Prairie Storm

I began composing my story somewhere between Regina and Brandon about two hours into what would become the worst storm I’ve ever faced on a motorcycle. As lightening flashed around me and I drifted sideways into the next lane, I found the voice in my head providing a running colour commentary of the events. “It’s about 6 PM here on the open road but you’d never know it because it is so dark. Wait, the sky lit up and there is a bolt of lightening right in front of me, and it made that old cube van glow neon-green. I can see the rain bouncing sideways off the highway in the wind, which explains why I’m sliding across the yellow line. Slowing down does not seem to help, so let’s keep going. Besides, there’s no shoulder and I’d probably sink like quicksand.”

So here I was, driving headlong into what might have been classed a gale force wind if I’d been back in the Queen Charlottes. The driving water had found a crack in the seat of my rainsuit and I slowly steeled myself to the journey as the icy water crept through my underwear.

This day had begun with my tailwind petering out just west of Regina, following me from Calgary where I had left that morning. For some reason the storm clouds seemed to be heading towards me while the warm breeze at my back stayed steady for the morning. My bike, an ’83 CX650E, had received some helpful tinkering that vastly improved the performance I had experienced while travelling from Vancouver a couple of days before. That day’s ride had been a day of frustration as the bike refused to accellerate past 4000 rpm, making passing almost impossible, and keeping up with traffic once reaching Alberta even more so. While passing through Kamloops, a long steady grade kept me in the slow lane, where I was getting used to funny looks from people in old beaters who likely found it odd that I was not passing them. A group of native guys who were piled into an old sedan passed me, and one of the passengers leaned out of the window, miming the long j-stroke of someone paddling a canoe as they passed me up the hill. Of course, my saddle bays were blue and red watertight rubber canoe bags, so I could see the wry humour. I soldiered on, making it to Calgary a bit late but intact. Slow travel allows you to see much more, and the rockey mountains on a beautiful sunny May day was just the ticket.

Deciding to spend the weekend in Calgary was not difficult with the Flames playing what could have been their coup de grace for the cup. I decided to clean both carbs, but as Kevin headed to work, he asked me if the air filter was ok. I assured him it was clean the last time I looked at it last year. When Kevin returned from work and the bike ran with the same gutless spirit as before, he pressed me again about the filter, and when I removed it out fluttered a parking ticket I had stuck under my seat a few months before. With all my city driving I had not noticed the lack of power. I also replaced what was now an oily filter and the bike ran as good as a bike can for being 20 years old. Highway bound once again, but saddened by the extinguished Flames magic, I headed home to Kenora for a much needed vacation. Little did I suspect of the coming storm.

I knew the storm was bad when I passed a BMW SUV that had slowed down. Some vehicles had put on their hazards. I had been on the highway for probably 10 hours, and the rythym of the road had put my senses to sleep. “Hey, maybe this storm is bad,” I thought.

When the wind blows, you hunker down. When the rain starts, you swear and put on the suit, which for me was a tiny gas station where I chatted with a biker who pulled up just as the first grape-sized drops began falling. He headed in for an ice cream and I pulled out into oblivion.

I’d been in many storms before, the most memorable coming down the I-95 back in 1986 with my buddy James and our gear on the back of my Yamaha Maxim 550 on our way to our first year of university. They closed the highway just outside of Flint because it was flooded, and once we got past the detour the traffic cranked up the speed to make up for lost time. Just to keep up I was travelling close to 80 mph with the loaded bike, and the rain never gave up the whole time. By the time we reached Detroit I was battle weary and ready to sleep in my wet leathers.

When I stopped in Brandon to fill up the tank, I was approached by a man driving an old SUV with Oregon plates. He said he had passed me a couple of times on the highway, and asked how it was possible to drive in weather like this, and the look on his face spoke of sheer incredulity. After chatting for a moment, he blurted out, “I’m sorry! Back there I called you stupid, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry for calling you that.” I felt confused and kind of proud all at the same time. But they say that pride comes before a fall, and I had another 5 hours to go. Luckily the wind and rain began subsiding by the time I reached Portage La Prairie, where I twisted my white knuckles around a hot chocolate and coffee. Circulation good, coffee better.

At Deacon’s corner just east of Winnipeg I purchased a tiny jerry can and filled it up. No gas stations for the next two hours, and I wasn’t sure if the old girl would make it into Kenora. She did, but there is nothing wrong with a little insurance you don’t mind paying for. All in all, it wasn’t my first one day trip across the prairies, and although some might say I’m lucky to be alive, there’s nothing like driving through a prairie lightening storm that really makes you realise that you are alive.