barely remember it, but I know it was better than driving through
Chicago.
Finding a route through the lower peninsula of Michigan
without skirting populated centers is difficult, but after a trek
down Highway 10 from Ludington, we pick our way southwest
past Saginaw and opt for a stretch of road that travels along
the Tittabawassee River through an old residential suburb. Its
upper-middle class America at its best, and my bug-splattered
rig seems a bit out of place. But we become aware of a
phenomenon that Ural riders know well. People notice us. Small
children wave and we wave back. Old people in lawn chairs look
up from the yard and smile. Men stop cutting their grass to kiss
their wives. I'm a bad-ass biker no more. I'm a fat guy in goggles
and I make everyone happy, if only for a moment.
We zigzag our way to Lake Huron and then down the shore
to cross the border at Port Huron. Traffic is backed up over the
bridge. It's hotter than a preacher's wife at an ice cream social.
When I reach the top of the bridge, I shut down my Siberian
mill and coast down to Canadian customs. We head toward
London along a pretty bit of pavement called Confederation
Road, put there long before the four-lane Interstate 402 made
southern Ontario forget that it used to not be in such a hurry.
The next day, shortly after we leave our campsite, the
pavement ends. The roads are drenched from yesterday's
downpour and the Ural thinks it's back in Mother Russia. It
makes a fast friend of every rut and peace with every pothole.
The dirt road winds through farmland, misty tunnels of trees
and past at least one horse and buggy tied up to a fencepost
waiting to deliver baked goods to the neighbors. It's easy to see
why Americans wanted to invade this part of the world back in
1812. They were coming from Detroit and just needed a bit of
sunshine, poor sods.
County Roads 3 and 4 make their way through ginseng
fields, a crop easier on the conscience and pocketbooks
of farmers who, until recently, grew tobacco. Eventually we
come to River Road, which travels along the Grand River to
Ohsweken, where we stop to visit the memorial for John Brant.
He was a Mohawk chief who—along with John Norton—led
Six Nations warriors allied with the British in many a battle.
MAP
BY
BILL
TIPTON/COMPARTMAPS.COM
D U N LO P M O T O R C Y C LET I R E S . C O M
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PAGE 50
SPRING 2017 ISSUE 01 / VOL. 02
