Getting from here to there in Europe.

After 3 weeks in France and Germany we are now home, with a few hundred photos, lots of great memories, and general impressions about the countries (and people) we visited.
But first a bit of a rant.
Due to unforeseen circumstances we had to drive from Paris to Hamburg, which gave me the extra thrill of trying to interpret French and German highway markings, or lack thereof. Let’s just say, if you ever want to test the strength of your marriage bonds, try driving in Europe with your spouse as navigator. Half the time you’ll think you’re lost; half the time you will be lost; and most of the time you’ll be arguing.
Highways change numbers frequently and in the middle of nowhere, and the highway numbers are often posted in 1” (pardonnez moi – 2.5 millimetres) high letters on low wooden posts on the opposite side of the road. Direction signs will point you to the next hamlet 5 kilometres down the road, but are silent on whether you are still on the right highway to a major city 100 kilometres away. The names of towns and villages can often be spelled differently than on the road maps. City street names? Let’s just say you’re lucky if you can find them. And what’s with having traffic lights on the near side of the intersection so they are only visible if you’re driving a convertible with the top down?
If it was just the French I’d say they do it just to piss off the tourists, but Germany was no better. It’s like they are still in the Middle Ages when one only rarely ventured outside one’s village, and then only to the nearby abbey. And miniscule highway numbers on low signposts worked fine for someone walking or on horseback but are damnably hard to read at 130 kph. Let’s just say we made it – barely.
Aside from the frustration of driving over there we had a great trip (I’ll post a few of the better photos as I work my way through the collection), but it’s nice to be home. Now, hopefully the weather will give us a few more riding weeks and I’ll be able to wrap up the season in proper style.

Riding season? What riding season?

Yesterday I put the bike away, probably for the last time this year. I realise it’s still mid-September but we’re going away for a few weeks and won’t be back until October. Given this year’s weather patterns, we may well have snow on the ground by then. (I’m joking, but only a little bit!)

I haven’t posted much this summer because I haven’t ridden. I don’t recall a year when I put fewer kilometres on the bike. Short jaunts only and no long 200+ kilometre day rides. The endless winter of 2013/14 meant the riding season started late in May, about 6 weeks later than normal. That was followed by another month when I was held prisoner by road construction for most of June (to be repeated next year apparently – sigh…). A cold, wet July didn’t improve things any and then we had an equally cold, wet August. And here we are now in September where the temperature yesterday morning was 5 degrees C - and it was raining, hard.

Everyone complains about the weather but nobody ever does anything about it, the saying goes. Well we’re doing something about it. We’re leaving town.

In a few hours we’ll be on our way across the pond, destination Paris where the weather forecasters are calling for sunny, mid-20 temperatures for most of the next week - 10 to 15 degrees warmer than the forecasts guesses are for the local weather here.

Unfortunately there won’t be two wheels involved on this trip but perhaps I’ll have a chance to share some photos along the way as we enjoy a belated summer in Europe.

Next year will be better.

Your mission,

should you choose to accept it… Actually there wasn’t a lot of “choosing” involved. The missus was away this weekend at a sister’s retreat and so wasn’t able to attend the Carp Fair’s annual Garlic Festival. My honey-do orders for Saturday were to go for a ride and come home with sufficient garlic to, augmenting what we have in our garden, get us a good way through the winter.

It was a beautiful day and I took the back roads where, even though it’s a long way from Oklahoma, “the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye”. Which made me wonder if an elephant’s eye really is 8 or 9 feet high. And another thing I just found out is that, at least in some parts of Europe, corn is a generic term for grain crops. So when a European refers to “corn”, it could be wheat, or rye in the fields. Perhaps European elephants are smaller, or have shorter legs.



These were the thoughts that kept me occupied/amused as I headed to the fair. That and avoiding the potholes still not patched after the winter did its usual road damage. One that I did miss, hidden in the shadows of a large tree, was deep and sharp enough that I consider myself lucky not to have flattened my front tire. After that I paid more attention and made it to the fair without further incident.



I parked in a no parking zone (pretty lax parking controls on fair days as long as you don’t block a driveway) and went garlic hunting. First I had to try the different varieties available. (I had orders for a specific type, but wanted to buy a few each of some different varieties just to try for a change.)

