Our morning started out bright and cheery. We had our oatmeal and coffee while a big bunny at the end of our campsite ate patches of clover, totally unconcerned with us. We headed out and hoped the rain was over for us.
The first 100 miles snaked along Lake Superior, and we had continual glimpses of the lake through openings in the thick trees. We rode up and down the rolling terrain, in and out of curves, always looking to the right to catch sight of the lake.
As we headed east over the past week, I think we all instinctively expected that we were moving toward more population. Maybe not DC metropolitan area type population, but, you know, the crowded east coast kind of population. However, when we looked at the map, we could see each day that our route through Canada was only about 100 miles north of North Dakota, then Minnnesota, then Wisconsin, and now Michigan. These are not particularly populous states, especially the northern reaches of these states, so it should have been no surprise to us that the towns we passed through were tiny and with limited services.
We rode on, continually noticing the gray clouds on the horizon closing in on us. We pulled over and put on the rain gear. It was only a matter of time before the rain caught us. S had a few days back mentioned over dinner how she had been thinking the only way she would ever get K to agree to this kind of trip again was to get an RV that would hold the bikes in the back. S serenaded us with her ruminations on what the RV would hold and the comfort it would provide. She extolled the convenience of one person driving while others napped or enjoyed the scenery or made sandwiches for the group.
As we rode through sprinkles then drizzles, all I could do was fantasize about that RV. All I could think about was being dry and being able to chat together and look-look-look to my heart’s content without having to worry about running off the road or into the person in front of me. I pulled my chin into my jacket and bent forward into the raindrops, sulking, and picking out additional features for the RV.
K and I were not pulling trailers, and so our bikes could go 180 miles or so before refueling. S and L could go about 40 miles less than that on a 5-gallon tank, so we always tried to plan gas stops at about 100 to 120 miles. When you spend this kind of time on a bike, you need to stop about every 2 hours anyway, just to stretch your legs and refocus your attention.
We had been driving and driving without seeing any kind of town or gas station, and now our trip odometers were showing about 120 miles on this tank. We had seen a couple of billboards for some kind of Native American trading post ahead, but it was impossible to tell if it would have gas or was just an outlet for handmade craft items. All of a sudden, we turned a corner and saw a building with a gas pump out front. Unfortunately, we had so little warning that we didn’t have time to turn. We were on a winding, wet, two-lane road, so our next opportunity to stop and turn around was at a scenic pull-off about 8 miles down the road. We deliberated. Go back and hope the gas was operational (these far-flung establishments are often out of gas), or continue on to the trading post that we thought was 15-18 miles ahead, from our best recollection of the billboards we had seen.
We mulled it over. If we continued, we would get to the trading post at about 145 miles or so on the tank and two of us would be running on fumes. About then, another car pulled in from the opposite direction, and K was dispatched to go ask them how far it was from the nearest gas they had seen. K is always sent on these errands, because her face and demeanor obviously state to the world that she only uses her powers for good. She could get the nastiest curmudgeon in the world to melt and give her a kind word. I trailed along. I don’t have the same magical powers as K, but apparently I do have a “girl next door” face that is so unintimidating that wherever I go in the whole wide world, I am continually picked out of a crowd and asked for directions.
The couple told K that they had passed a place about 15 or 20 minutes back that had gas. We figured that must be our trading post. K asked, “So, it’s about 15 or 20 minutes ahead of us, so it’s less than 20 miles, right?” The Canadian couple faltered and said, “Well, it depends on how fast you drive.” We have become so accustomed to the fact that a speed of 60 miles per hour means a mile per minute that we use this rule-of-thumb estimate all the time in coming up with a ballpark range for traveling. The metric system has no such easy equivalent.
We chanced it, and 18 miles later, we pulled into a gas station surrounded by a cheesy tourist trap of little Indian-themed shops full of every ticky-tack tchotchke and trinket and knickknack and gew gaw. Bears whittled out of acorns and coasters made of twigs and scat encased in Lucite. Crystal inukshuks. Taffy totem poles and fudge wigwams. T-shirts with trite slogans. Kids running wild everywhere. This was apparently the first major souvenir destination in Canada from the Michigan crossing at Sault Ste. Marie, and all those children cooped up in cars for hours were let out to burn off energy. Four bikers also walked the encampment, just as happy to be off two wheels for awhile.
