The Flight of Pegasus is a humorous on-going series of articles written by Paddy Tyson, a wandering Irishman we met in Moncton, NB at Atlanticade in 2008 after he and his Aprilia Pegaso 650, nicknamed Peggy (short for Pegasus), landed in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Having been a motorcycle courier in Great Britain and having travelled most the world by motorcycle, Paddy has so far logged more than one million miles on two wheels.
This is the third part in the series about his travels as he leaves Quebec, finds his way through Ontario and heads into the prairies.
Riding a motorcycle on the wrong side of the road is one thing, and given that I am still alive I seem to have got the hang of it, but driving a car is something else entirely. Jammed into the left side of the car and feeling dreadfully claustrophobic, it is as though there is a huge appendage attached to my right, rather like a sidecar. To me it even felt that the car I was in could tip over on right-handers the same way. To add insult to the general imbalance and feelings of ineptitude, I even banged my left hand on the door every time I needed to change gear, which was particularly futile given that it was an automatic.
My time spent with family in Montreal gave me the opportunity to humiliate myself regularly as I drove my Great Aunt around and became an unashamed tourist, visiting such great landmarks as the world famous Botanical Gardens with the not terribly helpful French-only information sheets and of course, the Olympic Stadium, or Big Owe as I believe you Canadians justifiably call it. Destined to cost $134 million and to be finished in 1976, it ended up being $1.4 billion and didn’t get finished with its fancy opening roof until 1987. I think in the building trade that’s called a bit of an overrun.
I’m sure you know all the stories of bits falling off the tower, then the fire, the roof failing to open, the new replacement roof falling in, painting lines on the underside of the roof because it is so low baseballs hit it, and finally, in 2006 when the tobacco tax that had been introduced to pay off all the increased debts, had almost done its job, some bright spark in the government banned smoking indoors and prolonged the debt for another six months as people stopped buying cigarettes.
As stunning as the stadium looks, especially from behind, with its tower rearing up like a giant cobra, a monumental tribute to a huge financial disaster, that is not why I was so intrigued and fascinated to see it. No, for me it will forever be remembered as the place where, in August ‘76, just three days after the closing ceremony, a small blond seven-year-old Irish boy and his big sister competed against each other in the long jump pit and then managed to run a complete lap of the track while their mother sat in the Royal Box and watched, no doubt cheering them on…until security guards arrived and threw us all out. It was much harder to sneak in this time.
With the U.S. and Canadian dollar roughly the same value, I made the mistake of using a few U.S. quarters I’d picked up somewhere, while in the post office. The clerk understandably refused them, so I paid with a note and then noticed that part of my change was American. His reply? “Unlucky dude.” No double standards then.
I felt it was time to leave French Quebec, lest I develop a palate for fine wine, some fashion sense or even become a good lover, and so, in a not very direct way I headed for Ottawa.
Having had rain for most of my travels so far, the weather had turned in my favour. After leaving the mountains and famously up-market ski resorts around Mont Tremblant, I made my way in a northerly loop that let me play on the perfectly graded gravel roads through rolling hills of grassland and forest and tiny lakes.
I know Ottawa has a reputation for not being the liveliest of Canadian cities, but for me it was a gem. I didn’t know for instance, that Velcro was invented in the central government research building, though I can’t imagine what they were doing in their lunch break to think of that. Perhaps someone was having difficulty with that other Canadian invention, the zipper. Well, you know what they say about academics.
Ottawa became the capital of Canada in 1857 because Toronto, Montreal, Quebec City and Kingston all wanted to be, so to stop the childish bickering Queen Vic said “sod this for a game of darts” or something possibly more Victorian, and chose a completely different village. Its main criteria were that it was far enough away from the border to be safe from the USA, who had a habit of invading. Imagine that. Still, given that Canada is the only country to ever manage to burn down the White House, they may have had due cause.
