Our newly renovated showroom now features a prestigious lineup including BMW Motorrad, Indian Motorcycle, and MV Agusta.
Discover a world where power meets elegance, and passion meets precision. 1100 Champlain Court, Whitby, ON L1N 6K9
There was a time when I believed that all roads in Ontario had been designed with a straightedge.
How else to explain the tyranny of the grid pattern, where roads run straight and true to the horizon? But then my old motorcycle-magazine boss, the late Bruce Reeve, told me to pack an overnight bag and meet him early the next morning. Bruce said we were off to ride great roads. I didn’t believe him. I should have believed him. He was always right.
Non-motorcyclists (yes, there are such people) think that all we talk about are motorcycles. But we know that’s not true. What motorcyclists talk about when we get together is where to ride. And where Bruce took me is one of the great places to ride in the province. And I’d been telling my El Camino compadre Jake Hudson about these roads for so long I either had to shut up about it or drag him along for a ride. I chose the latter.
A good starting point for a loop though The Highlands, as the region is dubbed, is the town of Haliburton. Jake and I convened on one of the best days of the summer. The temperature was in the low 20s under clear skies and the forecast for the next three days was sunshine perfection.
From Haliburton, we took the 118 northwest to the 35, and then rode north to the town of Dorset. Eighteen kilometres is hardly a hearty run at the onset of a trip, but El Camino’s mantra is that no espresso machine shall be passed, and
so our first stop was at Dorset’s Pizza On Earth (that’s wordplay on “peace on earth,” though we didn’t get the joke until it was explained to us). The wood-fired pizza smelled astoundingly good, but we’d just nicely digested breakfast, and so after cappuccino we saddled up and headed for the Dorset lookout tower.
I’d climbed Dorset tower in the past, but it’d been a few years, and since this was the 100th anniversary of the original tower,
I’D CLIMBED DORSET TOWER IN THE PAST, BUT IT’D BEEN A FEW YEARS, AND SINCE THIS WAS THE 100TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE ORIGINAL TOWER, IT WAS TIME FOR A REVISITING.
Lake of Bays and Kawagama Lake—from 30 metres up—never disappoints.
Half the day was gone and we’d hardly ridden enough to warm our engine oil. Time to do something about that. After refueling in Dwight, we rode east on Hwy. 60 through the bottom tip of Algonquin Park. As we approached Barry’s Bay, I’d anticipated a sleepy hamlet. I was wrong.
The town, at midday, was bustling. And on the main street we spotted what you rarely see anymore. A proper used car lot. With very old cars. I was partial to the 1957 Mercury while Jake was drawn to a crusty 1947 Ford. We fell into agreement, however, that hand-painted lettering on the doors of old tow trucks is eternally cool.
When you travel, you learn that every town on every road makes a claim to exclusivity. And the quirkier, the better. In the case of Barry’s Bay, it’s that the test pilot for the star-crossed Avro Arrow aircraft retired to the town and opened a guest lodge. The Arrow, which is subject to more conspiracy theories than JFK’s assassination, was a 1950s Canadian fighter jet killed on the eve of its production by the Diefenbaker Conservative government. Cue the political skullduggery, as at the time, the Arrow was considered the most advanced fighter jet in the world.
The next roadside attraction, in the town of Wilno, is far less politically charged than the Avro Arrow debacle. Wilno’s claim to fame is that it was Canada’s first Polish settlement. Which means one thing: perogies at the Wilno Tavern. We ended our day at the Best Western in Pembroke, and before we rode south the next morning, we trolled around town checking out the murals Pembroke is known for. And it was then that Jake and I shared a sinking feeling—a feeling that struck us both at the same time.
While refueling the day before in Dwight, I was distracted by a rare KTM RC8—the company’s only true superbike—in the gas station’s parking lot. I just had to show Jake. But Jake and I don’t multitask. We struggle just to do one thing at once. Which is a round-about way of confessing that we rode off without paying for gas, which left Jake red-faced as he called the station with a credit card to make amends.
