I am Carbon
shade tree mechanic
Do You Want Black Flies With That Snow?
The run from Ottawa up to Radisson at James Bay is about 1,415 kilometres, give or take a tad. While the southern portion of the trip is done through inhabited lands with the occasional Tim Horton’s and police radar to be experienced, the northern part wends its way through endless stretches of tundra, granite and scrub bush. Not a graffiti’d rockface or poutine wagon to be seen.
To make matters a bit spicy for this lifetime Mike Hailwood fanatic (the greatest motorcycle roadracer of all time), the last 621 kilometres from Matagami to Radisson wind along a private, largely traffic-less and unpoliced Hydro Quebec roadway. In effect you can go as fast as you want for as long as you want. Except there is only one gas station along the route.
This dilemma – throttle vs. mileage – would test me in ways I knew I was lacking, as a disciplined man I am not. So off to Crappy Tire for a couple of those little red plastic gas containers and maybe grab a mini-compressor at the same time.
A few years back and in a rare moment of good decision-making I bought a Kawasaki Concours. This “litre bike” is what is known as a sports-tourer and can behave like a droning Goldwing when punished or like a ripping Ninja when freed. It comes stock with 108 horsepower, hard bags, a shaft drive, good fairing protection and, bless-the-lord, a 27 litre fuel tank.
Since the purchase date I have developed a penchant for the howl the Concours makes when it gets wound-up and I thought a quick zip up to Radisson would be just what was needed to clear out this year’s inventory of life’s petty annoyances. The hell with the mileage thing.
Selecting a travel date in our northern climes is actually pretty easy. You don’t want to go when things are shrieking hot, black flies are at their carnivorous worst and the humidity exceeds that of the Belgian Congo. Conversely, howling white-outs, black ice, and tongue-sticking, sub-zero temperatures often limit the return date of your trip.
As Canadian riders know, this leaves approximately 6 full days in either late September or early May to do anything comfortable on a motorcycle. I chose the former, keenly aware that the James Bay region can produce vicious, perverted weather, usually when it is least needed. Also, it was moose rutting season.
Over a lifetime of motorcycle adventure I had become aware I was a bit of a human lightening rod for bad happenings, so I laid in a litre of emergency Polish Jabruvka vodka, my old Bonzo Dog Band mini-discs (“I’m the Urban Spaceman baby, I can fly - I’m a supersonic guy”), 17 pounds of tools and two big rolls of duct tape. I also took a cell phone that wouldn’t work, thinking that in a crunch I could lie at the side of the road and wave it at a passing logging truck if one should ever happen by.
Saturday morning looms wet and miserable - nighttime lows are close to the freezing mark. The forecast calls for a complete week of this which is fully expected, given that we’ve had a heat-stroking drought all summer. In clever anticipation I am done up like the Michelin Man, replete with liners of green garbage bags and duct-taped pant legs. I flip on “Kama Kama Sutra With Me” and Connie lurches to a start, almost falling as we do a quick and unintentional Gary Nixon powerslide in the damp parking lot.
It should be noted that Connie is a sow of a machine at low speed and that 27 litres of fuel roughly equals the weight of a blacksmith’s anvil. Strategically placed ‘way up high with the tankbag tools there’s nothing for it but to do the Foot Paddle as we lunge our way from each stoplight.
Soon though we get into the rhythm of the road which consists of equal parts wet crotch and numb fingers from the famous Connie “buzz”. Last year I made a similar run up to Natashquan along the north coast of the Bay of St. Lawrence and came back partially emasculated, given the stock, stepped seat, and the abrupt metal wall of the gas tank.
This year was starting better as I had reverted to an “old”, pre-1994 seat and heeded the warnings of the loonie fringe on the Concours Owners Group (COG) newsgroup on how best to package and position “the boys”. The approved technique requires the old arm-plunge-grope-about move at most gas stations but I soon grew oblivious to the startled looks of fellow travellers – this was family.
The blast from Ottawa up to Maniwaki was slimy-swoopy and I quite enjoyed the fog covering my shield which rendered an Impressionist quality to the quick blurs of green and brown which represented the scenery as I zipped past. I had done this highway before so I told myself to enjoy it on memory. I also recalled the numerous police reports of car deaths on this notorious stretch and took shuddering pride when I screeped my way through to the other side. So far so good.
Highway 117 north of Maniwaki leads to the verdant forests and lakes of the massive La Verendrye game preserve, home of moose, bear, trout and the white and green cars of Le Sûreté de Québec (cops). These guys have a great collective sense of humour and seem to delight in doing the quick lights-siren-burble when you pass them going in the other direction at lightspeed but not pulling you over.