The Brits built the 200-mile Rideau Canal to Kingston as part of the defenses against the Yanks. Well, we all know what a lightning quick method of transportation the canal can be, with all those locks. That would surely have got the reinforcements there in no time. Today the canal is the world’s longest ice-skating rink for a goodly percentage of the year, the winter apparently being something of an oversight on the part of the defense design team. In 2007, it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, recognized as a ‘work of human creative genius’, so the blindingly obvious still escapes some people.
I went to the Canadian Central Archive. I registered as a researcher from the last College in the UK that I taught at and got myself access to your Nation’s records. Sorry, but I promise I am not now, nor have I ever been, a terrorist. I hope that helps.
I was looking for, and managed to find, the records relating to my Great Uncle Owen who arrived from Ireland via Halifax in 1924. It was a really moving moment, seeing the scrawled handwriting of the immigration officer who entered his arrival details as a third-class passenger with the equivalent of $25 in his pocket. Because things never really change, he too was on his way to Alberta for work. Prospect Avenue, Calgary, to be precise. Maybe that’s where I should head next.
I returned to the bike and found a note attached. Not a parking note, for being on the sidewalk by the front door, but a “Hey, what a really cool bike” note, inviting me to come for a ride with a group of BMW riders who work at the Ministry of Justice. Barely two miles out of Quebec and I have become visible again; people want to talk to me. The downside of leaving Quebec is that the signposting has reverted to the Canadian standard. Generally absent.
I needed to get to Toronto as I had an appointment to keep, but do you think there are signs to Canada’s biggest city. No of course not, it’s so big everyone must know where it is. Silly me. I pulled on to a gas station forecourt and endeavoured to get the attendant’s attention as he was going inside.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find the four-one-seven highway to Toronto?”
“You need the four-seventeen” and he went inside. I called after him.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where the four-seventeen is?”
“Yeah, go down Robson” (or something) and he was gone. I dismounted, followed and accosted him next to the miles of peanut butter flavoured confectionery.
“I can see you are busy, but could you tell me where Robson is?”
“Yeah sure. Right on the 3rd lights then left at Dairy Queen. Then you need the 416”
“I do? When? To get to the 417?”
“No, Toronto.” “WHAT? Well which is it 16 or 17?” But he was gone into the office.
I eventually found all eight lanes of the 417, but there was only one small sign to the side of the on-ramp, which meant upsetting about ten drivers as I wildly crossed lanes at the last minute. Profanities aside, it was a piece of cake. Then of course, the heavens opened, which was probably in response to all those profanities, and the taps remained fully open all the way to Toronto. Wow, don’t you guys like over-banding, the black shiny tar used to fill in the cracks in the road surface and the stuff that is so much fun in the rain. Not! There must be some bonus system in operation for the construction crews on Highway 7 if they use their annual supply on one road.
In Toronto with my brother-in-law and family, I treated Peggy to a much needed oil change and even bought some extortionately priced rear brake pads at the BMW dealer, but then someone needs to pay for the granite staircase in the showroom. Again I had some time to be a tourist and discover that the glass used on the viewing floor of the CN Tower is able to withstand the weight of 14 hippos, which is no doubt the preferred scale of measurement for the construction trade, but I’m not sure of the likelihood of 14 hippos getting in the elevator, even if they had been in town. There’s a more realistic chance of 14 moose being in the vicinity having misread the road signs on their way to BC.
According to the UN, Toronto is now the most ethnically diverse city in the whole world, leading to some fantastic culinary experiences, one of which laid me low for a few days in the way only culinary experiences can, but I digress.
I also collected my new Corbin seat that I’d ordered because it proved nearly impossible to get one back in Europe before I left. Oh how very, very lovely. A seat has got to be the greatest aftermarket investment any 650 dual sport rider can make, after the little protective grill on the headlight of course.
