I do a lot of solo riding on remote, Canadian gravel roads. Not hardcore stuff of rocks, steep climbs, stream crossings and narrow mountain pathways, which, in my not-so-humble opinion, are best left to the knobbly-kneed in Arc’teryx and Vibram, but on unpaved forest roads, rural gravel lake-and-cottage access lanes, and lengthy northern gravel highways. There is something about traveling on unpaved roads that, for me at least, communicates a sense of adventure and excitement that no paved road can provide. That such roads tend to traverse remote, and often exquisitely attractive terrain, and carry little traffic is an added appeal. And if I can do it on an old bike, so much the better – but that is a personal choice and not for everyone.

You might think that the greatest danger would be the possibility of misjudging a turn or hitting a pothole and ending up slithering down the road shedding skin and motorcycle parts in equal measure. This is always a real concern, especially if unwise rates of travel are inserted into the picture. You might consider the possibility of a mechanical breakdown in some remote place, out of cell phone range, leaving you stranded in the forest with the bears, wolves and angry moose should worry you most. But the reality is that most modern motorcycles are tremendously reliable, and dangers from wildlife are struck-by-lightning rare. Or, perhaps, like one of my English nieces, who, as a teenager, was convinced that there must be a rapist or murderer behind every tree, you feel that undefined dangers lurk in the woods to either side of that narrow gravel strip, and fear anything that might slow or halt your progress. Most of us have secret anxieties which we disguise with false bravado. I know I do.

But while there are legitimate dangers out there and it would be an unwise person who took their personal well-being for granted,the things we tend to imagine when thinking about the ‘what ifs’ of travel are rarely those which truly threaten us.

This was brought home to me in a very forceful manner a couple of weeks ago while riding my old Guzzi on some Eastern Ontario back roads. I had already ridden twenty miles or more on some delightful, narrow forest access roads north of the Madawaska River. Other than a single pick-up truck which I spied in my mirror and let past once the road was wide enough, I saw no other vehicles. After crossing Highway 41 I headed down the Hyland Creek Road towards Quadeville – a pleasant, narrow gravel road and short-cut from Griffith that I’ve ridden many times before. I suppose I had fallen into that groove where I was drifting along, soothed by the Guzzi’s delightful sound-track, no longer really conscious about what was taking place beneath my wheels, and calmed by the absence of traffic and the stately spruce and pine trees flickering by. If I was thinking about anything at all, it certainly had nothing to do with my personal safety. I was, as they say, in the zone – or at least, my old bike version of it. And then I wasn’t.

As I rounded a blind, up-hill turn to the right, the whole road was suddenly full of dump truck. When I say full, I mean it. It literally took up the whole width of the road, brushing the bushes to either side. There was no time to think or panic and nowhere to go. My lizard brain took over, steering me to the extreme edge of the road, my shoulder scuffing through the vegetation. Fortunately, the dump truck driver’s lizard brain must have taken over too as he squeezed just enough to the right that I still had somewhere to be. The vast machine swept by, less than an inch from my shoulder. It happened so fast that I didn’t have a chance to be frightened, so I didn’t even experience any after-shock, and just rode on. It was, without question, the closest I have come to death in a very long time.

一个星期或两个纬度er I was riding some northern Ontario back roads on my newest bike – a 1994 Honda Pacific Coast. Once again, I’d been lulled into a state of relaxation by my gentle ride through the forest, the mild temperatures and the complete absence of any other vehicles. After about forty miles the narrow strip of gravel I’d been following suddenly spilled out on to a much large gravel highway as I turned south towards Shining Tree. Whereas before I’d been bumbling along in first or second gear, avoiding cobbles and potholes, now I was able to accelerate to more normal speeds.

Unless they have been recently graded, gravel highways often have bare strips where the passage of vehicle wheels has removed the loose stuff, revealing the hard-packed surface beneath. I choose the right-hand strip, and was making steady progress. Pickups and logging trucks travel fast on these roads and everyone takes the corners towards the middle. It’s a natural reaction. By taking a middle-of-the-road line, if you start to slide, you still have plenty of road left to correct it before drifting into the trees. As I approached a broad, sweeping corner, the bare strip I was following cut close to the center of the road. Suddenly, a logging truck rounded the turn ahead, trailing a cloud of dust. In the fraction of a second I had to react, I steered the bike into the loose gravel to the right and slowed to walking pace as the opaque, grey gloom enveloped me. The truck barrelled on by. If he’d braked, centrifugal force could have swung his empty trailer in my direction. That would not have been good. For a few seconds I could no longer see the road. The truck was long gone before the air was clear enough for me to resume my ride.

我想我应该期望这样的交通uch a well-developed gravel highway, and indeed, during the next few miles I encountered more empty logging trucks speeding to their cut zone. But the absence of vehicles during the previous miles had accustomed me to taking corners on any line I chose, with little thought to the risks. After this scare, I cut my speed, approached each corner with care, and watched for any tell-tale plumes of dust on the horizon.

It is rarely the things we anticipate that throw danger our way. I was lucky, but I learned the important lesson to always, always be vigilant. To never let your guard down, and never assume that just because the way you’ve been riding has been safe so far, that it will remain that way.