Calabogie 2003.  It rained.  A lot.  The end.

Mother Nature, what a cruel bitch she can be.  As we spoke to each other throughout Friday evening, spirits were up - it looked like the sky was breaking, and we slowly started to believe we might just be able to squeak out another dry Calabogie run.  How wrong we were.

Most of us awoke Saturday morning to a grey, but dry sky.   This, however, was just a tease, as by the time we all met at Cannon's house, it was raining.  Despite the fact that a post had been put up the day before, pretty much stating that no one was expected to show up and ride in the rain, every single invitee was at Cannon's at 7:30am (well, except SuperDave, 'cause he's always late...) ready to ride.  Fifteen bikes, two support vehicle drivers - by far the largest Calabogie crew to date.  The agreed upon theme of the day: fuck the rain.

Generally, soaking-wet roads and motorcycles do not make a good mix.   We all knew things were going to be slick, and it wasn't long before someone got to prove it...  As a matter of fact, it only took us until Guelph to witness our first "oh shit!!" of the day - Cannon, braking, then sliding, then almost binning his new Hayabusa.  I distinctly remember thinking "uh oh" as I watched him slide right on through the intersection, one foot down already, the other flailing aimlessly trying to get some balance on the sliding, tipping bike, and as it turns out, Insano (the other eye-witness to the near impending doom) was thinking the EXACT same thing.   Kudos to Cannon for keeping his big bitch off the ground.  Dude, that was CLOSE...

After much more riding in the rain, which included doing the Forks of The Credit (in the rain), Hockley Valley Rd. (in the rain), riding over WOOD railroad crossings (in the rain), and getting split up in Barrie (in the rain), we actually hit some dry pavement.  No shit.  It was at this monumental point of the day that those who had rain-gear on, made the bold decision that it would no longer be needed.   Yeah, right.

We managed to get a 507 run in - hitting the tail end of it as the sky started to open up again.  Not a heavy rain, just enough to make the roads wet, and little more unpredictable than we'd have liked.  The journey from the top end of the 507 to the bottom end of Elephant Lake Road started off in a light rain, but in no way, shape, or form, finished that way.  The closer we got to ELR, the heavier the rain got, and about two kilometers from the ELR turn off, IT FUCKING POURED!!  No more of this pussy-ass-face light rain, this was full blown, visibility-impairing, torrential downpours.  I'm sure those who decided to take off their rain-gear earlier were real impressed with themselves by this point...

Unbeknownst to me, a few of the guys, whom I now refer to as "The Bitches", had already pulled off to get some shelter from the rainy-wainy.   Myself and a small sampling of the group rode right past them, unaware they had pulled off, as we could barely see what the hell was happening five feet in front of us, never mind thirty feet off to the side of the road.  And so on to Elephant Lake Road we went.  In a monsoon.  Super.  What a horrible fucking ride.  The absolute worst.  There is nothing like riding the entire length of one of the twistiest and most dangerous roads in Ontario, in the pouring rain, with visibility of about ten feet, soaked to the ass, feeling your beloved motorcycle hydroplane through the puddles, as the wind blows sideways at you, almost putting you into the ditch, which you can't even see in the first fucking place, because your shield is fogged up, and the only way the guys behind you know what the fuck is going on is because your ZX-12R came with 4-way flashers, and you've got them on.  Fantastic.  I have never been happier to see the warning sign for the upcoming stop sign that signals the end of ELR - I was absolutely elated (as I'm sure the guys behind me were) in the knowledge that The Arlington (and much cold beer) was just around the corner...

And with The Arlington, came much, much cold beer.  After everyone finally made it, and most everyone got dry and changed, we started to drink.   And drink.  And drink and drink and drink and drink.  The Rookies had go out to the diddler-van in the pouring rain to get beer.  Captain KFC made his first (of many, I'm sure) Calabogie appearance.  We ordered, and then proceeded to devour, about $150.00 worth of pizza.  Rolly Rocker & The Hemi-Heads were there again this year, so we partied with them too.  Then we drank some more.  Then we went down to the bar to watch Rolly and the crew, and drank some more.  And then the seasoned veterans started to wise-up and take it easy on the booze.  A couple of the rookies, however, did not.  One in particular.  And so is born the legend of Homeless Glen.  Poor Bastard.

Sunday morning found us somewhat rested, a little hung-over (or a lot hung-over...), but ready to ride nonetheless.  Our annual "let's-ride-like-retards-run" into Bancroft at 260km/h was the breath of fresh air that most of us needed to get into riding mode.  That, and the fact that it wasn't fucking raining.  A coffee and bagel later, we were ready to rock.  Well all of us except Glen...

What can be said about Sunday?  A few things.  Twisties, and lots of them.  High-speed riding (like coming through a 50km/h zone at 160km/h), and lots of it.  We made our annual stop on Centennial Lake Road and paid our respects to Ludi, and made it up as far as the town of Calabogie for lunch, where we were graced by the presence of the elusive Captain Amazing, who ten minutes prior, had almost become Captain Landscape - "Oh Jesus, Captain Amazing CAN'T STOP!!"  We avoided the rain for the better part of the day, enjoying all of the great roads the north has to offer.  We made it back down to the bottom of the 507 before the real rain hit again, only to ride right back out of it when we hit Peterborough for a coffee stop.   Considering what we had all been through the day before, a little shower was nothing.  All in all, a fantastic day of blasting, with zero casualties.  Or so it would seem...

As we left Peterborough, the plan was to stop wherever one wanted to stop for a final fuel-up, and head for home.  As we came down Hwy 35, we got split into two groups, with the bigger, faster bikes riding ahead.  As we hummed down 35 (actually, "flew" would be a more accurate term...), out of the corner of my eye I caught no less than FOUR cruisers parked at the diner by the gas station we were about to hyper-drive right past.  Oh shit.  I proceeded to hammer on the binders and abruptly turn into the gas station, only to have Brucey, Cannon, Timmay, and the rest of the lead group do the same thing, all while being watched very carefully by the cops standing beside said cruisers.  Hell, Brucey just about didn't make the turn, he was going so fast...  Anyway, as we would find out later, it would turn out that Glen's bike decided to puke oil all over Glen, his bike, his rear tire, etc., and when trying to catch up to us to let us know of what had happened, Captain Insano would grenade the motor in his R6 by smacking it off the limiter in sixth about thirty-five times.   Miraculously, neither one of them crashed.  Unaware of the unfolding events, we figured a parking lot full of cops was probably not the best place for us to be, so we buggered off down 35, on to the 401, and then proceeded to ride like total maniacs, pretty much all the way home.  Two hours later, the support vehicle, complete with the two fallen steeds strapped in the back, made it home as well, and with everyone present and accounted for, it was party time once again.

And party we did.  Big-time.  Great food, great booze, great friends.  Just ask Timmay.  He's so pretty.

Until next year...