COG NorthEast online

Page 2 - Do You Want Black Flies With That Snow?
By Peter Hobday - COG#6657 - Ottawa, ON

The critical gas station at the cleverly-named "Kilometre 381" was on me when I was well into reserve and I think I doubled the local GDP with my purchase of $29 for the fillup. It was at this point that I had a vision, for there, in all its glory was a white and olive 4X4 pickup truck with a red and blue light rack on the top. Neatly inscribed on the door was "Le Sûreté de Québec".

"Now what the hell", thought I angrily. The officer was clad in cammo pants and was armed. He also had a rifle in the rear window which further persuaded me not to ask him if he had a letter of permission from Hydro Quebec or something. I could only figure that he was lost or maybe investigating a moose-related death 'cause everyone knew this road was hands-off!

Upon leaving he pulled up to the highway intersection and I realised that I would be ruined if he turned my way (north toward Radisson). For even if I gave him a head start for a few hours I knew that there would be an inevitable moment later that day where I would see a speck on the road ahead - one that would grow quickly given an extreme rate of closure - one that would have a red/blue light rack on the top - and one that would be going about 87 kph. I then would be forced to match his pace for hours … or pass.

Fortunately, my mewling prayers were answered and he made his way southward. I knew I had to move pronto before he changed his mind. A quick grope to adjust "the boys" drew what seemed to be an admiring glance from a aged Cree lady and in response I mounted up like Zorro, only to almost fall over again with the additional 55 pound fuel load.

The next 240 km stretch to Radisson was the same as the first 381 km blast except it was further north and more desolate. At some nameless point I slowed when I saw ahead 3 figures on the road, thinking they were black bears. But they were thinner and coalesced into local hunters as I got close.

Now most people at a time like that would give a jaunty wave or stop for a quick chat, but not Mike The Bike II, nossir. Instead I instinctively went through my stunt repertoire, discarding The Backfire (since they were armed) and dismissing The Locked Rear Brake Smoker as well (just in case I lost it).

Instead, I settled a variation on the Rollie Free Manoeuvre. Most of you young folks won't remember the famous picture of Mr. Free setting a Bonneville record (150.313 mph) on his 1948 Black Lightning, but I do. To reduce wind turbulence, Rollie had gone out clad only in swimming trucks and lay flat-out over the tank and rear fender. He was a determined man and had not given in to doubters.

With mere milliseconds to modify the move to account for luggage and tankbag I went for it. I caught a quick glimpse of awe on the part of my audience as I stuck my legs straight out to the side, hunched over the tank and rotated my clutch arm at a 45 degree angle up my back in the terrifying Swimming Pool Shark Hand configuration.

Unmentioned so far in my journal was Conrad's loosening steering head nut and its gentle but oh so evident headshake at around the 100 kph mark. In the last 3 years I had not found the few minutes needed to tighten it and it was about to give me a reminder.

Like a poisonous Black Mamba hitting an electronic cattle fence Connie went into a machine gun tank-slapper leaving a bold, stuttering pattern of black patches on the tarmac and an accompanying series of tiny smoke plumes and yelps from the front tire. Rollie's shark hand immediately did a panic dive for the left bar grip and after an eternity, and through sheer horror power, managed to force the machine straight. He did not look back.

After an hour or so my pulse came down this side of 100 and I began the familiar, grim routine of stunt-gone-awry self-reflection. While Halo Goofy immediately went into his standard admonitions ("you better get off that bike right now mister and then get down on your knees…"), Horned Goofy countered, reminding me that things had worked out OK in the end, no-one was hurt or imprisoned, and that I must be a hell of a rider.

I rolled into Radisson cold and disembodied - time for a brew and bench-racing with the local boys over at the Boreal Bar.

I failed to take the highly-touted tour of the hydro plant at Radisson simply because I had read that the intro to the tour took over an hour in an auditorium. Since I cannot sit still for more than 3 minutes at a time without jumping about or making impulsive catcalls I avoided the opportunity. But I got a brochure.

The next day's ride back to the Kilometre 381 was above freezing and the drizzle was only moderately numbing so I cranked it up to shorten the ride and help de-carbon the cylinder heads. At the 123 km mark (almost exactly the furthest distance between the two gas stations) Connie died.

