Study Abroad Revisited

On the plain east of Vicenza, I revisited the Brion-Vega cemetery one damp afternoon nearly eighteen years after my first visit during a study abroad term at university. I think Adam was initially a bit surprised that I was dragging him out on a wet and drizzly day to look at a cemetery, but he acquiesced when I explained that it is an architectural landmark. We enjoyed a contemplative hour in that lovely space by Carlo Scarpa before a sketchbook toting class of architecture students arrived to interrupt our reverie. I believe Adam best enjoyed watching the fish swim lazy circles in the concrete pools.

[Sheltering from the drizzle at the cemetery]

My re-acquaintance with Palladio was far less auspicious. The Villa La Rotunda in Vicenza is happily situated but the interior of the house is a fright. The plaster carvings throughout the ground floor interior do not enhance the shell so I found myself unable to defend that particular foray into 'architecture.'

[Interesting in the abstract: the basement of Palladio's Villa la Rotunda]

I could not bring myself to suggest that we pay a return visit to Florence. That city belongs to Sara and I half a lifetime ago, and for now, I think those happy ghosts are best left undisturbed.

[Vintage Scarpa]

The high Italian passes

[Looking back over our ascent of the Stelvio Pass]

The first couple of switchbacks on our way up the Stelvio Pass were scary but I soon learned that it is a quiet road in October and mercifully the opposing traffic was light. Also, I quickly mastered the tight corners, enough to stay in my own lane anyhow. The necessary slow speeds were too low for Adam's taste but we both agreed that the scenery was breathtaking and were pleased that we'd chosen this route to cross the Alps from Germany through Austria and onward to Italy.

[Some Stelvio scenery]

The lesser Alpen passes proved more psychologically challenging as many of these are without guardrails. Where there are trees alongside the route, I am able to fool my brain into ignoring the sharp drop at the side of the roadway though a little voice squeaks to remind me that I am looking at tree crowns and not trunks as would be normal, but the valley below is well obscured so the fear lays low. The fear comes to the fore above the tree line though. On one harrowing section, the road was but a single lane wide and meant to accommodate two-way traffic around blind bends and switch backs. I fell well behind Adam as I steeled myself to continue along this stretch of road until we dropped below the tree line and the road again widened.

[Folded rock in the Tyrolean Alps]

Adam's GPS had a few tricks in store for us in the small towns that populated the steep slopes of the passes. On one unnecessary diversion through a village, it led us into a maze of cobbled lanes that narrowed to the width of our loaded bikes and into a twisty stretch that must have exceeded a slope of 30º. With very shiny polished cobbles under the wheels. I was ever so grateful when we rejoined the main road rather than having to perform a u-turn which sometimes happens when we misread the scale of the map and take a wrong turning. But no, that day it was merely the perversity of the GPS that wanted to test my mettle.

[Lakeside campsite on the Lago d'Idro]

We ended our crossing of the Alps at a quiet campsite on the shore of the Lago d'Idro, a wonderfully picturesque spot, and were saddened to leave it and the picture-perfect scenery for the Italian plains the next day. Even Lake Garda was a bit disappointing with the tacky hustle and bustle that encircles its shores.

[Another enchanting view of the Lago d'Idro]

I don't think either Adam or I expected to find the Apennine Mountains amounting to much as we worked our way from the northern plains of Italy to the Ligurian coast. So with the sun on our backs, we climbed into the foothills around mid-afternoon one day in mid-October. The squiggles on the map might have been a clue that we were about to tackle some high passes but we blithely motored on even when an ominous sky reared up ahead. Soon, we climbed into a foggy cloud bank. I couldn't make out Adam's tail-light twenty-five feet in front of me and my visor wouldn't clear so, up went the face shield and in came the wet and cold.