From Pembroke, we worked our way southeast toward the town of Calabogie. But instead of relying on know-it-all GPS
navigation, we went old-school style. I looked at a map of the region over breakfast, committed the route to memory, and rode off. In the Palaeolithic period, back before the smartphone, this is how I navigated. I could hold a dozen turns in my head at once and travel three-hundred kilometres confidently without needing to reconfirm the route. Those days are gone. Ten minutes outside Pembroke my mind drew a blank—technology has rendered my mind incapable of functioning the way it once did. But I didn’t worry. No turn is a wrong turn when you have the day to kill and great roads at your disposal. Eventually, after a circuitous route that had Jake wondering if I’d lost my bearings (or my mind) we descended into Calabogie on twisty, challenging road 34.
Calabogie. Just the word makes me feel good. If Ontario had a competition to determine which community is its motorcycling mecca, Calabogie would be firmly in the running. It’s the epicenter for some of the best roads in the province. To the south of the village runs the 511 with
THE NEXT ROADSIDE ATTRACTION, IN THE TOWN OF WILNO, IS FAR LESS POLITICALLY CHARGED THAN THE AVRO ARROW DEBACLE. WILNO’S CLAIM TO FAME IS THAT IT WAS CANADA’S FIRST POLISH SETTLEMENT. WHICH MEANS ONE THING: PEROGIES AT THE WILNO TAVERN.
its dramatic elevation changes. The 511 also leads you to Calabogie Motorsports Park, a sublime road-racing track where you can fulfill your knee-dragging desires. But before we rode anywhere we required fortification—lunch at the Redneck Bistro, which, mercifully, isn’t as redneck as its name implies.
To the east and west of Calabogie runs the 508. Eastbound the road follows the Madawaska River—roads that follow rivers rarely lead you astray—and to the west the road becomes nothing less than one of the great routes in the province. By the numbers, the route from Calabogie to the town of Griffith is 54 kilometres by roads numbered 508, 65, and 71. But most call it by its other name: Centennial Lake Road.
At its eastern terminus, the road has glorious, beautifully sweeping corners that don’t require you to break the
speed limit to have a glorious time. (While we’re on the subject of speed, the road should be treated with respect. Trucks hauling fishing boats are common. As are ATVs, two-legged hikers, and four-legged critters of all kinds.) The beauty of Centennial Lake Road is that its complexion is constantly changing. From tight corners in dark woods to gently sweeping turns in open meadows that run down to blue-water lakes, the road has it all. Fifty-four kilometres doesn’t seem like much, but at Griffith you’ll want to
stop, refresh, and prepare for the next leg of the trip.
Highway 41 is a welcome change of pace after Centennial Lake Road. Gone are the tight, technical sections and in its place 41 has open vistas and long, sweeping corners. And while motorcyclists should never be
CONTINUING WESTBOUND ON HIGHWAY 28, THE VIEW RETURNED TO SOMETHING MORE FAMILIAR—THOUGH NO LESS DRAMATIC. THERE’S A WILDNESS TO THE NORTH THAT SOUTHERN ONTARIO CAN’T MATCH. ROLLING FARMLAND IS PUNCTUATED BY ROCKY OUTCROPS AND THE HIGHWAY IS EXCEPTIONALLY SMOOTH.
less than fanatically vigilant while in the saddle, 41 down to the town of Denbigh is a light appetizer for what’s to come— the unexpected Highway 28 northeast to Hardwood Lake.
After Denbigh, 28 drops headlong into a deep valley, and the views are reminiscent of those from Cape Breton Island’s Cabot Trail (excepting the ocean, naturally). I’ve done this road late at night in a car, on the way home from Calabogie’s racetrack, and I don’t think there’s a darker, more lonely stretch of road this side of the Mojave Desert. In the daylight, however, it’s far from foreboding. Unless you’re stuck behind an 18-wheeler in a low-gear slog up one of 28’s endless hills. There are very few places to pass on the road, and I’ve seen agitated motorcyclists ruin a sublime road because of frustration and impatience. Here’s a tip: the road has a number of safe places to pull over. Take a break. Stretch your legs. Take a photo or two. And then, when the road’s clear, head on your way. And someday, I hope, I’ll even take my own advice.
