Postcards From the Side of the Road: The lure of the motorcycle

I left London before noon yesterday, turned south at Nilestown, and a mile north of Belmont I turned left on Harrietsville Rd.

Maybe I’ll spot Jim Jackson cutting his grass, I thought. (Jim and I play hockey together on Wednesdays).

I had the road completely to myself. Only a few buzzards flew overhead, waiting for me to stop and fall down dead at the side of the road.


I pulled over near an old farmhouse to take a few pictures. I didn’t fall down dead. The buzzards looked elsewhere. [More pix here.]

(Spellcheck just alerted me that ‘farmhose’ is an incorrect spelling. More about farmhose later).

Familiar smells filled the air and I removed my helmet so I could feel the slight breeze blow through what’s left of my hair.

Alone on the country road I could sense that time was slipping by very slowly... one second... one second... one second at a time.


Freshly rolled hay caught my attention, as did the sound that soy beans make as they’re maturing under a clear blue sky.


[“The 1994 Virago is first rate, but I miss my last one”: photos by GAH]

I heard a car approach so I stepped off the centre line and gave a slow wave as it passed.


I got a slow wave back.

***

Did you get out for a short ride yesterday? End up at Shutters in Port Bruce? Good coffee, eh?

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