I’ve never been much of a speeder. Even as a pustular teenager I was always more interested in getting where I was going than in getting there quickly. This tendency was aided by the miserable string of used-up scooters and low-powered motorbikes that I could afford. Even flat-out they could barely keep up with the traffic – when they managed to run at all. I guess I just got used to life at a slower pace.

Later in life more powerful motorcycles came and went. Once in a while I’d open the throttle wide enough to see highly illegal numbers on the speedometer, but it’s just not my thing. It holds no interest for me. But point me to a thin ribbon of gravel and rocks threading through the forest and a sturdy old motorcycle to ride it on and I’m in heaven.

The other day I found a few miles of heaven. As I rode north I’d passed a sign announcing “Lanark Highland” – the ambitious name given to a large chunk of central eastern Ontario. Surely you jest, I thought. There are no mountains and hardly even a single hill worthy of the name – just mile after mile of forest, swamp, lakes and ponds with the occasional old field and small, hard-scrabble farm thrown in for good measure. Why the municipal councillors chose such a grandiose name is beyond me, especially since the Lanark in Scotland, after which the area is named, is not in the Scottish Highlands at all but south of Glasgow on the northern edge of the Lowlands.

Despite the absence of mountains and hills, the Lanark Highlands region does have its charms. With a population density of just over five people per square kilometer, most of whom live in a handful of small villages, it’s not exactly crowded, but more importantly, its gently rolling forests are threaded with a multitude of narrow, gravel tracks – some old logging roads, some early settlement roads that never got fully adopted.

Turning north off the MacDonald’s Corners Road and skirting the shore of Dalhousie Lake, the Lavant Mill Road I was riding soon narrowed and turned to gravel near an abandoned house that some wag had labelled “model home.” Roads like this may not have been what Moto Guzzi’s engineers had in mind when they developed the “Loop Frame” series of bikes (V700, V7Special, 850GT, Eldorado, 850 California etc.) in the late ’60s and early ’70s, but my Eldorado has proven to be a stable and reliable companion over countless thousands of kilometers of gravel roads and tracks. No rooster trails, wheelies or power slides for me – just stately progress – trickling along in second or third gear, perhaps reaching a heady 40 km/h (30 mph) or more when the road is smooth, but dropping down almost to stall speed in the rougher sections, letting the thirteen-pound flywheel keep the engine rotating even when the revs drop to absurdly low levels.

The single-lane road wasn’t in poor condition and there are enough truck and four-wheeler tracks to indicate that it sees regular use, although in the 10 miles to Lavant, I didn’t see another vehicle. A few potholes, a little washboard on some of the hills and plenty of loose gravel in the corners to keep me focused as I plod along, stopping, from time to time to see if anything is moving in the swamps or just to relish the stillness of the forest. In such places mechanical noises – chainsaws, dirt bikes, logging equipment – sound alien and intrusive, whereas, to my ears at least, the Guzzi sounds more in harmony with the natural world. At idle, its exhaust note reminds me of a ruffed grouse drumming.

I briefly joined the freshly and immaculately paved South Lavant Road before plunging north on Black Lake Road and Campbells Road. Campbells Road used to be little more than a muddy, overgrown four-wheeler track. A few years back I surprised a convoy of side-by-side four-wheelers who were out exploring. The last thing they expected to see was an old motorbike coming in the other direction. But things change. The track has been “improved” and is now just another thin single-lane strip of gravel through the forest.

Although my stomach was announcing that lunchtime was fast approaching, once I hit Highway 511, I doubled back to Tatlock and the start of the Darling / California Road for another dive deep into the woods. It would be easy to believe one was riding through the forest primeval, but a hundred and eighty years ago the area was peppered with log shanties and tiny farmsteads – all long gone.

Before long I reached a split in the road at a township sign announcing that the road doesn’t receive regular maintenance. Perfect. The rougher better. I get a kick out of navigating around rocks and potholes. However there must have been some road maintenance this spring as the road wasn’t too bad. Most of the time I rode with my backside firmly in the seat, only rising to the pegs over the most jarring obstacles.

船尾er half an hour of dodging potholes and only one butt-clenching front wheel slide, I hit pavement again heading for White Lake. By this time my empty stomach was really starting to complain so I set Google Maps for Calabogie, and found myself rather enjoying zipping along on the well-paved highways. Variety is the spice of life, as they say. The contrast between trolling along on the narrow single-track roads, and the much speedier progress on the paved sections was a delight.

船尾er a pint of amber ale and a rather fine pulled pork sandwich at the Redneck Bistro, I aimed the bike for home, choosing a winding route that blended pavement with more tiny gravel back roads. It wasn’t the most direct route. It wasn’t the most economical or comfortable route, and it certainly wasn’t the fastest – but it was the perfect route for me. Charming old bike, narrow gravel roads, a little backwoods exploration. Life at 40 km/h and below can be deeply fulfilling.