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BIKE Magazine UK says “Live the dream”

BIKE Magazine (UK)
January, 2000
by Bertie Simmonds

You know you’re somewhere special on a bike when the quality and rarity of the road kill is enough to make David Attenborough weep. Today my route is flanked by solid cretaceous mountain rock and sweet-smelling pine instead of the central reservation and foul-smelling carbon monoxide that normally hog my morning ride.

Instead of the badger, rabbit and magpie I usually see, I’m keeping a wary eye out for elk, bear and cougar. Fear increases my excitement and vigilance as these things would do me so much more damage than the monkjack I hit and killed last winter. But what an adventure. I’m hunting big game in Canada, and my only line of defence is the growling Tiger beneath me.

I’m living my dream, heading through the Monashee Mountains, somewhere between Kelowna and Nelson in beautiful British Columbia, towards my idea of Utopia, the Rocky Mountains.

I was an avid fan of Grizzly Adams as a nipper and because of that I fell in love with North America’s vast, open plains fenced in by the majestic Rockies. Later, an adolescent affair with motorcycles led me to fall for tight, twisty roads and here I am sandwiched right between the two. Only a two-up lambada with Cameron Diaz and Cindy Crawford as the bread in a Bertie-filled sandwich could come close in the excitement stakes. I’m sure they’d agree.

It started, as lots of good things do, with a few pints and a copy of Bike magazine. Features writer Dan Walsh asked me where in the world I would love to ride. I vaguely remember slurring something about the Rockies. Dan pointed out the advert for Rocky Mountain Motorcycle Holidays.

Fast forward three months and I’m outside the Delta Hotel in the winter ski resort of Whistler, sitting astride a Triumph Tiger. Ahead lies a 1700-mile, seven-day, eight-night trip that will take us through some of the most beautiful scenery on earth.

My fellow tourists are all Brits: Terry and Paul Drew (known hereafter as the Gadget brothers, on account of the amount of portable-digital-mini-disc-FST-technology they carry between them on their bikes) and Gareth Morris, an English gentleman who spent every breakfast teaching various Canadian waiters/waitresses the finer points of how to make a cup of tea the British way.

We leave Whistler and head east along the Duffey Lake road. It’s mid September yet I’m shedding the layers to keep cool. Up ahead is one of our two guides, expat Brit Robert Smith on a very fruity sounding Triumph Thunderbird, while Paul rides the Speed Triple (complete with digital camera fixed on a home-made camera bracket secured on the filler-cap) and Terry and Gareth ride the two Sprint STs. Behind is guide number two, Ryan Brown in a support truck so long it spans several time zones. He’s carrying drinks, waterproofs, our luggage and even a spare bike. A perfectly civilised way for English gentlemen abroad to do a spot of ‘brisk touring’.

The rugged beauty and wide open spaces leave me breathless. The air is so fresh up here it feels alive as it enters your lungs. And the wildlife! Fox and coyote scamper back into the protection of the pine trees as the snarling Triumphs announce our arrival in their part of the woods. There’s not that scenery/city sandwich that you get in Europe, instead you climb through miles and miles of the most gorgeous, lush greenery and chiselled mountain ranges ever, before descending (surprisingly) through the odd, hot, arid dust bowl. It really is that varied. Small, charming, hicksville towns crop up from time to time to remind you that Canada’s also inhabited by people, but only 2.5 of them in every square kilometre. I know, I counted them—that’s just one-fiftieth of the population density of Europe.

At the end of day one, at Kelowna, we all agree that it can’t get any better. We’ve ridden 450 klicks, I’ve almost run over a mountain deer (Triumph hazard lights are useful) and remembered why I hate the seat on the Tiger as my arse feels like it has been charged by a rutting Elk, but none of this stops us looking forward to day two.

We’ve all decided on a longer route to our two-day stopover at Nelson, which, we’re reliably informed by Ryan, will take us through some more serious twisties.

We cut right across the Monashee Mountains and head towards Arrow Lake where we need to catch the Needles ferry to our lunch stop. Wherever we go the Triumphs get admiring glances. The choice of bikes for the tour company was simple. With most of the customers coming from the US and the UK the bikes had to be acceptable to both. Apparently the fiercely isolationist Americans deride Jap bikes as ‘rice-burners’ but look upon Brit bikes with affection. Aw… that’s nice. See? It is worth giving them our backing in minor European and Middle Eastern conflicts, isn’t it?

