it get swallowed up in the vastness of the sea would mean it was no longer be my burden to bear. I imagined towering waves crashing down on that bottle full of stuff and carrying it to sea. I imagined my stuff being so minuscule in the deep that it couldn’t possibly be big enough to consume me and that I would never have to carry it ever again.
That didn’t happen.
After Saskatoon I stopped in Biggar, Saskatchewan. I saw a billboard about Sandra Schmirler (a curler), so I figured I’d go have a look. I wheeled around this pretty little town, but I didn’t see anything about Sandra. Eventually I realized that although the sport of curling is a big deal to both my mom and Brian, I don’t know a thing about it so I quit looking. I unpacked what I had left for food from my trunk and had a leisurely lunch while I taking my legs and back for a walk. After fueling up, I set out again with less than 500 km to go. I was 50% of the way home on this massively long ride day!
Once I was back on the highway from Biggar, something very strange washed over me. All the grief, all the stress, all the heartache, all the ugly, black, ‘ick’ I’d hoped to toss into the ocean washed over me in big waves of ugly-face sobbing. I didn’t stop it, either. Whatever was coming out of me needed to come out. A divorce. Heartache. Betrayal. Disbelief. Broken relationships with loved ones. Longing. Mourning that hadn’t properly run its course. Emptiness. Sick family members. Anxiety. Bullying. Fear. Abuse. All that shit came out in Biggar, Saskatchewan.
And that’s where I left it.
Once the tears and sobbing subsided, I realized how much lighter I felt. I don’t know why it came out in Biggar. Perhaps it was the wide open prairie, the empty highway, and the vast, blue sky. Or maybe it was the fact that I still sometimes pretend my helmet is the Cone of Silence. I don’t know what changed inside me when I wheeled through Biggar to open the taps that way. Whatever the reason, I didn’t care. I was on the other side of it.
About 5 hours later I wrapped my arms around my little boy who now towers over me. I soaked up all the love I felt in his strong, young man arms, and I felt blessed. The love I felt from my son in that hug poured into the spaces inside my soul that were freed in Biggar.
My journey was complete.
I was raring to go when I left Ignace, Ontario! I had my sights set on Saskatchewan. I was now only 1 sleep away from my son’s birthday, and I’d told him the night before I’d be there. I promised to do all I could to make it back to give him a birthday hug. I’d missed a hug before, and I wasn’t about to let that happen this year.
I followed Glenn again and I have to admit it was nice to be able to shut my brain off for another few hours. After having met him the day before in Wawa and following him the next day into Ignace, it was like my brain was on holidays. It was awesome.
This morning was just as gorgeous as most of the mornings I’ve had on this adventure. Rolling past the lakes as the sun rose high took my breath away. As I rolled past Jackfish Lake I slowed for longer look. The sun rose behind the trees on the eastern shore casting the back of the lake in shadow while lighting up the foreground. Mist floated from the water half way up the back drop of trees. The reds and golds reflected in the glass like water. The thin trail behind a lone loon cut through the surface leaving a sparkling trail of diamond ripples. Honestly, it was stunning. My eyes were just as misty as the lake and for about the eleventy nine millionth time, the gratitude I felt to be able to do this trip spilled out my eyes and over my beaming cheeks.
After a delish breakfast in Dryden, a heartfelt goodbye and promises to keep in touch, Glenn and I went our separate ways. Bikers are such special people. We have this common bond immediately because we have a love of two wheels. We understand the joy, the sense of freedom, the way we become wrapped in a feeling of peace when we fly down the highway, or lean into those twisties. We have a shared sense of how cleansing and therapeutic it is to feel the wind caress our souls; whether we wear a full face or open face. It’s a brotherhood/sisterhood/get-you-outta-the-hood bond. It doesn’t matter what bike you ride. It doesn’t matter where you ride. If you ride, you get it.
I’ve met so many people on this trip and consider myself so dang lucky to have met them all. Glenn let me know about a Facebook group for senior motorcycle riders. I joined that group and posted a few of my stories. It was wild to see responses from some of the folks I’d met along the way. I had a fella comment he’d met me in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, others met me in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, and now perhaps Glenn will have read how nice it was to travel with him for a day.
It’s always a welcome treat to make new friends, but I was eager to twist a little harder on my throttle and put some serious ribbon in my mirror. I had a birthday boy to hug!