[This day's ride in the Apennines is about to get a great deal less pleasant]

Added to my worries was a low fuel light. Though my fuel light is alarmist, coming on many kilometres before Adam's deigns to warn him, I've experienced a few instances when fuel wouldn't transfer from my reserve tanks to the main, with the result in that horrible cough and splutter and stop at the side of the road until fuel can be coaxed to flow or more laboriously transferred manually. On one occasion, it coincided with the freak failure of my starter clutch so I am now petrified at the thought of running out of fuel. Adam just tuts and mutters as I start chattering in his ear ever more persistently about stopping for fuel but on this day as we headed higher into the Apennines and into more remote territory, I insisted on stopping at a single dilapidated cardlock pump on the side of the road to add 20€ of pricey (and precious) fuel into my tank. Onward we continued in worsening wet and cold until we reached 'town' which turned out to be no more than a collection of a few houses along a ridge. At least my worries about fuel were quelled, although I was then faced with the dilemma of whether to share my fuel with Adam when he inevitably ran out.

It was now six o'clock in the evening with darkness closing in and hunger starting to gnaw away. We had a choice to make: make a run for the Mediterranean coast along twisty switchbacks and sodden leaf-strewn roads after hunching to cook a hot meal by the side of the road, or continue on the few miles to a high peak and our original destination campsite for the night. We opted for the campsite. We might have been able to sate our hunger but we were too wet and too cold to contemplate the dash for the coast. We must have appeared as spectres out of the gloomy fog as we pulled up to the gate of the campground where mercifully, staff still populated the reception office. Our request for a tent site was quickly nixed and we were instead offered, in dense Italian, either a wooden A-frame 'tent' wide enough for two but little larger than a long dog house, or RV with lights and heat and running water. The RV won handily and we were left to get ourselves settled in with a promise of returning to the office in the morning to complete the paperwork formalities. No sooner had I put the pasta water on to boil than hail began to fall outside. And then the thunder and lightning came. It crashed all around us until 4 o'clock in the morning. And never had I been so grateful at those chances of fate that had led us to a warm dry RV bed for the night.

[Leaving camp, the morning after the storm]

By morning, the air had cleared and we had a delightful view of the hills. Adam never did run out of fuel on our way to La Spezia on the Ligurian coast though he did take the first opportunity that presented itself to fill his tanks. For the record: of course I would have shared mine.

[Bidding adieu to the Apennine Mountains]

Going over to the BMW side

The first thing to greet you at BMW's Enduro Park in Hechlingen are two giant, larger than life posters of Orlando Bloom and Brad Pitt. I was obviously going to be in good company during our off-road training then. And though there was a dearth of internationally famed movie stars about during the two days we spent riding the park, I had an immensely enjoyable and constructive time in central Germany.

[Me, somewhere in Germany]

It was at Adam's suggestion that we found our way to Hechlingen. He is, I think, a bit concerned about my timidity on uneven trails. I like to think of it as prudent caution, but to Adam, my slow speeds on anything other than smooth, dry, perfect asphalt smacks of fright and he was anxious that I receive good coaching on some basic skills to overcome off-road obstacles that we are likely to face in the miles ahead.

It was at Hechlingen that I was forcibly reminded of just how good a rider Adam is. He possesses fundamental skills that when paired with his self-confidence seem to allow him to effortlessly ride through gnarly terrain and be unafraid of tackling steep slopes. The group of instructors are a class unto themselves and though Adam doesn't reach to their standard, it is nonetheless a pleasure to watch him delight in his own skills on the bike.

[Adam's KTM hanging out among the BMWs]

I self-selected to the beginner group. This may have been slightly understating my experience off-road as I had after all ridden logging roads back and forth between Thunder Bay and Atikokan, and tackled a challenging route outside of Wawa, but in the end I was glad that I opted for the newbie class. We were a small group of five and so received more personalized instruction and advice from Thom, our instructor. The intermediate group numbered close to a dozen and so my impression is that their learning would have come from time and miles on the course rather than through individual coaching. Very generously, my group agreed to be instructed in English and made an effort to include me when technical talk drifted back into German.