After a week and a half exploring the city it was time to bid farewell to my wonderful hosts and head for Enniskillen, Ontario, which probably isn’t something you hear everyday. I grant you, Enniskillen isn’t terribly big, having one shop, a traffic light and a stop sign, but it is built on a big hill, imaginatively called ‘Big Hill’ and oh what a history it has.
The area was settled by emigrants from my own hometown of Enniskillen in Northern Ireland, and judging by the fact that they built four separate churches in the new village, they didn’t manage to leave all their old ideas behind them either, but they did bring a work ethic and great business acumen. One was a Mr. McLaughlin, who started a small farm implement company and then a buggy business. You may not have heard of The McLaughlin Carriage Company and I’ll grant you it’s not a catchy name, but not long after expanding the business to Oshawa, he changed the name and moved into those new horseless carriage things. You may have heard of the rebranded name—they settled on GMC.
Now McLaughlin’s eldest son Jack was more into chemistry than engineering and set about making himself a drink that was nicer than the water of the Great Lakes that everyone was using as a sewer at the time. He came up with a dry, gingery ale and given that he was in Canada and had grown up on a big hill called ‘Big Hill,’ it must have seemed obvious what to call it. The thing is, Canada Dry really seemed to stick.
From Enniskillen I meandered through a landscape that was much flatter than I had imagined, and made my way via a muscle car show, to Barrie and the home of your esteemed Editorial team and their delightfully huggable dog, Diesel. The reality of the distances yet to cover and the imminent arrival of the first snows in Alaska meant that my stay was all too brief, but I had an excellent time and managed to meet one of Canada’s most famous bike racers and the 9th person to ever lap the Isle of Man course at an average of 100 mph (160 km/h), Michelle Duff. She had a Yamaha factory ride for three years in the 1960’s when that meant slinging the bike in the back of your van and driving yourself all over Europe to the various GPs and TTs. Long before the days of Lear jets and comfortable team Winnebagos, a rider had to be a mechanic and an engineer too. The days of heroes.
Of course I had the opportunity to become a bit of a competition hero myself when I then attended one of Yamaha’s off-road schools. Ok, perhaps I am dreaming, but I did manage to get some ‘big air’ on the motocross track, or at least ‘air’, and with a bit more practise I hope that I will one day learn how to land without smashing my face on the handlebars. I also had a go at riding over logs and other immovable obstacles as well as climbing and descending near vertical inclines. All great experience for the equatorial jungles to come and I’ll try and adapt everything I’ve learnt to help with the extra 50 kilos of luggage, fuel and water that are strapped onto an already heavy Peggy. I had a really great time and the Yamaha people couldn’t have been nicer, so I felt a tinge of guilt using an Aprilia as I set off for Vancouver and the Prairies.
Oh the Prairies, land of wheat, big skies and big storms. I was looking forward to it. If you ride all day in one direction in Ireland, you fall into the sea. Here I was going to be able to ride all day and try to spot a tractor. First I had to get out of Ontario and how far is that? How can one Province be so big?
I had my first bear experiences near Marathon, a whole lot of moose encounters just about everywhere and really enjoyed cruising the scenic road around Superior, even when I realized the severity of my rear tire situation. The weather was kind to me, and needed to be. After failing to find a tire in Thunder Bay I continued gingerly toward Winnipeg because canvas and wire just doesn’t have the same adhesive qualities as rubber. I cannot condone anyone riding with a tire in such condition, but sometimes when wear gets to a certain point it seems to increase dramatically and I got caught out. It’s true, I could have waited seven days in Thunder Bay, but…
Anyway, it’s all part of the adventure, and that’s what I’m here for. What I’m not here for is the mosquitoes and in Manitoba that means West Nile Virus, which is probably the only thing I didn’t get a jab for, given that I wasn’t planning on heading to the West Nile. I set up camp wearing my helmet and gloves, but that offered little respite. The more I was bitten the more I actually started dreaming about dusty fields of grain and being able to see the curvature of the earth simply by standing on the footpegs.
Please, bring it on.