The top end of Day 1 winds up in Matagami - my kind of town. You know, where burnouts and beer bottle throwing are the norm on Saturday night and some of the denizens look like they’ve been doing genetic research for Gregor Mendel. Several pickups sported the latest in seasonal fashion in the form of freshly chainsawed moose heads tied to the roof with big ropes.
The next morning I stopped at the obligatory Hydro Quebec security station just outside town and submitted to a brief sanity test. The gardiens looked a little sceptical when they heard of my idea for a quick run up to Radisson, but relented when they saw my extra gas cans and standard blank look of helplessness. The foam coming out of my pantleg probably helped too (hey, I was getting crotch-chapped and all I could find was the Head & Shoulders).
In retrospect, the entry of my particulars in their database was comforting. Northern Quebec, which covers over 1 million square kilometers, is vast indeed and there are stories about travellers getting Road Madness when they realise how utterly insignificant they really are. Some survive to be rescued. Legend has it that others don’t.
For this particular Mike Hailwood however, it was the point where it all came into focus. Yep, good swoopy road, no police, a powerful bike and no parents for 621 kms. Stop for a quick picture, which might be the last thing the coroner finds and then, like on Mad Sunday at the Isle of Man, awaaaaay we go!
Words can’t describe what happened over the first 381 kms but rest assured that it was fun and I didn’t even come close to killing myself sorta. Set ‘er up at 170 kph and hold it for an hour or so. Stop in the middle of the highway to have a pee in The Big Silence and then jump back on, grinning like a stooge. Lay on some kill-switch backfires when going through rock-cuts and jam the centrestand onto the pavement to provide a meteor shower when things start to get dark. Repeat with the Bonzos blaring until it all becomes a blur.
Moose have a way of spoiling stuff like this and I came upon a trailer (one of 4 vehicles I saw) with the requisite moose head bobbing, mouth agape as if warning me of something on the road ahead.
Later I passed a semi-crushed passenger van, which got me thinking of physics and the energy that would be produced during a high-speed meeting of a 1,600 pound moose and a 900 pound Connie/Hailwood combo. This newly factored prudence and an eye on the gas gauge eventually brought me back to about 140 kph and I settled into my S&S (stunned and slumped) touring mode.
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”.
The run from Ottawa up to Radisson at James Bay is about 1,415 kilometres, give or take a tad. While the southern portion of the trip is done through inhabited lands with the occasional Tim Horton’s and police radar to be experienced, the northern part wends its way through endless stretches of tundra, granite and scrub bush. Not a graffiti’d rockface or poutine wagon to be seen.
To make matters a bit spicy for this lifetime Mike Hailwood fanatic (the greatest motorcycle roadracer of all time), the last 621 kilometres from Matagami to Radisson wind along a private, largely traffic-less and unpoliced Hydro Quebec roadway. In effect you can go as fast as you want for as long as you want. Except there is only one gas station along the route.
This dilemma – throttle vs. mileage – would test me in ways I knew I was lacking, as a disciplined man I am not. So off to Crappy Tire for a couple of those little red plastic gas containers and maybe grab a mini-compressor at the same time.
A few years back and in a rare moment of good decision-making I bought a Kawasaki Concours. This “litre bike” is what is known as a sports-tourer and can behave like a droning Goldwing when punished or like a ripping Ninja when freed. It comes stock with 108 horsepower, hard bags, a shaft drive, good fairing protection and, bless-the-lord, a 27 litre fuel tank.
Since the purchase date I have developed a penchant for the howl the Concours makes when it gets wound-up and I thought a quick zip up to Radisson would be just what was needed to clear out this year’s inventory of life’s petty annoyances. The hell with the mileage thing.
Selecting a travel date in our northern climes is actually pretty easy. You don’t want to go when things are shrieking hot, black flies are at their carnivorous worst and the humidity exceeds that of the Belgian Congo. Conversely, howling white-outs, black ice, and tongue-sticking, sub-zero temperatures often limit the return date of your trip.
As Canadian riders know, this leaves approximately 6 full days in either late September or early May to do anything comfortable on a motorcycle. I chose the former, keenly aware that the James Bay region can produce vicious, perverted weather, usually when it is least needed. Also, it was moose rutting season.
Over a lifetime of motorcycle adventure I had become aware I was a bit of a human lightening rod for bad happenings, so I laid in a litre of emergency Polish Jabruvka vodka, my old Bonzo Dog Band mini-discs (“I’m the Urban Spaceman baby, I can fly - I’m a supersonic guy”), 17 pounds of tools and two big rolls of duct tape. I also took a cell phone that wouldn’t work, thinking that in a crunch I could lie at the side of the road and wave it at a passing logging truck if one should ever happen by.