I opted to ride a rented BMW 650 for the two days. I was perfectly happy with it in the park but mildly resentful that it seemed intent on killing me on pavement – the back tire had an alarming tendency to skitter on downshifting. In the park, the 650 puttered away and proved difficult to stall which is always nice at slow speed when I'm busy enough trying to concentrate on weight displacement, and balance between front and rear braking, and throttle, and keeping my eyeline high. We were very lucky with the weather, the rain primarily falling outside of course hours and serving to keep the dust down.

My group did not progress much beyond the fundamentals but I have made note of the practice drills and look forward to the chance to repeat them once we find some space away from pavement again. Unlike the rest in my group, I got a bit of experience in the sand pit but only because I initially failed to exercise sufficient control when climbing hills, and instead of gently reaching the crest of the rise, caught good air and sailed straight over the top of the short hills into the sand pit. Then had to ride my way out. The sand seems far more friendly than my nemesis, pebbly rail ballast, but I hardly had enough time in it for a definitive assessment. This will have to wait.

Whether or not I have gained enough skill to shed my timidity remains to be seen, but I feel better armed to tackle uneven terrain ahead. I'll keep my KTM though. The time on the BMW 650 did not develop into a love affair.

[The valley departing Germany]

From Globetrotter to Globetrotter: thoughts on camping gear

This post is all about gear, the camping gear. If that's not your thing, then this post ain't for you.

Unfortunately, not all of our equipment has lived up to promise and hope. As previously mentioned, the draughty double-wide synthetic fill sleeping bag was cast off in Brussels. Despite my attempt to seal up the drafts with buttons and toggles around the hood, the Big Agnes Dream Island did not provide the promised dreamy sleep. You'd be hard pressed to convince me again that I would find comfortable warmth in a sleeping bag insulated only on the top and relying on the thermal performance of a mattress slipped into a nylon pocket on the bottom. Maybe in the tropics… but I'm not keen on taking that chance.

[A cat: frequent fixture of the European campground]

Alas, the replacement down-filled Deuter bags with their -10ºC rating just haven't been warm enough for me either. No more stealing warmth from Adam who runs hotter than I and likes his mummy bag just fine. The polyester liner sack feels like a dream compared to the inner nylon lining of the Deuter bag but the liner comes nowhere near to adding an additional 15º as suggested by the promotional material. It will go a long way to keeping the sleeping bag cleaner however. I am beginning to wholeheartedly subscribe to Uncle George's notion that sleeping bag ratings are a fallacy and that, rather than representing the temperature at which I will be comfortable, are a better indicator of the temperature at which I will actually perish from hypothermia.

Our Primus stove has also been a nagging problem from the outset; the jet regularly clogged and the plunger on the pressure pump deformed at each use until Adam permanently re-built it using a rubber O-ring to reinforce the leather. The final straw however was the permanent deformation of the outer burner ring. The metal just didn't seem sufficiently robust to deal with the heat and it grew so distorted that the fuel wasn't burning clean, leaving the base of our pots scorched in black soot at every use. I replaced every part available with the maintenance kit and was babying the stove, but the time came to accept reality – the Primus would not see us through this journey. Some of my MEC brand gear has also let me down, okay… all of my newer MEC branded gear has been a disappointment. My merino shirts dissolved into tatters making me look unkempt and homeless (the homeless part being a little too close for comfort, though Adam reminds me that I now live with my parents – technically speaking). It's hard enough to tidy up for a restaurant with only sportwear available but the task is insurmountable when the hem is hanging off your shirt which is also filled with tens of little random holes. There's no pretending my shirt was a Rodarte masterpiece.

[Not photoshop, some campsites just look like they belong in a calendar]

As we entered Germany for a stretch, and as if knowing that the gear situation was becoming critical, the zipper on my MEC sweater, my only sweater on this trip and one that was seeing daily use, failed unutterably. And so it was that we discovered Globetrotter. Initially, we wandered into an outlet, near the end of the day, cranky and tired and looking forward to easier evening meal preparation with acquisition of a new stove only to discover the outlet stocked solely with last season's footwear and clothing. So we hunkered down in a nearby campsite, made do with the soot-belching Primus stove for another night, and planned an incisive foray into Globetrotter Stuttgart. Wow. What a palace of outdoor equipment. Storeys of gear beautifully arrayed around a central atrium.