Lunch is at a lovely little cafe which specialises in mushrooms; and not just any old mushroom, either. Pine mushrooms are a delicacy, especially in Japan where they can fetch between C$20 and C$180 a kilo. That can make a walk with your dog quite profitable as our canine chums can sniff them out. In a six-week period in 1989 they unearthed more than $3 million-worth of pine mushrooms.

With the contents of our stomachs now worth around $2500, we decide to head out for some more action.

This road is beautiful. One of those classic dead-straight-for-miles ones that seems to head straight into a wall of rock on the horizon. I’m gunning the big Tiger and the straight road disappears to my left. Nothing coming, so I cross the centreline to get a clear peek up ahead and spot the glorious grey-coloured ribbon of fun spiralling off into the distance.

I stop for some snaps, then saddle up again to chase the guys ahead. By the time I catch up they’re having a whale of a time. Gareth and the Speed Triple slip by on my right. He’s obviously looking at the scenery and thinking of tea. The Gadget brothers are next and really hustling the red and black Sprint STs. I can’t get past, so I make do with matching them through the corners. I’d told the pair of them how far over they’d leant these bikes on the last stop and they never believed me. Clear road ahead and they’re now leaning further until first Paul and then Terry lose their left-hand hero blobs. ‘Ping’, they skittle past me in a blur.

Mentally I’m trying to take in the scenery while sticking as close as I dare to the guys in front. You do that, don’t you? Close enough to let the people ahead know that you could get past, if only you had slightly bigger balls or a faster bike.

Next stop, cheesy grins all round. On pointing out the missing blobs the Gadget boys’ grins get bigger. We’re now heading towards the Selkirk Mountains and the town of Nelson. Our hotel, the Prestige Inn, is special. How many places have you stayed in with landing lights on the roof for the adjacent airfield? The noise of light aircraft enters my dreams, so for the next two nights I dream that Hitchcockian ‘North by North-west’ crop-dusting planes are swooping low to kill me.

Day four sees me shrugging off a Cary Grant accent and skirting the border with Idaho, US, before finally heading north through Cranbrook towards the Rocky Mountain trench.

You may think that one mountain looks pretty much the same as any other but you can’t help but be impressed when the Rockies finally hove into view. This backbone of the North American continent almost represents life itself. Born from a shallow tropical sea 500 million years ago, the Rockies now dominate life in this part of the world. While I gaze upon the mountains for the first time, Ryan tells me that water on the left of the canyon heads to the Pacific and, on the right, to the Atlantic. Life and fate decided by a current, a gust of wind and the phase of the moon.

We skirt the Rockies, heading north, then west towards Revelstoke. The weather is turning. It’s colder now, and a few snow drops fall out of the sky.

The flies that were hitting our visors at the start of the trip are replaced by leaves, now that the first day of autumn (fall) has passed.

Despite continuing to suffer with Tiger arse, I’m pleased with the big fella’s reassuring soft suspension (not all the roads in Canada are great) and the sheltering hand guards.

We enter Revelstoke like five gunmen in a low-budget Spaghetti Western, five triples barking warnings at passers-by. It’s a small railroad town—busy, bustling and charming. Net curtains twitch. We stay at Syd’s place, the first and only time in the trip we’ve swopped luxury for a nice homely place (and the pearly white grins of bell-boys for Syd’s acid wit. He’s like a Canadian Basil Fawlty.) That night we find some wildlife. Ryan tells us about the local cougars—sexy ladies in their 40s, who can still turn a few heads. That night we spot one in our restaurant and she provides us with plenty of sport. Unfortunately, she never once mentions my accent; I must still sound like Cary Grant.

Having bagged a cougar, the following morning we go hunting for bear. With the rain coming down we hop into the pick-up and head down to the river. We spot bear tracks and salmon blood, but Grizzly Adams and friend fail to make an appearance.

In the nearby rivers, the salmon are heading upstream and back to their spawning ground. Unfortunately, we have to do the same, but upstream for us lies to the west and Whistler.

Following our penultimate night in Sun Peaks, we’re almost saddened to be retracing our steps, even if it is along the picturesque and twisty Duffy Lake road once more.

At the final evening dinner in yet another classy restaurant, we’re all talking like old friends. That for me is what touring is all about making friends through shared experiences. I managed to do one of the things I always wanted to ride through my Eden. Whatever your Eden is, the Sahara, Route 66, the world, or even (God forbid) the A1, just go out and do it. The memories will stick with you like a homesick limpet.

Bertie Simmonds

— June 26, 2007

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