Not your clattering, flaming death that I had grown used to with my old Norton ("The Antichrist"), nor the seized, screeching suicide as performed by my venerable but oil-less CL 450 Honda, but instead a mild, somewhat bored capitulation.

Now, I've been in a few different situation in my time, including the wild dog pack chase in southern Manchuria, the armed-soldier-passport-seizure thing in Africa, the bar extraction in the Balearic Islands after accidentally ingesting a litre or so of a poisonous and deeply hallucinogenic wormwood concoction, and the Ontario Provincial Police-escorted descent from the Sioux Lookout water tower with Fast Eddie Flicker. But this was a new one.

My first move was instinctive. I groaned off Connie, stood in the middle of the road gazing pathetically from horizon to horizon and proceeded to take a leak with one hand and scratch my ass with the other. Despite these symbolic inducements, Connie remained motionless - mute and with its eye closed.

There had been an unfortunate spate of news articles over the summer about bear attacks in the North. As well, I had heard stories of moose acting in a frenzied manner during rutting season. It was a good thing I didn't permit either of these topics to move into my higher consciousness at the time as I probably would have dipped into the Road Madness Zone.

It took about 20 minutes to strip Connie down to where I could start to have a peek at things. "Mechanical, electrical or fuel… mechanical, electrical or fuel". I repeated this mantra over and over and I got increasingly more desperate as the sun and temperature dropped and the bears raged against the rutting moose just outside my field of vision for primary eating rights.

I am better with a hammer than a wiring diagram and could only whine and sway from side to side as I went through what I knew were going to be empty motions. But Jah Himself must have been looking down at the time because a loose battery bolt (positive) rattled at me when I removed the plastic cover.

Closer examination showed that some UTTER conehead had used what appeared to be Vaseline to lubricate the new battery terminal when I couldn't find the lithium grease last May. With a curse of contempt for the human condition I gave Connie the paddles of life and she fired back up like one of those fat opera ladies with the stupid Viking war outfit on.

A few hours later I stopped at the requisite Kilometre 381 gas bar looking for someone to impress with my accomplishments, but there were only 2 Cree guys from Eastmain looking under the hood of their truck. They wandered over and we had a nice chat.

"Hey, where you from, eh?"

"Ottawa".

"Why would you come up here this time of year?".

"Well, truth to tell, I needed to ride this highway since it has no police and no speed limit".

They stared at me for a few minutes and then started laughing. "Where did you hear that from?".

"Well…ummm…it was on the Internet."

They howled. "There's more cops up here than down south, and they don't fool around with speeders. Last sports car guy they caught they just took his keys and left him. He was never found, but they came back and got his car in the spring for auction."

I laughed with them...uneasily. I had heard of the Isolation Death but had dismissed it as malarkey. I had also seen 2-3 signs on the road that said "Maximum 100" but assumed they were someone's idea of a joke or were erected prior to Canada's conversion to the metric system.

"We're not pulling your leg man. Those Quebec police guys drive those white and green 4X4's and they are mean. You should be really careful around them". They added, helpfully.

I was shattered and it was time to go… more modestly.

The rest of the trip was sombre as I reflected on the possible fine for doing 110 kph over the limit - I decided the Isolation Death would be preferable. It was also
relatively uneventful except for my last stop at the Stinson gas station in Calabogie. This is the terminus of Highway 511 - a curvy masterpiece near Ottawa that attracts loonie bikers from far and wide. But it somehow seemed effete after the James Bay Road.

Two boy-racers wandered over to gape at the dirty, battle-weary Connie and it's dirty, battle-weary pilot. Their one piece leathers, boots, gloves and helmets probably were worth more in total than my trusty steed. They took in the tools, frayed tires and spare gas canisters.

"Where you been?", they began, quizzically.

"Radisson. Up the James Bay hydro road", I murmured, as if they were asking me how it felt to win the 1979 Isle Of Man Senior TT on my comeback Ducati.

"Isn't that WAY up north?". Eyes getting a bit bigger.

"Yep, about 1,400 kilometers each way." Another manly and modest concession.

"What the hell were you doing up there?" Reverence grows.

I hesitated, then couldn't help myself... "It's the world's longest race course - no cops, no speed limits - only 1 gas station." I gazed away, getting that 'Nam look.

Who am I to ruin a Legend?

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