Our haul included reflective foil-faced rubber mats to boost the thermal rating of our air mattresses (at 6€ each these have been the best investment of the trip to date), and a lightweight rectangular sleeping bag into which I can cocoon in the down bag, an arrangement which now keeps me warm and cosy while I sleep. An Icebreaker merino sweater and shirt were acquired to return me to respectability, and a new stove bought at last. Bummer that the old fuel bottle isn't compatible so a new one of those was purchased too. Icebreaker… accept no substitutes. From here on out, I'll be sticking to Patagonia and Icebreaker clothing as they seem to withstand my hard wearing ways.

By coincidence, or by result of good design, we've discovered that MSR hardware is best living up to expectations. The four-person Papa Hubba NX tent comfortably houses both of us and our stuff which seems to triple in bulk once out of the panniers. The tent has two doors on opposite sides so we don't have to crawl over each other getting in and out, something I was not particularly thankful for until this morning witnessing the awkwardness of sharing a tent with a single vestibule and door. The Papa Hubba is remarkably lightweight and packs down quite small for a four-person affair. As with all tents however, honestly speaking, the only way four people are cramming in here is with narrow shoulder-width mattresses and a plan to sleep alternately head to feet. Three people without gear might be accommodated on 'standard-width' mattresses. I daily use a 4 litre Dromedary bag to collect water for preparation of dinner, and it effortlessly pairs with our MSR water filter when we are wild camping or find ourselves without access to potable tap water. I have just realized that my travel towel is an MSR model and it has been doing good duty for years. The stainless steel dishware is merely doing a job, but then the solder on the handle of my no-name stainless mug has just given way so I am again filled with appreciation for the MSR brand plates and bowls about which I cannot offer complaint.

With our growing fondness for MSR, we decided that one of their stoves would be replacement for our Primus. I considered the XGK-EX but Adam pointed out that it has a burner design similar in style to the failing Primus, though it appears to be more robustly built, but in any event Globetrotter had none in stock. And so it was that we walked out of the store with the MSR Whisperlite Universal. It was a delight to cook dinner that night – so much quieter than the Primus that we could actually carry a conversation while it was lit. Like the Primus, we are running the Whisperlite on petrol as we always have gasoline on the bikes and having a spare litre of fuel for the bikes can't hurt. The shine quickly wore off the next morning however when the rubber plunger on the pressure pump came dislodged and then ripped. And so it was that I was dumpster diving for the old Primus, feeling lucky both that the old stove had not been buried beneath great gobs of stinky garbage since the previous night, and that the failure had occurred while retrieval of the old Primus was still possible.

[The chef hard at work, luxuriating in all the space available to low season campers mostly alone in the campground]

Onward then to the next Globetrotter located in Ulm, to exchange or return the MSR stove. Inadvertently however we ended up in town on the Saturday holiday commemorating the reunification of East and West Germany twenty-five years ago. Only a few cafes were still open but definitely not Globetrotter, so the Primus would have to see us through a few more days until we could get further south and in to Munich the following week. The staff of Globetrotter Munich were very kind to Adam – he was in and out in a flash with a replacement fuel pump and I am pleased to report that in the weeks since, the Whisperlite has given us no bother and that MSR is once again held in high esteem.

The Big Agnes insulated Q-core SL air mattresses have been another great disappointment, especially when considering their cost. We've each got three patches on our mattress now and grow tired of choosing campsites with otherwise unwanted (and now freezing) swimming pools only so we can take the mattresses for a dip and locate the pinhole leaks. The compact size and light weight of the mattress are appealing but leaks aplenty, particularly around the valve, have been a real annoyance. Though 'insulated', we find that alone, the mattresses do not offer sufficient insulation to be thermally neutral – we lose heat to the ground on cool nights. The addition of foil-faced rubber mats improves the arrangement though these have stressed my carefully edited personal gear pile and I have had to jettison my second pair of trousers and second dress. So if I seem to be wearing the same thing in every photo from now on, you know why! Good sleep trumps fashion.

