Peter Black, SV Wrangler, motorcycleprof, put out a post last week that he wanted to go on tour. He was thinking Mitten or Pencil dutch wagon land, Smelly City named after a State, or possibly even Ohio...(shudder) in the Excess of Americans ( Canada’s tighty whities).

(Editor’s note: if you reference this article, it will help a lot. Thanks. Freudlavin)

I replied to the great and powerful Wrangler (Mr. Tiddlykins to his friends, I’ve been told) that before he let’s down people with guns, he should come and depress some locals who would have to catch him to do any damage. He (Mr. Gigglepants to his Very close friends, I’ve been told), replied that indeed he had ALSO been planning a local visit, and would I like to be a member? I reviewed some of his earler posts, and in spite of them I said,”yes.”

So I arranged to sleep on the couch with my SO for a while, by requesting some alone time to go play with my friends.

(Editors note: I have just been instructed to inform everyone that due to the bed being king sized, I was NOT going to sleep on the couch. She would not even know I was there. I am also Not to refer to the Nice young man I met as little miss, little miss, little miss can’t be wrong, either ( so I have been told, his very very close friends call him). Admit it is stuck in your head now. I’m sorry, I’m not sorry.)

Where was I?

So to keep the experience completely Canuckistanian we agreed to meet at a Tim Horton’s near a Brewery in Guelph. Peter and I seemed to get along well enough so I agreed to go with him to meet G-Body Man (Scootersquid to his.... naw, I admit that I just made that one up.). We were to go to a place called “Royal Distributing”. The real name should be “Hell which hath been wrought to displace mine income”. For the unbaptised, this den of evil, sells sparkly bits of things for various powersport vehicles.


That was the point where I knew I had made a grave error. If my SO reads this, I am a simple and weak man. Please forgive me. And Peter... ( Mr. Lakeheadplayerofthemonth- community shuffleboard and senior’s bingo, April 2014 to his very, very very close friends, so I’ve been told ) you know who you are. Never ever forgiven. Ever. (Thanks BTW). Ever.

We then met G-Body. This guy is a fountain of information. He has stories for days and really is JAF ( Jalop As Found). We shot the shit for a bit, checked out a couple of bikes and a seriously orgasm enducing Datsun. Then it was time to go. That’s when those dreaded words came, as from Satan ( possibly Peter): Hey, do you want to try the SV?

I haven’t been on a sport (touring for insurance purposes ) bike since before Peter was an eye twinkle. Nevertheless I gave it a shot. The last thing I said before I rode out was “I told you so.” The second last thing I said was “I bet I stall this thing before I leave the parking lot.”


It was neat to experience something I don’t on a regular basis. The narowness, the raw feel of speed and power simering under the surface, the misreading Speedometer, the cramping in my hip, the where the hell is the rear brake lever feeling, the I’m too old for this shit sense. We switched back a few minutes later at the gas station with the Edsel Peter mentions in his post. Back to my yellow lazyboy recliner. Perfect.

We took a picture to immortalize the moment however:


Who is the handsome Devil on the right?

Anywho, we bombed along to the little City I like to call home (not the whole thing obviously. But it is where my house is. I’m not Fidy Cent rich. Wait a minute. I guess I am rich as Fiddy!). Las Vegas baby! Or not. Might be Stratford. On the way we passed what must be a starter Jaloppo car dealer. They seemed to have a bit of everything. The stock is always on the eclectic side.







We got to town and stopped for some schnitzel and poutine, a stone’s throw (how far can a stone throw anyway?) from the world famous (I’ve been told) Stratford Shakesperian Theater ( pronounced Thee A ter). I couldn’t make that up if I tried.

Unfortunately the weather started getting rough. The tiny ship was tossed. Not really. The weather app said a storm was a brewing. As I right this, it still hasn’t come along. But our intrepid motorcycleprof (pronounced Bob, I’ve been told by his greatest enemy, Squidward, that bastard...), needed to out run the rain.


So after a quick jaunt through town, which led to many awesome sightings. Old model Ts, early 80s Porsches with wide wheel arches, blackwhale tails and red covers over the whole damn thing so we saw nothing, Minivans from South Carolina ( or Dakota. Whichever one Leonardo DaVinci flew a bicycle from the tower of the Burgermeister Meister Burger’s castle) and 3 separate Tim Horton’s. Peter got some shots of the Fiat dealership that Time forgot, and I led him back to civilization. Well the path to civilization. Or Hell. I didn’t stop to see what the pavement was made with, but I intended to do good.

I parted company and went home where I was greeted with open arms. I then spent 20 minutes talking her into putting the gun down and bought supper (AKA: Daddy’s Cooking).

A wise man once said,” Never meet your heroes.” I don’t know who that man was but he was probably right . A wiser man also once said,”meet your oppos. They are cool.” That guy was also pretty awesome. And me. So Peter, G-Body, I want to say, “You’re welcome.”


G, good luck in BC. I am glad to have met you.

Peter, you can be my wingman anytime. Bullshit. I can be yours.

OK:Who still has the SpinDoctors stuck in their head and who has Gilligan’S Island?