Every ride needs a reason to exist. Which isn’t to say every journey has to fueled by a significant reason. A trip to an ice cream stand is a good excuse to mount up. Coffee shops, too, are always a draw. But for me one destination stands above all others: circumnavigating a lake. And it doesn’t have to be one of the Great Lakes. I’m happy circling any body of water. Perhaps the draw is life itself—our bodies are half composed of water and our brains, in particular, are 80 percent water. But that’s not all. The undulating shorelines of lakes mean that the roads that wrap around them must do the same. And what motorcyclist doesn’t love a road that whimsically follows nature’s lead?
One lake I’ve had my eye on for years is Nipissing in northern Ontario.
Nipissing my not be a capital G Great Lake, but it’s a lake that’s great by any other measure. With the Mattawa River to its northeast and the French River at its southwest, Nipissing was a busy place in the heyday of the fur trade. And while fishing and wakeboarding may not have the historical gravitas of the fur trade, Nipissing remains a significant body of water.
For my lap-of-a-lake I called upon North Bay native and sidecar motorcycle racer Jen Carriere to ride our second bike, Yamaha’s agreeable Tracer. But Jen had other ideas. In El Camino episode six from this, our first season, we profiled Jen’s first race on the sidecar schedule, in which she tumbled off, fortunately without injuries. But Jen backed up her early tumble with a much more significant get-off later in the season, in which she broke her wrist and banged up her knee and leg. I assumed Jen was done for the year. But never underestimate a northerner—they’re as
tough as an anvil—and when it came time to lap Nipissing, Jen (gingerly) climbed on the back of my bike and off we went.
My preconceived notions of North Bay as a rough-and-tumble logging town were laughably inaccurate. The restaurants are plentiful and varied. Churchill’s, named after Winston, had amazingly good food in an atmosphere that oozed mad-men era cool. And North Bay’s waterfront, which, again, I thought would be log booms and industrial buildings, is beautiful parkland with one of my favourite attractions: a carousel. When my daughter was young, we’d make a twice-a-season pilgrimage to a carousel close to home. But while my daughter grew out of riding a carousel, I never did. I even roped Jen onto it, but she was nonplussed. Perhaps, had the carousel spun out of control and tossed her off, it would have piqued her interest.
We rolled out of North Bay on our counterclockwise lap of Lake Nipissing late in the afternoon. Not the usual time to begin a trip, but with hours of daylight remaining and with just a short, half-hour jaunt to Sturgeon Falls ahead of us, there was no need to rush. Time, in those infrequent
WE ROLLED OUT OF NORTH BAY ON OUR COUNTERCLOCKWISE LAP OF LAKE NIPISSING LATE IN THE AFTERNOON.
moments when we have enough of it, is, next to good health, life’s greatest luxury. And right behind time and health in our list of priorities is strong coffee. Fortunately, we just made it to the Sturgeon Falls location of Twiggs coffee house just before closing, so the day was a success by any measure.
The next morning, we woke to glorious sunshine and charted our course for the day. Continuing westbound on the Trans-Canada Highway, we cut off at the junction of Route 64 and meandered south. Route 64 is a beautiful road. And we’re weren’t the only ones to think so. Motorcycles were everywhere on this Saturday morning in August, and when we reached the charmingly retro Lavigne Tavern, we understood why—we’d inadvertently stumbled onto a poker run.
After stretching our legs in the tavern’s parking lot, we remounted our Yamaha and continued working our way southwest toward Mashkinonje Provincial Park. From there it was on to Sucker Creek Landing then to the French River Trading Centre, where Jen and I debated the merits of regular vanilla ice cream vs. French vanilla ice cream. It turns out French vanilla ice cream uses the yoke of the egg whereas regular vanilla does not. (You’ve got to love the French—they will not be denied life’s pleasures.)
And because no trip to the French River is complete without time at the French River Visitor Centre, we checked out the museum and then walked out back to the bridge that spans—you guessed it—the French River, where the view is never anything less than awe inspiring. Ah, I said to Jen, my kingdom for a canoe and a month’s vacation.
