An The Parry Sound Sportbike Festival

Day 2

The next morning, this is what the campsite looked like:

To return home, I had picked, I would say, a pretty good route. Others had recommended 141, then County Road 3 between Rosseau and Huntsville and 35 south to the 121 (formelly 518) Then it was 121 through Haliburton, Bancroft and Denbigh, onto 28 then 41 until just before Griffith. (click on the map for a better view, in a new window.)

Before Griffith, I took Matawatchan road, which led to Black Donald Lake road (quite technical, thank you very much), then 508, and the famous 511, which now looked far easier than it did before, after tackling 518 twice.

I then scooted home, ending this 1200-km two day adventure with 60 km of superslab. I parked the bike in the garage, pulled off the saddlebags and the gear, had a long, hot shower. (Because there are no showers at the campground, Foley's motto should be "Home of the Stinky Biker.")

Relaxed, yet still tired, I went back to the garage to look at my busted turn signal.

What? I didn't tell you about my crash? Here's the story:

Halfway through the return journey, just before Bancroft, in a nice set of 120 km/h sweepers, I get to a gaggle of Goldwingers doing the speed limit. I grumbled ("Damned tourists on their couch on wheels") and followed them for a few klicks until I couldn't take it anymore. A nive set of curves was coming up, I'm doing 80 and I'm swearing like a French-Canadian inside my Shoei.

Well, that must have pissed off the Gods of motorcycling. You know, the whole Karma thing...

I couldn't pass all of them (they were eight), so, in a split-second decision, I decided to pull into a rest area which was on the other side of the road.

Bad decision.

Now, for a rookie, I consider my high-speed, let's drop the anchor, I need to slow down ASAP technique pretty good. So I grab the binders, and slowed down to 5-10 km/h.

What I had forgotten was to let go of said binders when one goes from solid ashpalt to soft gravelled shoulder (the shoulder was soft, not the gravel...)

Of course, both wheels locked up, which happened faster than I could release them. Front wheel went left, top of the bike went right. I went splat or so it seems in hindsight.

Result? A busted right front turn signal and a mean set of scratches on the lower fairing. Right mirror has scratches on the housing, likewise for the bar-end.

Me? I'm OK. The AGVsport Sport Tourer pants did their job very well, there's not even a mark on my knee, the soft armour cushionned the blow. Had I been in jeans like the squids, I would still have pebbles under my skin.) Same with the Sidi Strada boots.

My JR Sport saddlebags ($134 + tax) saved me a lot of money: when the bike dropped (tipped? crashed? you decide!) to its right side, it rested on the saddlebag, thus preventing the brake lever from punching through the case.

Bonus: the saddlebags also ensured that my leg wasn't pinned under my bike.

I rode slower for the rest of the trip, stayed far from the fog line for many, many kilometers.

I don't believe in the adage There are two kind of motorcyclists, those who have crashed and those who will...., because I'm from the school of thought that says most accidents, if not all, are preventable.

That one was. (And I feel stupid, but that's another story.)