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Sunday Times UK says “Would do it again”

Sunday Times (UK)
June 13, 1999
by Jonathan Futrell

His imagination fired by a hundred motorcycle movies, Jonathan Futrell, toughs it out with a team of fellow bikers on the high-speed bends and empty roads of the Canadian Rockies.

We chased sunset into Kamloops, on the Trans Canada Highway, nearing the end of the longest day in the saddle. In front of me, a twilight horizon, silhouetted in magenta and gold, and the line of red taillights, hunched shoulders and crash helmets I had followed since Monte Creek.

The day’s ride had begun to the south-east in Nelson, following Kootenay Lake north through Kaslo, before cutting across country on Highway 31A, an old logging road with fast turns and grippy tarmac. The only other traffic we encountered in more than two hours were some campers with canoes strapped to the roof and a few other bikes. We crossed Upper Arrow Lake on the ferry and ate our picnic lunch in a park on the west bank, then blasted across the eastern flank of Mount Begbie at more than 1,000 meters, and finally dropped down to the Three Valley Lake Region.

I began the day on my blue Triumph Trophy (allocated to me for the four-day tour), but to get the feel of other bikes, I had managed to put a few miles on Keith’s black Speed Triple and Blaine’s yellow VTR 1000 as well; both racier and more radical than my upright mount and much more fun on high-speed bends.

Crossing British Columbia in a posse of motorcycles was proving to be all I had hoped it would be, and more. In just a couple of days our disparate band of holidaymakers, from different age groups and different walks of life, had become compadres; toughing out the big country and loving every mile. An appreciation of big-time travel goes with the territory out here. And as if to underscore a feeling all of us had at that moment approaching Kamloops, the driver of a freight train hauling a load a mile long, leant out of his cab, waved at us and sounded the horn. Now, that’s biking.

My four days with Rocky Mountain Motorcycle Holidays (RMMH) began in Whistler -two hours by shuttle northeast of Vancouver, a purpose-built, all-weather ski resort, and one of those well-sorted towns where the hotels, cafes, shopping malls, parking lots, mountain walks and chairlifts dovetail, incredibly enough, into a central piazza. It could well been designed by computer as the ultimate hassle-free resort, but what it lacks in soul, it makes up for in convenience—a mountainside shopping mall for credit-card ramblers.

After a detailed pre-ride introduction over breakfast at the Delta Mountain Resort, it was onto the bikes. RMMH bosses Mike and Ryan would take turns to ride with us; one in front on the lead bike and the other bringing up the rear in a pick-up truck, carrying a spare bike, the luggage, water, juice and lunch. Ryan used to work at the Delta Resort and now guides tourists around the Rockies. During the winter season, Mike builds fabulous log homes for the increasing number of millionaires buying into western style.

The ride from Whistler was slow and orderly, Ryan testing us to see which of us, apart from Blaine, who races bikes and has his own motorcycle business, knew how to handle a 900cc machine. We crossed land belonging to First Nations people and farmland where the leaves had begun to turn and fall. Ryan pointed this way and that into the distance. “Spawning salmon,” came a muffled cry from within his helmet (at a nearby pull-out). “Did you see the elk, too?” Everyone nodded except me.

Our biking skills were to be put to an early test along the Duffy Lake Road, which everyone I met agreed is the mother of all roads. “Hey, you’re gonna love that,” said a youth on the shuttle from Vancouver. It is actually more of a canyon cutting than a lake-shore cruise. The road zigzags around hairpin bends and traverses the occasional single-track wooden bridge.

Motorcycling is an assault upon the senses. Your sixth sense keeps you upright and in one piece while your olfactory glands are keeping pace with the potpourri of smells. In BC the dominant ingredients are pine, wild garlic, oregano and lavender. You are constantly monitoring the road ahead for loose gravel and imperfections in the tarmac. You learn to anticipate weather, the chances of rain, and your body temperature might fluctuate several degrees within a short distance.

Out of damp Duffy Lake Road, we climbed east crossing the Coast Mountains arid southeastern face, and my previously comfortable leathers became a sticky thermal cocoon. We were in the hot and dry boondocks of the interior.

