Motor Mouth: Finding religion — on the back of a trailer

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It started like any typical spring day in Toronto. Up at 6 a.m. for an early workout, toiling by 7:30 lest some earlier bird get my worm, and then, instead of lunch — because it was sunny and 26C — a quick ride. On the old Honda, no less. It had been over a week since it’d been fired up and only a couple of hundred klicks on it so far in this, year two of the pandemic, so gloomy had been the forecast.

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Maybe cruise up to Lake Simcoe. The season’s first ride to Sutton on the shoreline, then a quick blast home along Highway 48. Home by 4 p.m. for another coupla hours’ work, lest I miss some indispensable Zoom meeting — the bane of a journalist’s life in these COVID-19-quarantined times — about new wheel lug nuts.  

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Except I never made it.  

Thirty or so klicks down the 404, the motor just died. Not the slow sputter of running out of gas, or the giant kaboom of a broken connecting rod, but the quiet, instantaneous cut of power that says something electrical just went all George Lucas.  

I managed to get over to the shoulder without drama, but it soon became apparent I was in some deep doo-doo. The battery had plenty of juice; it spun the dead engine with some elan. The smell of raw gas out the exhaust said the carbs were working so, as I suspected, that left the ignition system. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a single tool with me, so, for the first time in its 20 years in the Booth garage, my prized 1982 CB1100RC was leaving me stranded.

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What to do?

A news story I wrote about a company called Moto Limo immediately popped into my head. Something about hauling one’s motorcycle in the manner to which it would like to become accustomed. You know, white gloves, gold-plated ramp, that sort of thing. Except all of its drivers were in Burlington and it would take all afternoon in cross-town traffic to get to Aurora. Another company, Motorcycle Towing Toronto, didn’t even answer my calls.

That’s when I started to panic. No way was I was calling an ordinary tow truck. I don’t care if they are considerate enough to haul Ferraris, this was my CB we’re talking about here. Nor did I know anyone with a trailer suitable for bike salvage. In other words, my options were severely limited. At one point, I actually Googled the overnight weather just in case I had to sleep by the side of the road while I waited for the guys from Burlington to come to my rescue.

Now I know what you guys are thinking: you’re just funnin’ us, aren’t you, Dave? Using a bit of the old hyperbole to make a point of your devotion? A little literary licence, if you will.  

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Nope. When it comes to all things constitutional and Honda CB1100RC, I am an Antonin Scalia literalist. When I say “you will not touch my motorcycle,” I mean you’re not allowed in the same room with it unsupervised. As in, although my recycling and garbage bins share garage space with my beloved Honda, both my son, Matthew — who shall inherit all that is mine when my time on the Earth is passed — and my significant other, Nadine, whom I love so much I make her coffee in bed every morning (even on the days I write Motor Mouth ), have to leave the garbage bags in the basement hallway, lest they inadvertently scratch my treasured Honda and I spend the rest of my days incarcerated. If you don’t believe me, feel free to find their plaints on Facebook.

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Just as reason was truly starting to leave my body — I was actually starting to contemplate pushing the bloody thing all the way back to North York — a miracle happened. Said marvel came in the form of a dirty old Jetta diesel that pulled over just as my anxiety was about to go nuclear. And because Bill Murray is always right — “Miracles really do happen,” he said in Scrooged — it was towing a trailer.

With barely a “you seem to have a problem,” my saviour offered to load up my bike and haul it all the way back to Toronto. As in gratis, out of the goodness of his own heart with not a hint that his largesse was anything out of the ordinary. You know, complete with the beatific smile and full belief that anyone — literally everyone — who actually lived all the way to Thunder Bay and gone would instantly drop everything they were doing just so the dumb schmuck stuck on the side of the road could get his silly Honda back home.

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At first, I must admit, all this sincerity and good intentions were making me just a tad suspicious. You know the drill; kidnapped to Bogota, my RC held for ransom. That kind of thing. You city folk know what I’m talking about. Thirty years of rude cabbies, unfeeling traffic cops, and discourteous waiters leave you defenseless in the face of utter and abject goodness. The thought that someone could truly be this altruistic is a tough pill to swallow when you’ve hardened yourself over decades to the fact that your fellow Torontonians — or Vancouverites, I am sure — are all well and truly asshats.  

But, no, Charles Snell was, in fact, a biker, which meant — and again, the odds were getting so long at this point that I really do have to start believing in miracles — he had a whole bin full of Princess Auto heavy-duty tie-downs in the trunk. In other words, my CB1100 was not only going home but was making the trip very, very securely.

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I actually Googled the overnight weather in case I had to sleep by the side of the road while I waited for Moto Limo to come to my rescue

As it turns out, I think Charles comes by this miracle business pretty honestly, since he’s the facilities manager at the Dorion Bible Camp , a multi-denominational refuge for disadvantaged youth. And that, folks, is where the last part of this miracle comes in. Snell and his daughter, Avienda, proved to be all that is good with Christendom — short on proselytization and damnation, long on kindness and good deeds. Thus did his incredible consideration also come with one the best dialogues I’ve ever had with a person of the faith. As an avowed atheist, I didn’t reach much agreement with him on the existence of an actual Hell — though, from Snell’s description, it sounds a lot like my first marriage — nor was there much detente of there being a real Heaven awaiting my return. But I think we reached a genuine consensus on the evils of sloth and greed, not to mention some meeting of minds on the subject of the dangers of lust. From less have peace accords been fashioned.

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So, in the spirit that this was given, I think I will commit the next month to the goodness that is the best of humankind. To that end I promise not make fun of Tesla’s Cybertruck for at least four weeks. I am going to genuinely believe — though I have written so many articles to the contrary — that Volkswagen’s recent preoccupation with all things electric is not simply a guilt-fest left over from the Dieselgate scandal. And, Lord, if you’re listening — and, more importantly, if You exist — please give Mr. Trudeau the strength to not virtue-signal anything too outrageously stupid in the next four weeks, that I might bite my tongue at whatever his next stab at green-washing Canada’s transportation industry might be. This I swear by all that is good in the world.

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As for you, Charles Snell, I owe you big time. You thought you were just helping out someone with a mild obsession over a classic motorcycle. In fact, you rendered succour to the only worldly possession I’ve ever given two poops about — though there was a Laverda RGS1000 I polished overly so — or will likely ever care about. Like I said so many times, I owe you.

Which means, Charles — with Driving.ca’s multitudes as witness — call me any time. Day or night. Want an intro to someone who can fix that aging diesel of yours? Call me. Need a part for your V-Strom 650 picked up? Tell me when and where. You saved my bacon, dude, and turned what was well on its way to be the worst day ever — OK, maybe except for that wedding — into a restoration of faith in mankind. Seriously — and despite the feeble attempts at humour here, this is serious commentary — how many people take three hours out of their day to load some stranger’s motorcycle onto their trailer and take them home just because, well, it’s the right thing to do?  

Oh, and by the way, it was just a busted ground wire on the CB’s left-hand coil. It was fixed 10 minutes after I got home. It was indeed a blessed day.