Port Dover 2003: Friday the 13th

Rider's Log: The Arrival

That lasted only until we made the final turn for Dover. The line of bikes in front of us went as far as we could see. We chugged along about 10 feet, sat idling for a couple of minutes, and then moved a further 10 feet. Amazingly all those hardened looking bikers around us seemed to be taking this in good humor. We even laughed when a motorized skateboard passed us all. Eventually we made sufficient progress to encounter what appeared to be a checkpoint of sorts. Speculation immediately formed that it must be a swat team searching for illegal drugs, or bazookas, or something. Actually, it was nothing more than a parked motor home and those who could no longer wait to heed the calls of nature. By next year, I suspect that stand of trees by the side of the road will surely be no more.

At last we entered into Port Dover and saw bikes parked on both sides of the road. Before parking ourselves, we decided to ride through and see what action there was. Although it was fun to be absorbed by the sights, sounds, and smells of the chaotic carnival-like atmosphere that Friday the 13th has become, it was torturous on the bikes, and the riders. By the time we made the loop down to the wharf and back up again, my clutch hand was on fire. Those unsuspecting souls that incongruously ventured in front of me as I slowly maneuvered my way through a narrow opening in this vast sea of bodies never realized how close I was to accidentally leaving my tire marks across their bodies.

Somehow I managed to cope despite heavy-duty clutch springs, and we finally parked in a lot behind a school. Shedding our road gear and locking the bikes, we dove into the crowds with excitement.

If you love motorcycles, or people watching, then this is the place for you. From dirt bikes to crotch rockets, touring bikes and cruisers to choppers, this event has it all. There were trikes of all kinds, fleets of side hacks, and bizarre creations engineered for those with handicaps. There were V-8 monstrosities, and cute miniature scooters. There were vintage bikes, race bikes, and bikes with tires so large, kickstands were optional. And the people were just as varied. I saw coonskin hats, helmets with horns, and impressive tattoos as well as striking scars. And among all the leather, I saw a middle aged guy wearing nothing more than a thong riding his ricer amongst the astounded crowd. That was scary!

There were beer gardens and food concessions, and music blaring from powerful speakers. Don't like rock? Well, perhaps the group playing their bagpipes would be more to your liking. And of course, there were the vendors who were hawking anything that they thought they could sell. Jewelry, tee shirts, leathers, sculptures, and lots more, but by this time we were getting hungry. We selected a restaurant whose specialty was fish and ordered corn beef, chicken and steak. And lots of beer as the day had turned out, if not sunny, then at least hot and humid.

By late afternoon we headed out even as more bikes continued to arrive. I suspect the party was just about to get started, but we all needed to get back for different reasons. As we raced back to the center of the universe, the clouds that threatened all day finally burst. But worse still, my bike, which peculiarly had been backfiring since the day before, started to miss and stutter irregularly. Every time I hit 120kph, the motor became seriously unhappy, bucking and farting enough that even Lucy remarked that there was something wrong. To add to my grief, Walter, who was up front and unaware of my situation, was going faster and faster. Somehow I managed to keep up, but I can honestly say this was not one of my better rides. And that was without mentioning all the sobs that kept cutting in front of me whenever I left even the smallest of spaces between Walter's bike and myself.

I said my goodbyes to Walter and Lucy in Brampton, and rode to Thornhill where I would spend the night at my parents. They live only minutes away from the 404 highway, and I wanted to waste as little time as possible leaving Toronto behind the next morning.