[Soaking in some rare evening sun while setting up camp for the night]

Before leaving Canada, we both picked up collapsible canvas and aluminum camp chairs. Nothing like Grandma's folding lawn chair, these disassemble like a tent and fold up to the size of a one litre water bottle. Adam's Helinox One sits a little higher than my Alite Mayfly – I look downright awkward rolling out of mine and returning to my feet – but I prefer the less hunched seating position of the Mayfly and besides, mine offers a better ground level perspective on the cookstove. Picnic tables are few and far between at European campsites.

The final piece of gear that has improved my lot significantly is the Sanifem Freshette. It makes relief possible at any roadside stop, regardless of the variety or downright absence of formal toilet facilities. I thank the many ladies who took the time to review this product on MEC's website – those who suggested that the hard sides that would not collapse under use, and the generous outlet would not be overwhelmed by flow, were entirely correct.

[I should note, out of some vestigial loyalty, that some of the older MEC-brand stuff is holding up great. Adam's duffel and fleece cardigan, and my dry bag, are doing the job they were meant to do years after purchase. And so is the brand-name gear that I purchased at MEC just before the trip, like the Smartwool socks and Patagonia undies.]

The big 4-0, aka the Hackenberg

[Inside the Ouvrage Hackenberg]

Being the proverbial history geek, I celebrated my 40th birthday in fine style with a day-long visit to the Ouvrage Hackenberg, largest of the Maginot Line forts. Scouting out the place the day before, we followed some unusual GPS routing.

We are learning the ways of our respective directional devices. My iPhone and Google Maps team up to place us on the closest-to-motorway thing going when I have the lead, even when I have specified that Google is to avoid highways, tolls and ferries. And when I do select the grudgingly proposed slower route, Google will insistently offer any number of shortcuts or plain old U-turns to get us back on the fastest motorway because we all must want to arrive now, now, now rather than enjoy the journey, right? I am grateful to Google however for the reviews and direct connections to websites from the app, particularly at the point that arrives each afternoon when we seek a campsite or lodging for the night. I am beginning to collect an impressive array of SIM cards, and am learning the quirks of the various mobile data providers across Europe. I can only imagine that enrolment in pay as you go plans will become harder as we move away from countries fluent in English or French. But the internet is a lifeline… I feel lost without it even though I can sense that Adam enjoys our brief stays in countries that we intend to transit so quickly that I don't insist on hunting down a new SIM. Then my nose is not so easily buried in my phone.

[Campsite on the bank of the Moselle River]

Adam's GPS subjects us to its own perverse routing at times. We are regularly issued instructions to veer off a smooth-running bypass into the heart of a town because the GPS has perceived that the cramped and twisted town route is mere centimetres shorter than the bypass. Adam is running Open Street Maps on a Garmin Montana. I find the Garmin interface a bit clunky but I do manage to make do when it is my turn to search out a waypoint. The amount of data, including not just streets but points of interest, accommodation, food and fuel embedded in the Open Street Maps is impressive for freely available maps that can be cached and called up as needed without a subscription. The GPS does get a little confused from time to time however about what can actually be called a 'road' and we have at times found ourselves creeping along a private lane hoping our slow speed and friendly waves will be enough to deter the landowner from shaking a fist or taking more decisive action to eject us from their property.

The day before our Hackenberg tour, the GPS selected one such dubious route. It began innocuously enough as a gravel road but then as it swung uphill through the forest, became a deeply rutted clay track that was enormously challenging to ride (after being thrown off into the bank, I gave up and had Adam ride my bike to the top of the rise). What was to follow was truly spooky. The riding improved but we encountered steep-walled anti-tank ditches slicing through the forest and at various perspectives, great hulking concrete fortifications staring out of the gloom. Only at the end of the dirt track did we encounter a gate giving notice of the French military grounds, closed to all but foot traffic, that we had just crossed. It was during our underground tour of the Hackenberg the following day that we learned that all the infrastructure was part of the single fort, connected by kilometres of tunnels, and intended to provide crossing fire along this stretch of the German border. The Hackenberg tour was fascinating, and I hope to find other such interesting spots as we go.