Continuing westbound on Highway 28, the view returned to something more familiar—though no less dramatic. There’s a wildness to the north that southern Ontario can’t match. Rolling farmland is punctuated by rocky outcrops and the highway is exceptionally smooth. Bancroft, the last town of any size before our return to Haliburton, has the feel of a frontier town— but a frontier town with a great restaurant: The Granite. You can’t miss it. You’ll ride right past it as you continue on the 28 west of Bancroft to meet up with yet another worthy road.
From the hamlet of Paudash, the 118 led us back to Haliburton. But don’t rush it. It’s one of the route’s great roads. Especially where it winds along the north shore of Loon Lake. Very few motorcycle routes rival the highlands loop. You can feel exceptionally isolated one moment and then pop out into a town with useful amenities. Like espresso. And good hotels. Or, if you’re the rugged type, campsites. You really can’t go wrong.
I’d
like to ride Italy’s Stelvio Pass. Or along California’s Pacific Coast Highway. Who wouldn’t? But there’s always a catch to those dream rides—time and money. My kid is going to summer camp next week. And relatives are coming two weeks after that. And the week in between is when I re-shingle the house and garage. But I want—make that need—to get away from it all. And I know you do, too.
Yes, you can ride familiar roads close to home. But local is limiting. The familiar doesn’t make you feel like you’ve been away. And sometimes you need to see something new. Something that jolts you out of your routine. But with just three free days to spare, what’s a man to do?
Pulling into the town of Tobermory on an August afternoon, the answer to my dilemma began to take shape. Tobermory is at the northern tip of the Bruce Peninsula, 100 km north of Owen Sound and 300 km northwest of Toronto. But Tobermory, with its rustic harbour and small-town charm, isn’t our destination. It’s the stepping off point for a journey to a place I’ve never been—Manitoulin Island.
My travelling companion Jake Hudson asked why I’d never been to Manitoulin Island. After a long silence, I couldn’t answer. And I truly don’t know why. I’ve lived much of my life no more than a half day’s drive (or ride) to Tobermory. And I love riding on ferry boats. And as soon as I walked onto the top deck of the ChiCheemaun, I knew I should have made this trek a long, long time ago.
Long before the ferry reached its docking port of South Baymouth, I realized the appeal of Manitoulin Island, paradoxically, isn’t about the land at all. It’s about the water. Leaving Tobermory on the ferry, the colour of the water is like nothing I’d witnessed: in the shallows a tropical teal, and, where the bottom drops out of the lakebed, the colour turns a Great Lakes black. It’s as if the tropics came north and
MY TRAVELLING COMPANION JAKE HUDSON ASKED WHY I’D NEVER BEEN TO MANITOULIN ISLAND. AFTER A LONG SILENCE, I COULDN’T ANSWER.
ropes an inch in diameter with which we attempted to secure our bikes. We made a mess of it, as shoelace tying represents the entirety of our knot-making skills. We hoped, instead, for calm seas—and our hopes were rewarded.
As we sailed north, I remained on deck and scanned the waters. To port was Lake Huron and to starboard Georgian Bay. And then my eyelids began to droop. Blame it on the deep, soothing thrumming from the ferry’s engines. When I woke from my nap (taken, inelegantly, on the floor of the cabin beneath a row of plastic seating) it was because we were preparing to dock. Which meant a mad dash into the bowels of the ferry to begin the process of undoing three dozen knots in my tie-down rope while being scrutinized by those clever enough to have packed ratchet straps.
It’d been a long time since I’d had the experience of riding new roads—I’d forgotten the thrill of the undiscovered. That is if we could just get out of the gas station to do some discovering. I was ready to mount up when I turned around and saw Jake eating ice cream. And while I’ve never been one to become fixated on protocol, every experienced rider knows ice cream stops are determined by consensus. We either all scream for ice cream or we all carry on. I explained this to Jake. He returned a blank look as ice cream dripped off his chin.
Finally, finally on the road, we rode the matter-of-factly named Government Road to Providence Bay. If you’re travelling with your kid on the back of your bike, Providence Bay’s white sand beaches are a must see. And the water, warmed in the shallows by the sun, felt tropical on my feet.