I was really looking forward to getting out of my gear and grabbing some grub in the restaurant at the hotel in Ignace. I chose this place specifically because they advertised a restaurant. However, upon checking in I learned that isn’t the case. Because they can’t get staff, they couldn’t keep it open. Ungh. When I say Ignace doesn’t offer much, It’s an understatement! The fella at the front desk made a recommendation and passed me their menu.
When I couldn’t get through to place an order, the fella at the front desk asked what we wanted, drove down himself, placed the order in person, waited for it to cook, then brought it back. Holy pie, Batman! You really don’t get that kind of service every day!
It looked to be burgers and beers in the sun by the bikes. Not a bad plan for the end of an 816 km day!
As Glenn and I unpacked our bikes, we chatted and laughed about the rain, the fog, and the lack of a restaurant. An older fella, Joe was his name, appeared in the parking lot. He complained about how we were so loud that he couldn’t sleep. He shared he was jumping in his car and carrying on back to British Columbia. I looked at my phone to see it was only 6:15 pm. I really didn’t know what to say to old Joe other than I was sorry to have woken him.
I’m writing this a few weeks later, so some of the details are fuzzy. He opened up his trunk to share some gifts with my new biker brother, Glenn. Joe gave him a faded photocopy of a signed photo of Wayne Gretzky claiming it would be worth some money some day. He gave Glenn another photo too, but I don’t recall what it was. Then old Joe hauled out a photo album of his trip with his daughter to the Cabot Trail. He flipped through the pages and talked about his trip.
As I write this, I recognize now that Joe likely wasn’t concerned about laughter at 6:15 pm below his second floor hotel window keeping him awake. He likely wanted to be part of it. He wanted to share his stories too. He wanted to belong (and don’t we all?). I wish I’d have been a little more aware that day, and less concerned about getting into dry clothes and finding some food.
When I looked out my window later, Joe’s car was gone and he never returned. I hope he made it to his destination and had folks with which to share his stories.
If you haven’t already seen some of my other stories from Prince Edward Island, check them out below! It was quite a time!
It was 5:30 am as I stood outside my room at the Wawa Motor Inn watching the rain bounce off the ground under the street light. The anxiety in my belly rose in direct proportion to the steam rising from my lousy cup of hotel-Keurig brown water.
Sip.
Sigh.
“Fuck” was all I could muster from my stressed out brain. Thinking once again back to the torrential time in Terrebonne wasn’t easing my anxiety. I went back inside and had a slice of last night’s pizza. I ordered it so I’d have breakfast this morning and likely lunch. With my insides doing acrobatics in unison with my break-dancing amygdala, I tossed the rest in the trash. Standing in the rain eating cold pizza for lunch was not high on my agenda for the day anyway.
I checked the weather for about the fifteenth time since I woke up at 4:00 am. Wawa was socked in and it still showed rain for the entire route. 42 mm of rain. Heavy rainfall warning. Gross. Last night my bar stool biker brother, Glenn, said he was launching at 7:00 am. I’d rather follow his tail light in the pouring rain before sun up, than go it alone later. This serious aversion to rain was getting annoying. It’s not the getting wet and being cold I mind as much as the “holy shit I hope I don’t die” factor that gets to me. I’ve always been this way when riding in heavy rain. I don’t know why. So far I’m not dead and I’ve never even come CLOSE to sliding.
Sip.
Sigh.
Setting out when I didn’t feel ready was not bravado on my part. It was based on science. Well, kind of. Through our conversation earlier, I knew I was following someone who has spent a lot of hours on these roads. That gave me some confidence. As well, I reminded myself that I’d gone through some heavy shit on this trip and others too. Hell, I’d ridden through a snow storm in the Andes Mountains for crying out loud! I can handle rain. In the dark. On a mostly straight highway. Did I mention it was dark? Yah. I can’t see a lot in the dark these days.
Sip.
Sigh.
When Glenn emerged from his room, about 7:00, I felt that same old “I gotta hurry ’cause getting left behind anywhere kills my soul” energy start to rise. I was already making my final adjustments to my gear, so it’s not like I was running late or anything. Add to that my internal voice telling me that I was prolly about to make this a cruddy ride for my new friend ’cause I’m a scaredy cat in the rain, and I was a bit of a bundle of nerves. When I confessed (some of that) to Glenn, he suggested I lead so I can set a pace with which I’d be comfortable. Uh. No. I’m too damned blind! I said I’d follow, but don’t worry about me if I’m slower.