Instead of our usual roadside hotel or motel for the night, we turned off the beaten path and headed into the wilds of Monetville to a riverside lodge. And, in a first for me while traveling by motorcycle, the rains didn’t roll in until after we entered the lodge. As the rains came down, gently at first then more insistently over time, I stood at the window and watched a pair of canoes glide past on the French River, the paddlers’ body language clearly showing their dissatisfaction with the weather—as motorcyclists, we understand their pain.
While I peeled and chopped vegetables, Jen, one handed or not, cooked salmon for the El Camino crew. And at an embar-
rassingly early hour we all trundled off to our rooms for the night. I’d encourage anyone suffering from insomnia to spend a few days on the seat of a motorcycle— surely, you’ll sleep like a baby.
Continuing our run of exceptionally good luck with weather, we were met the next morning by clear skies and one notso-minor oversight. In our haste to get to the lodge to beat the rain the night before, we’d overlooked buying coffee. As we suited up to ride, Jen and I tried to remember the last time we’d done anything of significance in a morning before coffee. After a long silence, with the two of us staring into space, we agreed that Wayne Gretzky was in the prime of his career the last time we’d tried accomplishing anything remotely challenging without caffeine as a kick-starter.
We set off toward our seemingly distant first stop of the day, breakfast—and coffee—at a restaurant called Jake’s Place in the town of Port Loring. I needn’t have feared coffee deprivation. The fresh morning air and a brisk pace blew the
AFTER STRETCHING OUR LEGS IN THE TAVERN’S PARKING LOT, WE
REMOUNTED OUR YAMAHA AND CONTINUED WORKING OUR WAY SOUTHWEST
TOWARD MASHKINONJE PROVINCIAL PARK. FROM THERE IT WAS ON TO SUCKER CREEK LANDING THEN TO THE FRENCH RIVER TRADING CENTRE, WHERE JEN AND I DEBATED THE MERITS OF REGULAR VANILLA ICE CREAM VS. FRENCH VANILLA ICE CREAM.
cobwebs out of my brain as effectively as, well, coffee. I’d never have thought that possible. Upon leaving Monetville we continued westbound on Route 64 and then turned southbound on Highway 69 for about 20 minutes, cutting back eastbound on Route 522.
Nothing focuses the mind of a motorcyclist like a great road, and before I knew
it we were pulling into Jake’s Place. As soon as we opened the door the smell of coffee and bacon hit us like a plank in the back of the skull—they had my attention. After a hearty breakfast and six cups of coffee, we continued on Route 522 to Farley’s Corners, where we turned north onto Route 524, which became Route 534. As we neared the town of Nipissing, we turned onto Route 654, which led us to the find of the trip.
I love secondhand stores. But I’m very particular. I’ve no interest in clothes, dolls, porcelain figurines, or under-stuffed Victorian chairs. What I look for are things I don’t know I’m looking for—unexpected oddities are my thing. And as soon as I saw a sandwich-board sign at the end of a rural driveway with the words “Dead People’s Things For Sale” I had a feeling I’d struck gold. I wasn’t wrong.
Theresa and Tom Lewis run the Nipissing Corner Artique, which stocked, on the day we stopped, a selection of collapsible fishing rods, a makeshift doorbell made out
of a bear trap, a sleigh, and a tuba. Outside, there was an old truck and a 1960s snowmobile which may, or may not, have been for sale. And Theresa and Tom love bluegrass music, which meant a conversation that had Jen wondering what on earth we were talking about. As reluctant as we were to leave, the afternoon was moving on, and it was time to return to North Bay and wrap up our trip.
As we approached the southern reaches of North Bay, we stopped in the hamlet of Callander for one last look over Lake Nipissing. It was the perfect late afternoon summer day. The kind of day, in mid-winter reminiscing, that you struggle to believe ever existed. I woke early the next morning, a Monday, to return to the south, and, sure enough, halfway home the rains came. And then I hit southern Ontario civilization—which is code for traffic, and it was all I could do to keep going and not swing around and head back north again. Maybe it’s time to take up the tuba. And I just happen to know where I can find one.