When our motorcycle came over the rise and around the corner, I laughed out loud for a brief moment, then put my head down on the gas tank in the standard gesture of despair and defeat.
Ahead of us on this beautiful, curving, double-yellow roller coaster of a road along the rugged shores of Quebec were four slow-moving vehicles. They were, in this order: a large motorhome, a cop car and two big motorcycles. The motorcycles were pulling trailers.
I flipped up my face shield and turned to Barb, who was riding behind me. "Unbelievable!" I shouted over my shoulder. "Four of the most difficult-to-pass vehicles on Earth! And all in one group! It's like a bad cartoon!"
Barb patted me on the shoulder, by way of calming consolation. We could be stuck in this little train for many miles, unless we invented some excuse to stop and get off the bike. Maybe it was time to pull over at a scenic overlook. Get out a deck of cards, perhaps, or just finish medical school.
But wait! We didn't have to. This was Canada!
First, the police car turned off at the next little village. He was actually the only cop we'd seen in 2000 miles of riding through Ontario and Quebec.
Then the motorhome put on its turn signal and ran down the shoulder at a wide spot in the road, waving us past.
Without a cop and a motorhome, the motorcycles with trailers were easy to pass. They moved politely over to the right side of our lane and we glided by and waved. I noted that all four of these vehicles had Canadian plates.
These people were watching their mirrors! And they knew exactly what to do.
If this had happened in the U.S., we'd still be out there somewhere, following that same parade. Canadians, like most Europeans, not only have mirrors, but look at them once in a while. An art form almost entirely lost in the States.
Am I making a sweeping generalization here?
Perhaps, but recent personal experience tells me I'm not too far off the mark.
Barb and I just returned this Sunday to our home in Wisconsin, you see, from a 4000-mile motorcycle trip through eastern Canada to the Gasp????????? Peninsula on the Atlantic coast. We came home diagonally across New England and upstate New York. The last day, we took the Interstate home across Indiana and through Chicago to make time.
And we did make time, of course, until we hit the tollbooths around Chicago. These were backed up for miles in both directions. The last tollbooth in Illinois had southbound traffic stalled for at least five miles into Wisconsin.
Why the people of Illinois put up with this, I have no idea. Why would you pay your own highway department to bottleneck traffic, impede commerce, repel tourism, waste fuel, smog the air and make you late for vacation and work? Do the voting citizens consider this a valuable government service?
The whole highway system around Chicago is a national disgrace, but don't get me started. I might tell you what I really think.
Ahead of us on this beautiful, curving, double-yellow roller coaster of a road along the rugged shores of Quebec were four slow-moving vehicles. They were, in this order: a large motorhome, a cop car and two big motorcycles. The motorcycles were pulling trailers.
I flipped up my face shield and turned to Barb, who was riding behind me. "Unbelievable!" I shouted over my shoulder. "Four of the most difficult-to-pass vehicles on Earth! And all in one group! It's like a bad cartoon!"
Barb patted me on the shoulder, by way of calming consolation. We could be stuck in this little train for many miles, unless we invented some excuse to stop and get off the bike. Maybe it was time to pull over at a scenic overlook. Get out a deck of cards, perhaps, or just finish medical school.
But wait! We didn't have to. This was Canada!
First, the police car turned off at the next little village. He was actually the only cop we'd seen in 2000 miles of riding through Ontario and Quebec.
Then the motorhome put on its turn signal and ran down the shoulder at a wide spot in the road, waving us past.
Without a cop and a motorhome, the motorcycles with trailers were easy to pass. They moved politely over to the right side of our lane and we glided by and waved. I noted that all four of these vehicles had Canadian plates.
These people were watching their mirrors! And they knew exactly what to do.
If this had happened in the U.S., we'd still be out there somewhere, following that same parade. Canadians, like most Europeans, not only have mirrors, but look at them once in a while. An art form almost entirely lost in the States.
Am I making a sweeping generalization here?
Perhaps, but recent personal experience tells me I'm not too far off the mark.
Barb and I just returned this Sunday to our home in Wisconsin, you see, from a 4000-mile motorcycle trip through eastern Canada to the Gasp????????? Peninsula on the Atlantic coast. We came home diagonally across New England and upstate New York. The last day, we took the Interstate home across Indiana and through Chicago to make time.
And we did make time, of course, until we hit the tollbooths around Chicago. These were backed up for miles in both directions. The last tollbooth in Illinois had southbound traffic stalled for at least five miles into Wisconsin.
Why the people of Illinois put up with this, I have no idea. Why would you pay your own highway department to bottleneck traffic, impede commerce, repel tourism, waste fuel, smog the air and make you late for vacation and work? Do the voting citizens consider this a valuable government service?
The whole highway system around Chicago is a national disgrace, but don't get me started. I might tell you what I really think.
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