So off we went. Within minutes my stress dissipated and I was singing away to the oldies while wiping the rain from my visor. It was dark pretty much until 8:00 am, but the rain lasted long past the Wawa region. When we got in to Terrace Bay Glenn wheeled into the Drifters Restaurant and I happily followed. That pizza slice was long burned off and I was famished. What a cool place! The restaurant had good eats and with the gas station right there as well as a motel, I would have been quite comfortable at this place if the highway closure hadn’t forced a stop in Wawa the night before!
Drifters was a warm and welcome break and I enjoyed chatting with Glenn as well as the fella at the next table. He spoke about his heater and how he was barely getting wet on his Goldwing. As much as I love Jules, I did think for a half a minute about how nice a heater would have been. We’d only gone about 250 km, but it was a little on the chilly side that rainy morning. With another 500 km or so to go before Ignace, and breakfast in our bellies, we set out again. It was nice to ride with someone for a while. It was like being a passenger; you know when you’re not in the driver seat you can turn off your own brain and just enjoy the ride? This was kind of what it was like for me.
When the rain finally ended, I lost sight of those tail lights in short order! The fog was so thick I had to slow to 50-60/km at times. I was grateful for my bright orange rain jacket; at least I was high-vis in that pea soup style fog! I thought back to my fellow riders in Peru. Oh how they laughed at my bright rain gear! Then I thought about the crazy weather I’d experienced on this cross Canada adventure! I pretty much had it all. Near hurricane force winds from Erin near the Cabot Trail. Horrendous rainfall three times now. Fog so thick I had about a car length’s visibility before me, extreme heat, and who knew what may have been waiting for me on the prairies!
Two hundred kilometers later we were gassing up in Thunder Bay. The ride from there into Ignace was about two and half hours of sunshine and scenery. We didn’t go through Kakabeka Falls, but I did see a sign for it along with one for Atikokan. That was a pretty weird moment for me. I’d landed in Atikokan such a long time ago. So much had changed for me since getting back into Canada from my North Dakota jaunt! I was a whole lot less worried about so many things. I was back to my fun-loving, confident self. I no longer felt like I was missing out on things, not making the right choices in terms of route, lodging, activities. I’d come a long way.
Seeing that sign brought an unwelcome reality check too. I’d be home soon and that meant getting back into the real world. Yuck. I’d have to start looking for work again, tackle yard work, tape and mud my basement, fix the drywall in the ceiling by my gym. I stuffed all that real life junk down alongside all the other unpleasant things I don’t like thinking about. Like wet socks.
I was raring to go when I left North Bay!
I had an early start thanks to last night’s left overs. Grateful to not have another morning like in PEI, I was fueled and on the road by 8:00 am. This time I put on my vest and my rain gear to help keep the morning chill at bay. I was aiming for at least White River, 744 km away. A long day for sure, but I was bound and determined to make it home for my son’s birthday in only 4 days’ time. My son is more than 3,000 km west of North Bay, so it was a tall order.
The ride was going well and by the time I got to Rolphton, I was ready to lose the rain jacket. After fueling up, I parked in pretty much the same spot in front of the restaurant as I did on my way out east. This is a great stop. With a restaurant, fuel AND a motel, you really can’t go wrong. It’s right on the 17 (Trans Canada) about half way between Ottawa and North Bay. I didn’t need the motel, but it’s good to know where it is if I need it next time ;)
This pic is from my first stop here. This time I was nose to the restaurant. As I was backing up to move around parked vehicles this time, I hear brakes screeching and something big comin’ in hot behind me. I look over my shoulder and see a small car come within inches of being scrap metal as a truck pulling a holiday trailer hauled in WAY too fast to make the entrance comfortably. Although I was still far enough away to be in any danger, I put my kickstand back down and stood off to the side for a minute. The folks in the car looked pretty wide-eyed and I’m a sure their hearts were racing as fast as mine was. I took time before getting back on the road.
