Detroit to Toronto was less than ideal

I had called and ordered a tire from my buddy’s shop in Toronto knowing I'd be there in a few days and there was no way my current  back tire would make the 4500km trip home. I was headed east through Chicago when I noticed how torched my back tire actually was. I had never seen it so ravaged, even after replacing a few in the past from many miles ridden, they never looked quite that worn. 

My day began like any day does on a trip; waking up in a shitty motel, and emerging from the warm and crucial clutches of sleep having zero clue where I am. Then, after a few blinks the familiar feels start rolling in; the musty smell of old carpet, dead and most likely some live bugs of all kinds thriving in the corners, the slippery floral patterned top blanket and gross cigarette burned ugly yellow-beige fleece cover underneath, and then of course me remembering I had taken a sleeping pill the night before to take the edge off and essentially lubricate my journey from awake to not awake. 

Then I become very aware of the constant static like noise coming from outside. What on earth IS that? I stumble out of the bed and open the door (looking just like most of the motel's clientele when also waking up, in my underwear, shitty tattoos, and half open eyes…) to peer out into the parking lot and discover the sound is the torrential downpour hammering against the decrepit hotel siding. Sigh. I guess it's back to bed for a bit.

 An hour or so later the sun is making its debut and it's humid as all hell. I pack up and scurry out of my room, trying my best not to make eye contact with the motel lifers, already starting their day out on their white plastic lawn chairs chain smoking and complaining about their (most likely) self inflicted and heavily medicated problems. 

I head into Detroit and treat myself to a late breakfast at Duly's; classic Coney Island breakfast at the most dingy and disgustingly dirty diner. There I sat at the bar wedged in between a 300 lb man that refused any vegetables included in his meal and to my right was another portly gentleman that was halfway through 2 fully loaded hot dogs and an extra plate of hash browns, with a large litre sized glass of Coke at 9am. Now I’m torn in a mental debate between assimilating with the locals or attempting to gain some sort of nutritional value out of this experience. I settle on the classic eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns and hope for the best. 

Unfortunately I didn’t get the best, but I did shoot for the stars and land on a cloud. The bacon was crispy (usually a feature you’d have to ask for) but the eggs were sunny side up, and definitely not scrambled as requested, like I really give a shit though lets be honest here. The hash browns were damn near perfection, the shaved kind, with a crispy brown exterior and delicious salty interior. As for the coffee, it was as classic as ever: burnt percolator coffee with crunchy grounds and endless refills. 

Perfectly satiated from the greasiest of greasy spoons, I am once again back on the road. Only 400km or so to Toronto, where in a few short hours I'll be hugging old friends and hopefully making some new ones. 

Crossing the border back into Canada was completely hassle free which usually isn't the case when they see my ridiculously unorthodox traveling method, both vehicle and luggage are not exactly considered practical. Also, another fun fact, I share the name with an un-convicted murderer, so, in the past this has made my reentry into Canada extremely time consuming and difficult. More on this another time…

Although overcast, humid, and not the warmest of days, I continue on with optimism and excitement.

I stop at a gas station and call a few friends, an update (if you will) on my ETA. Excitement abounds. Only about 200 km now and I’m home free. The weather was overcast, but still decently warm. Perfect. I check my bag and ensure it’s not loose or coming apart anywhere, hop back on, and I’m riding like lightening, determined to make it on one tank of gas. 

At the 100 km mark, I was in such good spirits I hadn’t even noticed the light rain that had begun. By now the roads were completely soaked as well as my legs due to my insatiable need to choose fashion over function: I have no front fender, resulting in a rooster tail of water coming off the front wheel and hitting me directly in the face. Not a big deal or the end of the world, I am extremely stubborn so I of course stay the course and choose to stick it out. Until that is, the heavens opened up even more and began to rain down buckets upon this particular stretch of highway. Literally some of the worst rain I’ve ever ridden through. Extremely low visibility at this point, it looked like if you were to open your eyes and stare into the shower head. I push on, determined that this will pass and I am so close now that nothing will stop me (ominous foreshadowing). Less than 10 minutes into this cold wet hell, traffic slows to a crawl, and I’m at the bottom of first gear inching my way ahead in parking lot traffic on the 401. Well, this sucks. I’ve always said there is no in-between with motorcycle travel, it’s either so awesome or so miserable. I rode like this for well over 30km, which took just over an hour. I didn’t really plan for rain, and I certainly didn’t pull over to get my rain gear on, I mean why would I? I was SO close. Also my rain gear was basically just a leather jacket and some waterproof pants that didn’t work all that well so I mean whats the point yknow?