After much sampling (and heavy with garlic breath – phew) I made my purchases. I added a few ears of corn for dinner tonight, and I was done.
Mission accomplished.



On the way home I came across the ultimate example of that much joked about Canadian penchant for politeness. I stopped at the Dairy Queen in Arnprior for an ice cream. It seems they had a problem with people stealing the decorative pebbles beside the patio (Why?). Instead of posting “Beware of Dog”, or “We shoot to kill” posters the owner took a most Canadian approach and asked nicely. And apparently it’s working. Go figure.



All in all a great day, a nice ride, and I’ll be free from vampires for a few more hours yet.

Looney Tunes

It was one of those gorgeous evenings when the lake was calm, the temperature was just right, and the sun was dropping quickly in a pinkish western sky. So after dinner we decided to take the kayaks out to see if we could get a closer look at our resident loon family which had been waking us up the last few nights with their nocturnal serenading.



We were able to get within about 100’ or so before dad decided we were too close and got a little concerned. So he dove and came up behind us and proceeded to put on his ‘look at me, I’m hurt’ display to draw us away from his mate and the two chicks.

(Apologies for the video quality – I was bobbing about in a kayak filming at maximum zoom, with a float plane buzzing overhead.)

It was also about this time that the missus discovered she had a stowaway in her kayak. A small (24” or so) garter snake had, we assume, been quietly chasing insects in the kayak when we came along and disturbed his hunt with an unexpected boat ride. Needless to say the return trip was much quicker than the leisurely paddle out into the middle of the lake. And the snake wasn't too happy either.



I think a very thorough inspection will be in order before our next trip.

But all’s well that ends well. We saw the loons and got some photos, the snake has a new story to tell the snakettes, we had a nice paddle – at least the first half, and once again we got to realize just how fortunate we are to live where we do.

My first (two-wheeled) love.

Once a year the Ottawa chapter of the CVMG (Canadian Vintage Motorcycle Group) holds a one-day rally in Oxford Mills, a small village about an hour south of Ottawa. There’s a lovely small tree-shaded park where owners can park their treasures, and themselves, to enjoy a few hours of showing off and gabbing with fellow vintage bike owners and anyone else who expresses an interest.

It had been many years since I’d attended this rally, and in fact the last time I was there I actually won a trophy for a cafe racer Norton Commando I owned at the time. But I digress.

At any rate Saturday turned out to be a gorgeous day for a nice ride over to Oxford Mills, so we saddled up and went to pay a visit.

Enjoying the shade.

A nice AJS, a couple of BSAs, a Norton, and even a Harley on display.

Would have like to have heard this twin-engined Triumph’s bark.

A beautiful Vincent Rapide the owner rode to the rally.

A very nice Ducati 750. Not sure of the year, early 70s I think.

1953 Norton B52 in very nice condition.

Original and unrestored Norton. Don’t know year.

German WWII BMW sidecar outfit, complete with machine gun, rifle, hand grenades, etc. A very nice unit. The owner rode it to the show.

A row of Indians. (Or would that be a ‘tribe’?)

1947 Indian Roadmaster

1948 Indian Chief. Probably the nicest restoration I’ve ever seen. It was immaculate.

And now for my first (two-wheeled) love. Back in the late 60s friends who had motorcycles typically rode a 250cc Honda Dream, or maybe a 450 cc Black Bomber. There were some small Suzukis around at the time as well, and the tough guys were on Harley-Davidson Electra Glides. But then another friend showed up with with what I considered at the time to be a ‘real’ motorcycle, a brand new BSA 650cc A65 Lightning. Everything from the bright red paint to the chrome-sided tank to the tank badges that seemed a foot deep called to me. It truly was love lust at first sight. I never got to drive it but did get to ride pillion once or twice, and even as a passenger that big twin thumping along was music to my ears.

Since that time many, many motorcycles have passed through my hands (sadly no BSAs) but my knees still go a little bit weak when I see a beautifully restored A65 like this, one of the nicest looking motorcycles ever to cross the pond in my opinion.

Getting a chance to see this Lightning and relive some of those memories was worth the ride and price of admission alone.