One advantage of road tripping by motorcycle is that no one expects you to haul souvenirs back for them when you have such limited packing room. An hour later, we left the trading post with no trades.
Our destination was the Sault Ste. Marie KOA on the Canadian side. Michigan has a city of the same name on the other side of the border. It would be our last night in Canada. It was a bit wet but not actively raining, and so S and L pressed for camping again, while K and I angled for a hotel. We didn’t press it but hoped the KOA would be full. No such luck.
L had been joking that by the time she and S got came out after registering, K and I would have pulled off and gotten ourselves a motel instead. It was our game to pretend that K and I would hotel it while S and L would camp it. As we turned around and were driving to our site, S and L led. L waved at us, as if to say, “Bye bye now.” It was all I needed. I drove right past the turn off to our site and headed back out to the road. K followed me. We sat at the KOA driveway and thought we needed to make them sweat it a little, so we decided to drive down the road to the closest gas station/convenience mart and pick up some sodas or something to go with dinner.
We realized our little joke had gone wrong when we drove 4 miles without seeing a gas station, and then even that one was closed. In the end, it took us about 15 minutes to find a place, and by then, we figured S and L might actually be getting worried. Our only defense was to bring back some serious loot to make up for it. We bought drinks along with chips and salsa, and then we headed back. Now it wasn’t even fun anymore. A joke is 5 or 10 minutes. Half an hour is just cruel. We pulled back into the KOA and faced terse smiles by S and L who said, “You think you’re reeaaalll funny, don’t you?” The chips and salsa were considered an acceptable peace offering.
We were given the least desirable lot of the place – it was right next to the RV wash station. No one washed their RV’s while we were there, but the site obviously always had standing water because the mosquitoes were brutal. Instead of trying to dine at our site, the KOA had a nice pavilion with minimal mosquitoes, and it even had a big screen TV that played DVD movies on a 2-hour schedule. We took our chips, salsa, freezer bag meals, and hot water pot to the pavilion to a lovely dinner while watching Robin Williams in “RV.” The movie was hilarious and a great evening together watching Robin Williams have a far worse time in his RV than we could hope to complain about on our bikes. Still, we started thinking about real plans to rent an RV for our next big trip instead of riding motorcycles.
Daily Recap: 330 miles, Province: Ontario (Sault St Marie)
The first 100 miles snaked along Lake Superior, and we had continual glimpses of the lake through openings in the thick trees. We rode up and down the rolling terrain, in and out of curves, always looking to the right to catch sight of the lake.
As we headed east over the past week, I think we all instinctively expected that we were moving toward more population. Maybe not DC metropolitan area type population, but, you know, the crowded east coast kind of population. However, when we looked at the map, we could see each day that our route through Canada was only about 100 miles north of North Dakota, then Minnnesota, then Wisconsin, and now Michigan. These are not particularly populous states, especially the northern reaches of these states, so it should have been no surprise to us that the towns we passed through were tiny and with limited services.
We rode on, continually noticing the gray clouds on the horizon closing in on us. We pulled over and put on the rain gear. It was only a matter of time before the rain caught us. S had a few days back mentioned over dinner how she had been thinking the only way she would ever get K to agree to this kind of trip again was to get an RV that would hold the bikes in the back. S serenaded us with her ruminations on what the RV would hold and the comfort it would provide. She extolled the convenience of one person driving while others napped or enjoyed the scenery or made sandwiches for the group.
As we rode through sprinkles then drizzles, all I could do was fantasize about that RV. All I could think about was being dry and being able to chat together and look-look-look to my heart’s content without having to worry about running off the road or into the person in front of me. I pulled my chin into my jacket and bent forward into the raindrops, sulking, and picking out additional features for the RV.
K and I were not pulling trailers, and so our bikes could go 180 miles or so before refueling. S and L could go about 40 miles less than that on a 5-gallon tank, so we always tried to plan gas stops at about 100 to 120 miles. When you spend this kind of time on a bike, you need to stop about every 2 hours anyway, just to stretch your legs and refocus your attention.
