The morning started out with some work, so I got a late start as the owner’s dog chases me within inches of my knee all the way out and I tried to avoid running it over on this loose gravel road.  Ugh.  A rather uneventful start to the ride other than the constant rain.  I did manage to find a great dirt road that hugged my route as well as an extremely narrow bridge that I shot.

Dirt as far as you can see. And not a car to be found. Awesome.

I thought this was a pretty cool bridge. Love bridges connecting dirt roads...

So I get pretty tired of the rain, and I decide to pull into Sudbury for a coffee and to buy some beer so I’m not paying full restaurant prices later.  Then the true facts behind the “Civic Holiday” kick in.  EVERYTHING is closed.  I actually haven’t been able to figure out when the state-run liquor stores are actually open since I have witnessed that rarity with my own two eyes, but every single business aside from gas (thank God) is closed.  No idea what people will do with a day off when everything is freaking closed!  So, about this “holiday.”  It’s called Civic Holiday.  Every Canadian gets one holiday per month, and they have clearly run out of interesting things to celebrate, so they came up with that catchy name.

So, I’m done looking for a coffee shop, I’m sweating my ass off at these low speeds with rain gear on, and all I want to do is get the hell outta Sudbury.  I realize that I should not have been in such a hurry when I see the OPP whip a bitch and pull in behind me with lights ablaring.  Ugh.  Luckily, I am pulled over by the kindest young kid kind of cop.  Do you know how fast you were going (insert hardcore Canadian accent)?  You were 38 over.  98 in a 60. Oops.  That’s bad in any math.  He goes on to tell me about “stunting.”  That’s what it’s called in Canada when you are more than 50km over the legal limit.  I thought that’s what motorcycling across Canada was called.  If you’re caught doing this, which I’ve been  doing religiously over the last 1,000 miles (140-150 in 90-100 zones), they impound your bike for a week and can fine you up to $10,000.  Yikes.  I’ve simmered down a bit since then.  In this case, I was lucky enough that he let me off.  I can’t believe he did, but wow, that saved me a small fortune.  Perhaps it’s the Canadian flag sticker on the back of my hard case?  Hmm…  Couldn’t have hurt!  Need to get a US flag on their before heading south.

But, the thing is, the speed limits, like all things Canadian, are way too slow.  To do the math, I was doing 61 in a 37, and that road in the States would have been at least a 45 or 50.  Not saying I wasn’t speeding, but come on, let’s be reasonable here.  And I thought those posted speeds were more like suggestions, not necessarily rules.  Does that mean the double yellow line that I’ve crossed a thousand times is for real too?  Hmm, may need to adjust the riding slightly.  I’d like to leave Canada with my bike.

So I head out of Sudbury a touch wiser, and a smidge slower.  I enjoy getting back up to speed only to hit the traffic jam of all traffic jams.  I sat and moved ten feet at a time for an hour.  On a hot bike.  In rain gear.  As I notice my throttle is coming unscrewed and about to fall off.  Good thing for the jam – I would have lost it on the road.  Yikes.  so I slowly strip down as we move forward and my bike now looks like a homeless dude’s grocery cart as I finagle a way to stuff my face with almonds an broccoli around my mask.  It looks like I’m shoving food into a garbage disposal.  And of course I’m swearing at all the happy looking Canadians in cars next to me.  What do they care?  They now have something to do on their day off!

I finally make it through the jam and fix my throttle (very manly) and find an offshoot road with way less traffic.  This turns out to be a brilliant move.  But, before I head off on this “road,” I stop at the store for some vittles, you know, cheese, sausage, the usual.  I get to the counter and again  have a Canadian moment.  First I watch the transaction in front of me between a man (another rider) and the woman behind the counter: Do you sell smokes?  Yea.  Where are they, I don’t see them?  They’re under the counter, we’re not allowed to display them.  Ok, I’ll have some Camel Lights.  We don’t sell foreign cigarettes, just Canadian.  Ok, do you have something light?  I don’t know, I don’t smoke.  Ok, forget it, I’ll just pay.  We don’t take credit for less than $20, but we’ll take debit.  Ok, here’s  my debit card.  Oh, that’s still considered a credit card cause it says Visa.  Ok, here’s cash.  Poor bastard walked away a lesser man.

Thankfully I witnessed this and was prepared with cash.  There is just this weird Canadian way with rules upon rules and protection upon protection.  Wonderful people, but the contrast between the overregulation and the wild of the country is startling.  This ain’t Mexico.  I miss the vibe of Mexico.

But, jam behind me, I’m off on the back roads, and they’re spectacular.  Mile upon mile of bumpy, barely paved, empty, long-sloping, lake-lined roads. The only side “roads” are dirt offshoots going to who knows where.  Then, my GPS all of a sudden tells me to take a right, which it didn’t show before.  Right is a dirt road about 10 feet wide.  Ok, let’s do this.  Wow.  Another right move.  I am off into the wilderness on these roads, and the only thing I pass is two ATVs.  Pretty awesome.

So I finish up with the dirt, and head to Huntville where it’s decision time.  Keep going and try to get through the massive Algonquin Parc before dark or fine a place to stay short of the parc leaving a long day for tomorrow.  I decide to make a stop, and I’m glad I did.  Great placed owned by some Polacks who know their way around a sausage.  Great view overlooking a lake with a great balcony.  Then, again, the weirdness starts.  Dude next to me asks if I’ll sell him a beer, to which I say no, but I’ll give him one.  He accepts in a thick Polish accent only if he can buy breakfast in the morning.  Fine.  Then he starts talking.  Seriously, he’s throwing out Polish history, American war politics, his dumb wife he’s about to divorce, and his love of Polanki, and there’s not stopping him – and I shit you not, that was in the first sentence.  After I missed about 20 minutes, I started recording.  I hope it turned out, but I haven’t listened to it yet.  There was even a tale of Ukranians (whom apparently you don’t f@$k with) making a trip to Poland to get some money he’s owed.  It’s not the money, it’s the principal.  If you let people start fucking you in the ass, then everyone will be fucking you in the ass my friend.  Uh huh.  We have a few beers while he chain smokes, and then he goes in to get a few more.  And I’m up till 2.  Early start tomorrow is not looking good, but it’s worth it.  Entertaining would be an understatement.  I would have loved to have seen my face during this tirade.  I’ll try to get some of the monologue in the next few days.  Wow.

I forgot to mention the family.  Another slow-ish kid being groomed to take over the business from strong-willed mom, this time Polish.  She could have knocked me out without trying and then instantly revived me with a few flaps of those legendary soup coolers.  Like the night  before, the son’s customer service seems to have come from some manual or watching a video from the 1950’s.  And he introduces me to his dog, Ozzy, named after Ozzy Osbourne, of course.

Tomorrow, Montreal.  Civilization.

Not looking forward to leaving the stark beauty of the deep wilderness, but I have to admit, I won’t mind a break from the bleak.  A touch of optimism is looked forward to…

A lame photo of the view from my balcony.