The pace quickened after lunch. We had a feel for our bikes, and with Ryan leading us into bends at fast but safe speeds, we were grinning like Cheshire cats by the time we pulled into the Okanagan Lake Resort for the night. We ate steak (although the open menu offered plenty of other choices) and drank red wine from the Sumac Ridge Estate in nearby Summerland, and I, for one, never slept so soundly.

I had found RMMH on the internet, only later discovering an advertisement in a biking mag. I was seduced by the idea of a luxury biking tour, using four-star accommodation, plus the fact that they rode Triumphs. Non-bikers mistakenly assume that Harley-Davidsons are the ultimate machine and the best method of exploring the Old West- south or north of the border. I’m the first to admit that Harleys have their charm and their place, but they’re noisy, slow, a bit of a handful in the corners, uncomfortable, and not for me.

RMMH has three basic tours: this one, taking in the lakes between Whistler and Nelson, as well as seven and ten-day rides pushing further east, close to the ranchlands of Calgary, and cutting north through Banff and Jasper. It’s hard riding, too. Never less than 300km a day with the option of many more.

Others in the saddle included Jim and Jerri, an airline pilot and a stewardess, from Chicago. Keith is a water engineer from Britain, where he rides a Ducati. He had been working in America and fancied a Rocky Mountain blast before flying home. Blaine and Heather came along to celebrate their second wedding anniversary; and Elizabeth a French-speaking Quebecoise, who, with her own sport bike 3000km away, needed to blow out some cobwebs.

Keith, in sharp red, white and black leathers, was a good rider. If he came upon a stretch of road he particularly liked, he would go back and ride it again. Blaine and Heather would often blast ahead and lay in wait with their cameras for us to pass.

The second night was at the Prestige Inn, on the banks of Kootenay Lake in Nelson, where Steve Martin filmed Roxanne. My room was a large, self-catering one, with nice decor and a sun terrace, and a clear view across the lake to the mountains of Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park. It is a pretty, quiet, one-horse kind of place in the heart of the Kootenays. I liked Nelson a lot and next visit, I’ll buy a peaked cap and take a fishing boat out on the deep still water.

Most of the television channels in our hotels predicted rain throughout the week. In fact, they could not have been more wrong. It was September, and it was hot and dry. In the valleys, the deciduous forests were beginning to turn golden, but the sun still produced plenty of heat, enough for T-shirts and a chance to tan a little during lunch stops.

Nevertheless, our luck ran out at the end of the final day—fortunately the shortest ride of the tour. We had overnighted in the Radisson Mountain Resort at Sun Peaks, a brand-new Whistler-style resort in the shadow of Mount Todd.

I was beginning to think that I just don’t have an eye for wildlife. We had all seen bears, but mine were on television, filmed wandering around the suburbs of Vancouver. In fact, by the last day, I had come to the conclusion that there were more bears in the city than in the wilderness.

Highway 99, west of Lillooet reminded me of Twin Peaks; an avenue of still conifer forest and blind bends. A thunderhead was building over Pemberton, our final approach to Whistler, but so far the rain had been light and had hardly affected our speed, or confidence.

Mike was out in front and he wanted us to pull off the roadway to take a look at Joffre Glacier. We brushed some speed off as we made a steep right-hand turn, and there, in the middle of the road was a bear. The seven bikes lined up about 20 yards in front of it and one by one we killed out engines.

Nobody made a sound as the bear decided what to do next. Then, our eyes were caught by some movement in the ditch to the side of the road. It was a bear cub. It saw us and took fright. Not wanting to be left behind, though, it summoned up enough courage to clamber out of the ditch and follow the adult bear across the road and into the brush on the other side. If I were the air punching type, I would have given it the full fist, right then. We were all beaming like Cheshire cats again.

We had come more than 1,200 kilometers. I was tired, but physically free from aches and pains. Apart from petrol, which is cheap in BC, my only expense had been a couple of Cokes and some evening drinks. And if I could have turned round and done it all again, I would have.

Jonathan Futrell

— June 26, 2007

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Testimonials

"Pretty hard to say there wasn’t enough wildlife. I know you folks at Rocky Mountain are good, but I don’t think we can expect the wildlife to show up on command, can we? Roads were great and much better to ride some back roads and stay off the main highways. Loved everything about this holiday.”

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