[Anti-tank ditch]

Bruxelles

I feel compelled to mention Brussels as it was something of a watershed moment in the trip. It was the moment that crystallized our ambitions on this adventure: the search for fine scenery and wilderness. As an architect and someone who has become accustomed to city-hopping, this notion has been an adjustment. So many of the iconic buildings and cultural venues that I've wanted to see are in large cities but motorcycle travels are stressful enough without throwing foreign metropoli into the mix. The aggressive drivers of Brussels, in their dented and scratched cars accustomed to nudging and jostling through the city streets, made for nervous times. I was however fortunate enough to meet a couple of wonderful women in Brussels whose kindness brightened my day and got me back on the road in fine form. Their generosity of spirit will not soon be forgotten.

[The Stelvio Pass: breathtaking scenery that fits the bill]

Our delightful Airbnb flat in the city also offered laundry facilities and the chance to dry out all of our gear. We did take advantage of the city's retail offerings and replaced our synthetic-fill sleeping bag with down-filled mummy bags having tight-fitting draft collars. The Big Agnes double-wide sleeping bag system is just too draughty for the cooler nights we are now facing.

My suggestion for Brussels: Find a Galler chocolatier and try one of everything, then move on.

Into the tail of the storm

Tour de France coverage always includes the most glorious images of Mont Saint Michel when the tour passes that way. And I wanted to see it in person. Adam did not want to pay for parking, or a shuttle bus. What we could agree on was that neither of us could face the prospect of a night in a soggy tent so it would be a B&B for the night given that we were caught in the tail end of tropical storm Henri. And so it was that we found lodging sort of close to Mont Saint Michel, crossed the road into a muddy sheep-filled field and began trudging toward the island town. It was an impressive sight, all shrouded in mist, but it didn't seem to be getting any larger, or closer. I will thank Adam for taking care of my physical fitness, but I do wish we could tackle the matter in smaller, more discrete exertions.

We finally reached Mont Saint Michel itself with just enough daylight to poke around the ramparts then begin our return walk into the dusk. At kilometre 13, I insisted on dinner at a crêperie and there we first made our acquaintance with Normandy cider. Excellent apple cider it is too, as we would continue to find in days ahead as we sampled the offerings of local grocery stores. Mont Saint Michel is worth the visit, though I would suggest paying for parking at the end of the causeway even if you skip the shuttle bus. But don't bother eating or staying in the island town itself, these would be costly propositions. Do try the cider.

Damp days and warm welcomes

Happily for me, England and Northern Ireland are home to friends and family who generously hosted Adam and I as we eased into our European travels over the first month after leaving Canada. The luxury of having clean laundry every week is one that I don't think I fully appreciated before now as I stew in day 5 of the same shirt, and sweater, and long johns. The limitations of baggage mean that my clothing allowance is incredibly restrictive though at least the underwear stash stretches further, and is more amenable to sink laundry and overnight drying on the handlebars en route.

I am incredibly grateful for those who housed us and fed us, and gave us shelter from the rain during our time in the UK. We also stopped along the way to see a few points of interest.

I watched a British documentary about Chatsworth a couple of years ago and promptly put it on my list of places to see the next time I was in England. 'Wait for Me', the gossipy memoir of Deborah Mitford (recently deceased Dowager Duchess of Devonshire), was my first introduction to the house and some of its history so I was quite keen to see it in person. We spent a couple of nights nearby, camping in the rain on an increasingly boggy open field in the Peak District and while I enjoyed our visit to the house, I think I expected too much. A stately home isn't as interesting without a witty monologue to accompany the tour and unfortunately the gardens were dampened by mist.

[From the Chatsworth greenhouse]

Our trip over the Wry Nose pass in the Lake District, on an afternoon when the sun put in an appearance, was a delight. The road is a narrow, mostly single lane track that zigzags up and down over high hills where the sheep and a few cattle graze freely. Like most roads, tracks, and paths in the UK, it was paved. Hard to believe that a grader managed some of the steeper 35 percent inclines, but there was asphalt the whole way. The road through Scotland to catch our ferry out of Cairnryan was mostly without note except for the stretch through Galloway Forest Park where the sights and smells of logging reminded me of Northern Ontario.