The next stop was a small community after Sudbury. I hung out for awhile and had some lunch. I was feeling pretty good about putting in an uber long day and thought I might even make it to Terrace Bay. Putting in a gross day today meant easier days later. Do the hard stuff first. Yeah….this didn’t happen…
I made it about 60 km east of Wawa when i came up on traffic at a standstill. I turned off my bike when I realized no one was coming in the other lane and our line wasn’t moving. It was getting warm again., so I got off for a drink and I asked the car in front how long he’d been stopped. It had been an hour for him and no one had come through from the other direction. Hmmm. When I came across stoppage like this in Peru, we just rode past the entire lineup and kept on moving. That’s not something I’ve ever done here at home. It just feels…rude?
There was a space between a couple of cars ahead that I could snug into if necessary. I set out slowly and tucked into the space. “What would John do?” I thought to myself. He was my guide in Peru and he’d go for it here in Canada too. I slowly continued past the parked vehicles. It was yet another one of those zombie apocalypse moments I’d often had on this trip. Well, except for the people hanging out in their lawn chairs, very much alive. I rode past about a kilometer of vehicles when I snugged into another space between cars.
With the mountain curve ahead an no easy snuggle spots in view, I was reluctant to push my luck. Within a few minutes a fella walked by with an old-school game controller-looking thing. “Hey! Whatcha got there?” I say because I talk to everyone. “A drone,” he replies, “I want to see what’s going on.”
“Cool! So you can see if anyone is coming around this curve!” I exclaim.
“Totally! Here, have a look!”
The road ahead was lined with cars and this seemed to go on forever. As the drone flew over the cars, it seemed surreal. How long was this line??? Finally the drone reaches the front of the line and reveals a semi jackknifed across both lanes. No one was getting through this anytime soon. Well, at least I can safely get to the front, anyway. There are definite advantages to traveling by motorcycle! I had to pass another two kilometers of parked cars to reach the front. I asked the fella who was formerly first in line how long he’d been there. Three hours. Yikes!
I sat there for two hours chatting with other travelers as we watched the crew work. I was pleasantly surprised by how happy people seemed to be despite the long wait. After the first 90 minutes of MY wait, the truck had been moved enough that I could have easily gotten through. My fellow travelers encouraged me to go for it. I’m happy to be a trailblazer, but I’m also not stupid.
I walked up to the cop who poked his head around the back of the semi. I struck up a chat to see if he’d let me by. “No, I’m sorry, but I really can’t. It’s a liability if something were to fly off and hit you or your bike.”
“Hey, I get it. No worries, that’s why I asked first” I replied.
Before I turned to walk back, I looked at him and the guy who seemed to be the lead worker and thanked them for all they were doing to make sure everyone gets to where they’re going safely. About ten minutes later, the lead worker approached me and cautioned me about the diesel on the ground. “I ride too, so I wanted to tell you to ride the white line.”
When they had one lane cleared, the cop pointed at me and had me go through. I’m pretty sure it’s because I spoke to him and thanked him. The lane of traffic going the other way ws every bit as long as the one I’d passed.
I rolled into the gas station a few km before Wawa with only another kilometer left on my tank count down. I was sweatin’ but it had nothing to do with the temperature at that point! It was now after 5 pm, so clearly I wasn’t going past Wawa today. I checked in to the Wawa Motor Inn and went directly to the lounge for some supper and a beverage. What a day! So much for my plans to make some serious miles and make it home for my boy’s birthday!
I sat up at the bar and ordered a pizza. I figured it would get me through supper tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and likely lunch too. I checked my phone to see what tomorrow’s plan might be as I sipped my beer. Rain. Yuck. I planned on staying at Kakabeka Falls again 500 km away. It wouldn’t be a hard day, but if I was riding in rain the entire day, 500 km would be enough.
I ordered a second beer. My bar stool neighbour and I started to chat and I learned he was also on a bike. I also learned we were headed in the same direction. I told Glenn I planned on Kakabeka and he was shooting for Thunder Bay. Although I haven’t been too worried about booking in advance the last few weeks, I figured it might be worth it to book something so I had the peace of mind after a rainy day’s ride tomorrow. The Telstar had no vacancy, so I started calling Thunder Bay options. When I kept hearing, “Sorry, we’re all booked”, I started getting worried. Glenn started calling places too, and between the two of us, we must have called or checked online with every hotel in all of Thunder Bay. There was something going on in town and Tuesdays were historically full days, apparently.
