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Paul Pospisil has left the serenity of Ministikwan
Lake and hit the road on his hog.
DAY 8: MONTREAL TO TORONTO
Today the plan is to ride west from
Montreal with a short stop in Belleville,
home of my oldest sister. The day started
with an early trip to the hot tub to loosen
up before getting back in the saddle.
The convention was still on for some
and Ted was waiting on the Purolator
package from
Saskatoon, so
Peter and I
stepped out for
breakfast on the
street.
On our return
we found
e v e r y o n e
together, Ted’s
key had arrived
as scheduled
and while he
was opening the
envelope the
concierge sees the key and declares he
had one turned in just like it only one
hour after Ted was looking for it the
day before. Ted had not left his name
or number so the concierge had no way
of contacting him. Now Ted has a spare
key on the bike, apparently the key fell
from his pocket while using the lobby
facilities.
At this point we are ready to head out
onto the Macdonald Cartier Freeway,
or Highway 401, en route to Toronto.
We loaded the bikes in the underground
parking where we took up a little over
one parking stall, and when the welltrained
Impark attendant saw we were
ready to depart he almost laid down on
the exit to prevent us from leaving.
He must have thought we were the
Hells Angels and were about to crash
the gate, causing him to be a couple
dollars short in his parking inventory. It
was really quite amusing watching this
fellow ranting and raving in a language
unknown to any of us. At any rate he
blockaded the road until each and every
bike had duly paid individually for
parking. In reality he made four or fi ve
times what he should have due to the
fact we took up only one parking stall.
I wonder if he had attended the special
school for Impark operators (how to
make a positive impact in the community
you serve) or was he in reality pocketing
a little extra cash? Then again, he may
have just been a really dedicated Impark
employee.
As we converged on the streets of
Montreal the maps and GPS were out,
the exit routing was under discussion.
With a precise plan in place it was matter
of follow the leader (for a moment) as
it was only a few short blocks to make
our way up onto the highway heading
west, the next hour took us over several
freeways and suburban towns where
fellow rider Danny was so preoccupied
with roadside sights that he narrowly
missed a fully fl edged, at minimum,
fi ve-bike collision.
Can you imagine what that would
have looked like at the traffic light, fi ve
guys trying to look cool as they pick
up their babies from the asphalt? Well,
it didn’t happen thanks to the hells
“Angel” perhaps.
From there we finally made our way
onto the open road of the 401 west. We
passed Cornwall where I acknowledged
my friend Dennis Eligh – if he were still
with us today he would have been in his
glory biking across the country. R.I.P.
Dennis.
The 401 took us to the Shannonville
Gravel exit where we headed south
through the Tyendinaga Mohawk
Indian reserve (tobacco smuggling) and
into Belleville, home of my oldest sister,
who has yet to make it west beyond the
Ontario border and into some of God’s
country ( just kidding).
While I had a whirlwind visit with my
sister and brother-in-law, the crew went
for a quick bite at a local establishment
along the Moira River at the mouth of
the Bay of Quinte. It’s a location some
sportsmen might recall where Bob Izumi
caught the awesome walleye on one of
his fi shing shows, which was after the
rivers entering the bay and Lake Ontario
were cleaned up of the pollution which
previously been allowed to fl ow into the
bay.
From here we jumped back onto the
401 where traffic had picked up. The
stream of transport trucks and regular
vehicles was steady, Peter was in the
lead as we pushed towards Toronto.
From Belleville to Brockville we set the
pace until a Nova Scotia-plated vehicle
decided to attempt passing six bikes. As
I was in the rear I could see the frustration
starting to build in the car beside
me. When the car driver was unable to
get by he would throw his hands in the
air. Road rage appeared imminent, and
to top it off one of our riders accidentally
cut him off, causing what appeared to be
panicked braking and more rage.
The forward riders never see this so
for them the ride goes on, as I fell back a
little there was concern as to my whereabouts
and one of our riders decides to
stop on the 401, of all places.
I grew up driving on the 401. I know
enough not to play in the traffic. Well,
the bikes pulled up, stopping on the
road in a location where there is only
a gravel shoulder, causing me to brake
onto the gravel, coming to a skidding
stop, while the transports are looking for
a place to go. I am not sure everyone was
really aware of the magnitude of that
situation, but it passed, as did all the
cars and trucks starting a new scene
and off we went again.
As Peter picked up the pace again I
pulled up and requested he bring it
down a notch. I knew I would have
to take some fl ak about a Yamaha
not being able to keep up but it was
more of a case of concern for all
our crew as we were closing in on
12 lanes of Toronto traffic. To top
things off as we hit the express lanes
and collector lanes it started to rain
which of course slowed us down
again frustrating the vehicle traffi c.
Lucky for us the rain was short
lived, by the time we headed south
on the Don Valley Parkway the sky
had cleared but traffic was almost at
a standstill as the rush hour was still
underway.
We made our way up to Coxwell
Street fuelled up for the morning,
then headed for 35 Binswood Peter’s
house. Peter’s wife Indra met us as
we pulled in the gate; six bikes is not
a normal site in her yard.
We unravelled a little bit, kicked
back with a beer, tried out the pool,
checked the phones for messages,
then we sat down to a fabulous meal
of ribs, steak, fresh corn on the cob
and salad, along with a couple of
bottles of Italian Amarone, finishing
with a little single malt and good
conversation with good friends.
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