[Scene from the Lake District]

We received a wonderfully warm welcome in Northern Ireland but there the heated jacket and glove liners got their first outing. Basically, we entered a cloud bank from which we were not to emerge until we crossed into the Republic of Ireland a week later. Almost to the minute that we rolled off the ferry in Belfast did the skies open and a downpour begin. It was a shame to me that Adam's first visit to Northern Ireland should have been so soggy as it is a place that I adore after several summers spent there.

[Adam, enjoying the Irish weather]

We were lucky to have one bright clear day to travel the Antrim coast from Downhill Strand all the way to Larne. It was on our evening's return that we first learned the perversity of Adam's GPS as it led us straight into the heart of West Belfast. Today I suspect that there is little harm in traversing the formerly staunchly sectarian neighbourhoods but my instincts of old kicked in, and so Google Maps and I beat a hasty retreat back to Lisburn.

The Wicklow hills presented some breathtakingly austere scenery as we headed south to catch a ferry from Rosslare to Wales. One of the highlights of our time in England was a behind-the-scenes tour of Salisbury Cathedral. While I admit that the climbing of the rickety and steep circular wooden stairs into the spire was in itself no treat, the commentary by our guide was delightful and the hidden construction details of the medieval period were fascinating to behold.

[Cloisters at Salisbury Cathedral]

Our departure from England was hardly auspicious. Unable to find a B&B with available beds in Poole, we stayed on with my cousin for an extra night and left in the dark and the rain at “stupid o'clock” to catch our early morning ferry across the channel to Cherbourg. I was surprised by the thudding of the large ship as it seemed to struggle with the rolling seas, taking a couple of hours longer than scheduled to make the Channel crossing. We had inavertently stumbled into the tail end of tropical storm Henri whose rains would dampen our first days in France when Adam and I were alone, and without friends and family to call on.

[Wicklow, Ireland]

Arrival, Heathrow

We arrived at Heathrow in the evening with enough time to check-in to the airport hotel and have a late dinner before retiring to bed. Our first goal after breakfast the next morning was collecting our motorcycles!

The daytime flight into London, from Toronto, definitely eases the transition through five time zones. But it was the Air Canada Cargo staff who proved to be the revelation. They are the easygoing and friendly cousins to the surly flight attendants we've all come to know. In fact, had it not been for the genuinely helpful counter staff at Air Canada's Heathrow Cargo terminal, our bikes would still be in hock. (Terminal is a generous term in this instance... Air Canada occupies but a narrow berth in a crowded maze of warehouses and loading bays for international cargo at Heathrow. It doesn't feel like a place where a couple of tourists belong but there we were, jostling with the lorry drivers to retrieve our goods.)

Top tip if you're flying your motorcycle into London Heathrow: arrange for a customs agent in advance. All customs paperwork for cargo is filed electronically so the duplicate hard copies of the C110 forms that our booking agent recommended we complete, were useless. The AC Cargo counter staff have seen our like more than a few times this summer however, since Air Canada began their motorcycle shipping promotion, and so they keep contacts on hand and immediately got us set up with an agent who set aside his afternoon to process our paperwork. If you're in the market for these services, I would highly recommend contacting Roddy at Motofreight (roddy@motofreight.com).

After a few hours' wait, lingering over coffee and hot chocolate at the canteen, we were given the high sign that the digital approvals had been received and we were reunited with our bikes that had been sitting mere yards away the whole time. Then it was a matter of re-connecting the battery and loading the luggage before hitting the road. First stop, a petrol station which was conveniently located just along the ring road around the airport. Good job too because we had to put a lot of fuel in our tanks - with only a low fuel light rather than a gas gauge on the bikes, guessing the quarter tank mark for shipment was a challenge. As ever, A had this in hand and we were at our mark.