Reluctantly, we left the waterside perfection of the beach and followed the 551 to M’Chigeeng, where we caught the 540 up to Little Current, the largest settlement on the island, and the point at which the road leaves Manitoulin for points north. But not yet. Over microbrews at the Manitoulin Brewery, we hatched a plan.
During yesterday’s ride, we stopped at Bridal Veil Falls in Kagawong. I was expecting knee-high falls on a pleasant river. It was the underestimation of the trip. Water cascaded overtop a limestone rock cut 12 metres to a deep pool below, where a dozen swimmers dipped in and out of falling water. And, as advertised, the falls
appeared as a bridal veil. Many motorcyclists, and I count my number among them, stop at attractions, have a look-see, and carry on. Not this time.
Our plan, hatched at the brewery, involved heading back to Kagawong for a dip beneath the falls. We found a shop on the main street of Little Current and Jake, keen consumer that he is, bought enough clothing to replace his entire wardrobe while I bought a bathing suit.
Backtracking to Bridal Veil Falls, we donned our suits in the changerooms and descended the stairs to the bottom of the falls. A note to the wise: if you do what we did (and you should) arm yourself before the trip by packing a cheap pair of water shoes. Your feet will thank you.
The sensation of swimming next to a torrent of falling water was fabulous. Jake and I backed into the falls and the pounding on the back removed the strain from hours spent in the saddle. And then it was time to go.
Crossing the 100-year-old swing bridge in Little Current brought our Mani-
DURING YESTERDAY’S RIDE, WE STOPPED AT BRIDAL VEIL FALLS IN KAGAWONG.
I WAS EXPECTING KNEEHIGH FALLS ON A PLEASANT RIVER. IT WAS THE UNDERESTIMATION OF THE TRIP. WATER CASCADED OVERTOP A LIMESTONE ROCK CUT 12 METRES TO A DEEP POOL BELOW, WHERE A DOZEN SWIMMERS DIPPED IN AND OUT OF FALLING WATER.
toulin Island adventure to a close. But that wasn’t the end of our trip. We were just warming up.
I hadn’t spent much time studying the map prior to this trip. Intentionally. I wanted to be surprised by what I’d find. And no road surprised me more than Highway 6 from Little Current up to Espanola. Crossing Birch Island and running past Whitefish falls, Highway 6 is far different than the pastoral farmland that typifies Manitoulin Island. With significant changes in elevation and with dramatic rock cuts lining the road, it was the most engaging road on our trip.
Refreshed with fluids and with our machines refueled, we hopped on the Trans-Canada Highway and made for Sudbury. If you haven’t been to Sudbury in a while, you really should give it another look. It’s a lot more than you think it is. Firstly, it’s green—it doesn’t look like the moon, as folklore would have you believe. And it has great restaurants, caffeine-rich coffee shops, and the fabulous Science
North, which is as good a way as any to spend an afternoon.
And because Jake is a keen follower of the Group of Seven—and A.Y. Jackson in particular—he insisted we ride west of Sudbury to the Onaping waterfall, made famous by Jackson in his 1953 painting. And because we all love a mystery, Jackson’s painting, which had been hanging in a Sudbury school, was stolen in the 1970s and never recovered. It’s out there somewhere: yard sale people, keep your eyes open.
Before Jake and I headed south and home (and because it was conveniently on our way) we stopped at the French River Visitor Centre. One of the seminal routes in Canadian history, the French River was a thoroughfare for voyageurs, fur traders, French explorers, and, of course, indigenous peoples. And the French River is beautiful. The Visitor Centre, an architecturally stunning building just off Highway 69, is an ideal way to check out the river’s significance. And just behind the building
is a suspension bridge that spans the river. It’s impossible not to stand overtop the water and imagine what it must have been like to paddle a canoe down these waters long before the arrival of European settlers. I looked over at Jake. He wasn’t on his phone. Now’s my chance. “Jake, maybe we should do a canoe trip down the French River.” Jake looked at me with horror in his eyes. “How about a jet boat?” said Jake. I dropped my head. I think my next trip north will be a solo one.
16TH ANNUAL
SUNDAY, AUGUST 11, 2024
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.
