Two Sundays ago Dave and I were up in Collingwood, enjoying another relaxing weekend. We decided to go for a motorcycle ride. We haven't done as much riding as in other years, and we both miss it.
One of the main reasons we bought the condo - or so we told ourselves in the winter - was so that we could bring one of our two BMW R1100RT touring bikes and leave it in the garage. That way we could enjoy country rides without having to spend at least an hour getting out of Toronto before seeing trees instead of other motorists. What a nifty time saver!
We brought "Victor" up north. Victor is the higher mileage, black bike, named after Victor (the Dark Knight) Newman from The Young & the Restless. Victor was originally bought to live out west. We had this idea that we would fly to BC every year and enjoy the great scenery and twisty roads without the hassle of trying to rent a BMW motorcycle - the west coast is definitely Harley country. Well, that didn't work out, so two years after riding Victor all the way to BC, we flew to Vancouver and rode him home. Victor has once again found his special purpose, with a new life up north.
Normally I am decked out in German riding gear, from my BMW Commuter pants, to my BMW Three-Phase jacket, and a Schuberth C2 helmet. In colder weather, and when my weight is up (like it is NOW) I might wear my black BMW Maverick jeans, and if it's hot and humid, and my weight is down, (so ... not this summer) I'll wear my tan coloured BMW Summer pants: they turn into shorts with the flick of a zipper. I go Canadian for my extremities, with Joe Rocket vented gloves and Cruiserworks waterproof boots (my pair was made in Canada, before Cruiserworks outsourced to South America). Everything coordinates nicely!
I brought my old "shortie" HJC helmet and Joe Rocket jacket to leave in Collingwood. I cart my gloves and boots back and forth from the city to the condo for now. I've yet to find a suitable second pair of gloves and God knows I've tried, and I'm reluctant to order boots online. I suppose I could bring a pair of old cowboy boots and leave them there, but there are limits to how much I'll compromise regarding my biking attire.
So, dressed in my B-list gear, which includes an overly tight pair of Eddie Bauer jeans (that nagging weight issue again), we set off to explore the Niagara Escarpment.
Dave had a destination in mind, namely Flesherton. There was no particular draw to the town, other than to get there. We didn't even stop; we enjoyed the ride there, cruised the main drag, and 20 seconds later, having toured the town, we turned around, mission accomplished.
On the way back, Dave noticed on his map that we were close to the Feversham Gorge. Having had a very successful tour of the beautiful Eugenia Falls gorge a few weeks earlier, we decided to check it out.
We could tell right away that this gorge wouldn't be as picturesque as Eugenia Falls. You rode under a canopy of trees to get to the Eugenia Falls parking lot; this parking lot was out in the open, right off County Road 2. We had the Eugenia Falls parking lot to ourselves; we shared the Feversham Gorge parking lot with three yellow school buses.
My first thought was, "Oh, great. We'll be surrounded by swarms of obnoxious, loud children. I came up here to avoid crowds!", but other than ourselves there were only four adults picnicking next to the outhouses. Turns out they were the drivers of the school buses. I guess they were having a midsummer reunion.
Though it was a hot, sticky day, and I was fully clothed, including my motorcycle jacket, it was reasonably cool on the pathway. The paths weren't as scenic as the Eugenia Falls ones, and you could hear highway noise. We hiked onward, despite the disappointing surroundings; I was eager to clock more steps on my pedometer. Eventually we saw the waterfall; that is, if you craned your neck to the left, you could see a small trickle of water pouring down a cliff. Yawn! A few feet past the waterfall, craning your neck to the right revealed a bridge. Aha, so that was the source of the traffic noise!
"If we keep going, we might come out at the other end of the parking lot. Or, we'll end up on the road, and we can walk back to the bike on the gravel shoulder", suggested Dave.
"I don't feel like walking next to cars and trucks and hot pavement in my jeans and jacket", I barked back. Clearly, I'd had enough of the hike.
"Let's just turn around and go back the way we came, then", said Dave.
On our way back, I noticed there were actually two paths, one a little too close to the edge of the cliff for my comfort level.
"Let's take the high road!", I called out, my enthusiasm for the hike renewed, now that I knew it was almost over. The high road would get us to the parking lot that much quicker. We took the high road. And walked. And kept walking. And kept walking. I looked at my watch, and deduced that we had definitely walked for a lot longer on the way back than the way to the falls.
"Umm, see that fencing?", I asked Dave.
"Oh, good. So you don't remember seeing it on the way in, either, do you?", came his reply. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. How the hell could we be lost? This was a nothing gorge! The forest fell silent. The trees grew taller. The traffic noise died away.
"We don't have any water or cell phones with us", I pointed out.
"Well, we're not exactly lost", came Dave's sarcastic reply. "Let's just turn around. We must have missed the exit."
I had visions of overshooting the exit again, getting caught in an endless loop of bland scenery and annoying traffic noise. My right foot started getting sore. My throat felt parched. I briefly considered yelling for help, but figured the traffic noise would drown out my cries, and the bus drivers wouldn't hear me.
My limp became more pronounced as we retraced our steps. I cursed myself for not putting my orthotics into my motorcycle boots when we left the condo. I scanned the path, looking for clues as to our whereabouts. I started remembering that awful movie, "The Blair Witch Project". Now I understood why my friend Scott thought the movie was scary, whereas I had found it laughable. I had to pee.
Minutes later, we came to the fork in the path that led to the parking lot. We passed the picnickers, and Dave used the outhouse. I took one look and sniff inside the Ladies' toilet, and opted to wait for a Tim Horton's. We said nothing to the bus driving picnickers, took some pictures near the Gorge's sign, and rode off.