On English soil at last but it was growing late so after a couple of aborted attempts to find lodging at country pubs and literally driving into a garden with a wedding party milling about (who knew Thursday weddings were so popular?!), we found ourselves settling into a B&B with two twin beds in Basingstoke... not the most romantic setting but a comfortable one.

Reflections on 12,000 kilometres

It gets easier. It gets better. All except for my backside - the seat on my motorcycle has not grown any more comfortable with the passage of time.

Where once the spectre of a ride down a virtually deserted highway kept me up nights, I now recognize the highway for the expedient that it is. The highway is rarely the most scenic of routes but it is the fastest way when trying to skip from northwestern New Brunswick to southeastern Ontario in a single day.

In short, I now love riding my bike.

A and I have travelled the width of Ontario three times, and out to Nova Scotia and back to Ottawa, since my leaving Toronto at the end of May. A thinks I still slow down too much on gravel (and chipseal), and I still don't especially enjoy blustery days, but with 12,000kms under me now, I feel ready to tackle riding overseas.

Riding a motorcycle is a visceral experience. Everything vibrates, from the helmet on your head to the foot pegs under the soles of your feet. I was taught to stay relaxed when passing large trucks pushing a wall of air and to ride out the turbulence that swirls around them. But ghost trucks are another matter. These hit on blustery days when sudden gusts joggle the bike under you unexpectedly. At least you can see regular trucks and brace yourself for the swirling air! Ghost trucks are invisible spectres hiding in the gusts of wind that sweep across the road on unsettled days.

Smells define a journey. The expected smells that penetrate even the shell of a car, like angry skunks, are even more pronounced when riding in the free air. (Rarely do we spy skunk corpses, just the smell from presumably angry animals that have since slinked away. Porcupines are sadly another matter - we see too many of these dead on the road.) When lilacs are in bloom, whole towns smell lovely, and we can tell if you've put too much softener in your laundry. The smell from over-perfumed dryer exhaust really carries. My favourite are the logging chip trucks in Northern Ontario which smell like the most exotic of botanical gins.

Somehow, almost three months have fled during all this riding and seemingly suddenly, we've handed over our bikes to Air Canada cargo and have boarded a flight to London. A and I aren't quite sure what we're going to do with ourselves for the next year or so, but we hope to have fun doing it. We get to collect the motorcycles the morning after landing at Heathrow so then my current preoccupation will be answered: does the maximum allowable quarter tank of fuel allow us enough range to fill up at the nearest petrol station?

What was I thinking?!

Riding a motorcycle is, as it turns out, hard.

It’s like learning to drive a standard all over again without the hubris of age sixteen. And for someone who is frankly as uncoordinated as I am, instilling the muscle memories or just remembering which appendage controls what, seems like it’s going to take time. All hands and feet are pressed into service simultaneously to run the bike, and it helps if you can keep your shoulders relaxed and not flap your knees outwardly in a reflexive attempt to establish balance.

I passed my first practical exam so after some paperwork at the ministry, the only restriction on my license will be 0 blood alcohol. But I don’t feel ready!! And I feel like I barely passed (which is obviously beside the point because I did pass).

All credit for my progress to date is due to Ginny, Darryl and Leah from Motorsoul in Toronto. They made the prospect of riding a motorcycle so much more plausible, gave each of us in the M1 exit course individual attention, and lavished encouragement and pointed instruction on us that was invaluable when I was growing frustrated with my perceived failings during a lesson. Watching each of them demonstrate skills was a joy, and a benchmark of smooth assuredness that I hope someday to achieve.

Bikes were provided for the course and by the second day, Ginny had gently encouraged me to get on and try the TW200, a smaller dual-sport bike to my taller KTM 690. It’s a small comfort to know that the TW200 was almost as heavy as my own bike so I live in hope that I will find mine manageable. That test comes next – ever so gratefully in an off-road gravel pit where I will have none but A’s patience to try.

My first weekend on a motorcycle was generally a positive experience, and I remain determined to master the bike, but I guess I just don’t feel as triumphant as I hoped. (Yet.)