Saturday morning looms wet and miserable - nighttime lows are close to the freezing mark. The forecast calls for a complete week of this which is fully expected, given that we’ve had a heat-stroking drought all summer. In clever anticipation I am done up like the Michelin Man, replete with liners of green garbage bags and duct-taped pant legs. I flip on “Kama Kama Sutra With Me” and Connie lurches to a start, almost falling as we do a quick and unintentional Gary Nixon powerslide in the damp parking lot.
It should be noted that Connie is a sow of a machine at low speed and that 27 litres of fuel roughly equals the weight of a blacksmith’s anvil. Strategically placed ‘way up high with the tankbag tools there’s nothing for it but to do the Foot Paddle as we lunge our way from each stoplight.
Soon though we get into the rhythm of the road which consists of equal parts wet crotch and numb fingers from the famous Connie “buzz”. Last year I made a similar run up to Natashquan along the north coast of the Bay of St. Lawrence and came back partially emasculated, given the stock, stepped seat, and the abrupt metal wall of the gas tank.
This year was starting better as I had reverted to an “old”, pre-1994 seat and heeded the warnings of the loonie fringe on the Concours Owners Group (COG) newsgroup on how best to package and position “the boys”. The approved technique requires the old arm-plunge-grope-about move at most gas stations but I soon grew oblivious to the startled looks of fellow travellers – this was family.
The blast from Ottawa up to Maniwaki was slimy-swoopy and I quite enjoyed the fog covering my shield which rendered an Impressionist quality to the quick blurs of green and brown which represented the scenery as I zipped past. I had done this highway before so I told myself to enjoy it on memory. I also recalled the numerous police reports of car deaths on this notorious stretch and took shuddering pride when I screeped my way through to the other side. So far so good.
Highway 117 north of Maniwaki leads to the verdant forests and lakes of the massive La Verendrye game preserve, home of moose, bear, trout and the white and green cars of Le Sûreté de Québec (cops). These guys have a great collective sense of humour and seem to delight in doing the quick lights-siren-burble when you pass them going in the other direction at lightspeed but not pulling you over.
The top end of Day 1 winds up in Matagami - my kind of town. You know, where burnouts and beer bottle throwing are the norm on Saturday night and some of the denizens look like they’ve been doing genetic research for Gregor Mendel. Several pickups sported the latest in seasonal fashion in the form of freshly chainsawed moose heads tied to the roof with big ropes.
The next morning I stopped at the obligatory Hydro Quebec security station just outside town and submitted to a brief sanity test. The gardiens looked a little sceptical when they heard of my idea for a quick run up to Radisson, but relented when they saw my extra gas cans and standard blank look of helplessness. The foam coming out of my pantleg probably helped too (hey, I was getting crotch-chapped and all I could find was the Head & Shoulders).
In retrospect, the entry of my particulars in their database was comforting. Northern Quebec, which covers over 1 million square kilometers, is vast indeed and there are stories about travellers getting Road Madness when they realise how utterly insignificant they really are. Some survive to be rescued. Legend has it that others don’t.
For this particular Mike Hailwood however, it was the point where it all came into focus. Yep, good swoopy road, no police, a powerful bike and no parents for 621 kms. Stop for a quick picture, which might be the last thing the coroner finds and then, like on Mad Sunday at the Isle of Man, awaaaaay we go!
Words can’t describe what happened over the first 381 kms but rest assured that it was fun and I didn’t even come close to killing myself sorta. Set ‘er up at 170 kph and hold it for an hour or so. Stop in the middle of the highway to have a pee in The Big Silence and then jump back on, grinning like a stooge. Lay on some kill-switch backfires when going through rock-cuts and jam the centrestand onto the pavement to provide a meteor shower when things start to get dark. Repeat with the Bonzos blaring until it all becomes a blur.
Moose have a way of spoiling stuff like this and I came upon a trailer (one of 4 vehicles I saw) with the requisite moose head bobbing, mouth agape as if warning me of something on the road ahead.
Later I passed a semi-crushed passenger van, which got me thinking of physics and the energy that would be produced during a high-speed meeting of a 1,600 pound moose and a 900 pound Connie/Hailwood combo. This newly factored prudence and an eye on the gas gauge eventually brought me back to about 140 kph and I settled into my S&S (stunned and slumped) touring mode.
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”.