I finally found a place in Ignace that had only 3 rooms left. I booked and when I got off the phone told Glenn that if he needed a place, he might want to call them too. He booked and we agreed to travel together th next morning. Ignace was 700 km away. We agreed to leave at 7:00 am.
When I went to bed that night I had to talk myself out of being freaked out. I can’t see a damned thing in the dark these days. I still felt a bit of trauma from the downpour in North Dakota and then that wicked storm by Terrebonne. Leaving under darkness AND in the pouring rain was, as my off road riding instructor would say, sub optimal.
In 2025 I rode my bike, Jules, a 2016 f700GS BMW adventure bike from my Alberta home to Prince Edward Island and back.
You’ll find stories about this epic solo adventure in my xCanada Trip 2025 category of this personal blog. Scroll to the bottom of the featured images and you’ll see the categories as shown below. Or, click on the archive link for July 2025 to start at the beginning of my adventure!
Thank you for checking it out and I hope you have as much fun exploring my journey as I had making it! For a quick taste, scroll down to click on my “half-way point video compilation”!
Visit the links on the side panel for more, or check out some stories below!
Once I was geared up and warm again leaving Quebec, my next ‘hurdle’ was getting through Ottawa. When I was headed east, I got turned around and mixed up in Ottawa. I wasn’t nervous about going back through, but I wasn’t exactly putting a lot of faith in Petunia, either.
When I look back on this day, I’m struck by what a different ride it was! Mind set has a massive impact on how we experience life on the road. When I was headed east and having to go through Ottawa, I was nervous as hell. I didn’t have much big city riding experience at that point, the heat was oppressive, and I wasn’t at all sure what I was in for. This was a pervasive theme that day; the not knowing what I was in for. So much was up in the air for me then. I was recently unemployed. I was still early on in this epic journey and frequently felt doubt, uncertainty, and yes…a little bit of fear too. A lot was going on for me in the early days. Heading west was not the same ride at all.
I really enjoyed the scenery heading into Ottawa. I left Deux Montagnes pretty early, so I was rolling into Ottawa late morning. Once again I felt the joy that so often settles upon me as Jules and I leave ribbon in the rear view. My heart was full. I was once again in awe of the beauty of our country. Every now and then the road veered closer to the Ottawa River and I had a chance to catch some very pretty views. With the sun at my back and kissing the tops of the trees in front of me, I felt the lightness of peace throughout my entire being.
Even as I write this weeks after having arrived home, I feel the lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes. This is not a feeling of sorrow. This is reliving the joy that comes from the wind in my face, the crisp scent of fall in the air, my bike beneath me, and miles of asphalt before me. This day was a perfect day and any nerves about the city were supplanted with excitement about another beautiful ride.
Ottawa was no problem at all. The only hiccup was the ever-dropping fuel gauge on Jules’ dash. My rule is typically “If you wonder if you should stop for gas, the answer is always YES“. Because I’d only just entered Ottawa when I spotted a gas station, and because I still had just under a half tank, I figured there would be opportunity as I exited the city. Nope. The route I was on did not offer up another gas station. Oops. As I put the city behind me, I wondered if my joy was making me a little cocky and over confident. Abandoning my fuel philosophy is likely not the best course of action on any ride. Then again, it may have been preordained.
At Arnprior I finally hauled off and took care of business. After fueling up I wheeled up to the front door so I could grab a Gatorade and maybe a snack. As I was undoing my helmet, a fella strolled over to chat. Mike shook my hand and we chatted for about 30 minutes that day. He was full of joy and even though he doesn’t know me at all, he was singing my praise. But I recognized he wasn’t really singing MY praise as much as he was expressing joy FOR me. He talked about the light in my eyes and seemed genuinely happy for me that I could fulfill this bucket list dream. He talked about some of his own hopes and dreams and his own bucket list. I think there is something beautiful about seeing how my very small story seems to light the imagination of people who approach me. I am so blessed to have had the chance to hear his dreams and I hope they all come true.
I am a big believer in the universe giving us what we ask for; putting things in our path that are meant to be. I like to think my uncharacteristic choice to bypass the fuel in Ottawa was so I COULD have the conversation with Mike in Arnprior. I’ve mentioned before that we each leave a piece of ourselves behind with every soul we meet. I’m not sure who benefited the most, but I still see his big smile and the wistful look in his eyes as he told me about his own dreams.
The Happy Canuck 