Becoming increasingly annoyed, I am champing at the proverbial bit to open the throttle and get this party started. So, I say to myself “fuck it” and start cruising on the shoulder, completely done with riding in the rain and this traffic bullshit. I ride like this for a few minutes, wondering if a cop were to pull me over, would they even chase me on the shoulder, it being a little dangerous etc?

 Then, traffic began to move faster and I found myself cruising once again around 80km/hr, still in the heaviest rain however. This seemed like my light at the end of the tunnel, my long way home, my (almost) green mile. 

Somewhere around Milton, eastbound on the 401, I was pushing forward: head down, knees hugging the tank, trying to breathe lightly so my goggles didn’t keep fogging up, and an already heightened sense of awareness. I changed lanes into the second to right lane, which put me in front of a white semi truck, and going about 80km/hr. The instant I changed lanes I felt a jolt, as if I had just ridden over a 2x4 or something on the road. Thats odd, I thought to myself, and twisted the throttle harder. Immediately my rear end started fishtailing, as if I was on ice, as well as bouncing up and down as my now very obviously flat rear tire slapped against my fender, creating a 750lb swerving and bucking bronco between my legs. Perfect. At this moment I have a flat tire (remember I only have 2 tires total) and I am hurtling down the highway at about 80km/hr, in the rain, and in front of a semi truck. 

Now, I’ve thought about this moment many many times, and I find myself conflicted to an extent. I mean, when you are essentially faced with imminent death the general consensus is that you see your life flash before your eyes and are filled with a woeful regret. I, did not have the same revelation, instead I felt this warm blanket of content and happiness, as if I was excited that this was finally the moment I die. I felt peace I had never felt before actually, for real it was amazing.

It felt like I had been floating on this life/death high for quite some time, forever perhaps, and I was immediately jerked back to reality as my right hand squeezed the front brake ever so gingerly in a valiant attempt to slow this bitch down. No idea where that notion came from but am I ever thankful it came. The swerving lessened and I whipped my way over onto the shoulder of the highway, jetting across the final right lane to land in the gravel-laden shoulder. It was here I put my old faithful cowboy boots to good use; I couldn’t slow down enough to stop so I dug in my heels and squeezed that front brake to death. We came to a rumbling tumbling aggressive and abrupt stop. I instinctively hook my heel back to kick out the kickstand, but, its not catching. I try and try, laughing hysterically knowing full well I am in shock. 

A few deep breaths and I was moving in slow motion and thinking clearly again. I feel the kickstand hook my boot and I instinctively kick it out. Success. I hop off, tear my helmet off, and howl at the sky. My God it felt good. After those wildy intense few moments it felt like such a primal release, to scream at the top of my lungs. Followed by a few quiet minutes, chain smoking, in the pouring rain putting the pieces together of how the fuck I’m gonna get out of this mess now.

After a very cold and wet 2 hours I am finally rescued, thank God I signed up for CAA. During the ride to Toronto I was lucky enough to hear my driver’s entire life story complete with different voices for different characters. I don’t consider myself an alcoholic but I had an overwhelming craving for the warm wave of indifference that only delicious alcohol can deliver. 

It was still pouring rain, as we unloaded the bike in the alley of my buddy’s bike shop. I wedged my bike as close as I could to the garage door and began walking with my duffle bag out to the main street. I take an Uber to another buddy’s house to get cleaned up. Immediately following that I sped walked to the dive bar around the corner in Roncesvalles and began downing a few pints, slowly realizing the days events were setting in. A few friends showed up and we had ourselves one heck of a good time. 

I don’t know if I was actually that close to death, but I can tell ya this, it sure made me feel alive.