Sometimes taking a cab doesn’t sound so bad
Story by Ron Keys
Photos: Ron Keys; Illustration: Dean Foster
At this stage in my life, some memories seem more humorous now than the actual events did at the time they happened. They sort of ripen with age, so to speak. The one-upmanship I occasionally hear when someone brags about riding late into December or going for a ride in January when we get an unexpected unseasonably mild day makes me smile. There are but few who dare to brave the frigid elements, but there are even fewer who use a motorcycle as their sole means of transportation for the entire winter.
It’s a Sunday afternoon in Oshawa, Ont., on a January day in 1966, and the temperature is hovering around the freezing mark. Indications are we’re going to get some freezing rain, but I am on the other side of the city at my girlfriend’s place. At 19, affairs of the heart take precedence over weather reports, bad things only happen to other people and raging hormones rule.
I am what you would call an avid, or maybe even rabid, motorcyclist – and some might just call me plain crazy. Fresh out of high school and with a
limited budget, my love for motorcycles has given me a clear choice – or maybe no choice at all: either I ride my motorcycle all winter or walk. I have chosen the former.
The light is fading as I pull on my leather jacket. It’s been raining for about a half-hour now, and as I step outside onto the glazed, wet sheet of ice, I realize I’m in for an experience. My faithful little 305 Honda Super Hawk starts, and with much aplomb, I slip and slide down the slope, skittering onto Adelaide Street. Ignorance, or shall I say lack of experience, can serve as a great learning tool – of which I am about to find out. “There but for the grace of God go I.”
Fortunately for me, there are few cars on the road. Even four-wheeled vehicles stay off the road in weather like this. I find, after a few nerve-
shattering slides, that by keeping the bike in a taller gear, about two above what I would normally ride in, there is less available power to the back wheel to break traction, if traction is even the operative word. As I approach the first traffic light at Simcoe Street, I gently roll through on a green light. So far so good, but at the next light, I come sliding to a stop sideways with legs and feet splayed like outriggers to keep the bike upright.
At Wilson Road, a new experience awaits me: a downhill right turn. Slipping and sliding, wallowing and wiggling, I make my change in direction and begin my slow, methodical trek southward. As I approach the hill on Wilson Road, I have no choice but to accelerate to make it up the hill. I don’t want to even think about sliding backwards, downhill, on ice. Although speed is fraught with all manner of new possibilities, it’s a necessary risk. Shifting up into fourth, the engine grumbles and shudders as I gently accelerate, trying in vain not to break traction. Over the hill and onto level ground, I breathe a sigh of relief, but too soon; my…