We had been driving and driving without seeing any kind of town or gas station, and now our trip odometers were showing about 120 miles on this tank. We had seen a couple of billboards for some kind of Native American trading post ahead, but it was impossible to tell if it would have gas or was just an outlet for handmade craft items. All of a sudden, we turned a corner and saw a building with a gas pump out front. Unfortunately, we had so little warning that we didn’t have time to turn. We were on a winding, wet, two-lane road, so our next opportunity to stop and turn around was at a scenic pull-off about 8 miles down the road. We deliberated. Go back and hope the gas was operational (these far-flung establishments are often out of gas), or continue on to the trading post that we thought was 15-18 miles ahead, from our best recollection of the billboards we had seen.
We mulled it over. If we continued, we would get to the trading post at about 145 miles or so on the tank and two of us would be running on fumes. About then, another car pulled in from the opposite direction, and K was dispatched to go ask them how far it was from the nearest gas they had seen. K is always sent on these errands, because her face and demeanor obviously state to the world that she only uses her powers for good. She could get the nastiest curmudgeon in the world to melt and give her a kind word. I trailed along. I don’t have the same magical powers as K, but apparently I do have a “girl next door” face that is so unintimidating that wherever I go in the whole wide world, I am continually picked out of a crowd and asked for directions.
The couple told K that they had passed a place about 15 or 20 minutes back that had gas. We figured that must be our trading post. K asked, “So, it’s about 15 or 20 minutes ahead of us, so it’s less than 20 miles, right?” The Canadian couple faltered and said, “Well, it depends on how fast you drive.” We have become so accustomed to the fact that a speed of 60 miles per hour means a mile per minute that we use this rule-of-thumb estimate all the time in coming up with a ballpark range for traveling. The metric system has no such easy equivalent.
We chanced it, and 18 miles later, we pulled into a gas station surrounded by a cheesy tourist trap of little Indian-themed shops full of every ticky-tack tchotchke and trinket and knickknack and gew gaw. Bears whittled out of acorns and coasters made of twigs and scat encased in Lucite. Crystal inukshuks. Taffy totem poles and fudge wigwams. T-shirts with trite slogans. Kids running wild everywhere. This was apparently the first major souvenir destination in Canada from the Michigan crossing at Sault Ste. Marie, and all those children cooped up in cars for hours were let out to burn off energy. Four bikers also walked the encampment, just as happy to be off two wheels for awhile.
One advantage of road tripping by motorcycle is that no one expects you to haul souvenirs back for them when you have such limited packing room. An hour later, we left the trading post with no trades.
Our destination was the Sault Ste. Marie KOA on the Canadian side. Michigan has a city of the same name on the other side of the border. It would be our last night in Canada. It was a bit wet but not actively raining, and so S and L pressed for camping again, while K and I angled for a hotel. We didn’t press it but hoped the KOA would be full. No such luck.
L had been joking that by the time she and S got came out after registering, K and I would have pulled off and gotten ourselves a motel instead. It was our game to pretend that K and I would hotel it while S and L would camp it. As we turned around and were driving to our site, S and L led. L waved at us, as if to say, “Bye bye now.” It was all I needed. I drove right past the turn off to our site and headed back out to the road. K followed me. We sat at the KOA driveway and thought we needed to make them sweat it a little, so we decided to drive down the road to the closest gas station/convenience mart and pick up some sodas or something to go with dinner.
We realized our little joke had gone wrong when we drove 4 miles without seeing a gas station, and then even that one was closed. In the end, it took us about 15 minutes to find a place, and by then, we figured S and L might actually be getting worried. Our only defense was to bring back some serious loot to make up for it. We bought drinks along with chips and salsa, and then we headed back. Now it wasn’t even fun anymore. A joke is 5 or 10 minutes. Half an hour is just cruel. We pulled back into the KOA and faced terse smiles by S and L who said, “You think you’re reeaaalll funny, don’t you?” The chips and salsa were considered an acceptable peace offering.
We were given the least desirable lot of the place – it was right next to the RV wash station. No one washed their RV’s while we were there, but the site obviously always had standing water because the mosquitoes were brutal. Instead of trying to dine at our site, the KOA had a nice pavilion with minimal mosquitoes, and it even had a big screen TV that played DVD movies on a 2-hour schedule. We took our chips, salsa, freezer bag meals, and hot water pot to the pavilion to a lovely dinner while watching Robin Williams in “RV.” The movie was hilarious and a great evening together watching Robin Williams have a far worse time in his RV than we could hope to complain about on our bikes. Still, we started thinking about real plans to rent an RV for our next big trip instead of riding motorcycles.
Daily Recap: 330 miles, Province: Ontario (Sault St Marie)
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