Going Off Course in a Pre-GPS World

The year I got my motorcycle licence, our first long distance ride was to Quebec. Jack and I spent one night in Algonquin Park, then traveled happily along the ruggedly beautiful back roads of Ontario. Crossing over to Quebec we toured through more landscapes of forests and rock, and often alongside rivers and lakes too numerous to count. We had no GPS. It took a paper map, several stops en route and a reasonable sense of direction to find our way. The scenery was magnificent. The weather was perfect. Friendly people accommodated us at cafes and gas stations, despite the language barrier.

At last we arrived at our destination – a quaint resort in Maniwaki. Rustic as it was, fine linen tablecloths graced the dining room and the waiters wore bow ties and satin vests. I worried that my one pair of white capris and a dressier blouse might not measure up, but I soon relaxed thanks to the hospitable staff.

After a couple of wonderful days we left for home on Friday morning, with a plan to meander through the Gatineau hills and avoid all major cities. The first part of the trip was everything a novice rider could ask for – stunning surroundings and quiet roads. We headed in the general direction of Ottawa, taking our sweet time along the way.

Gradually traffic increased. Our radios began to crackle and squawk, a sign that the batteries were just about finished. We turned them off and carried on without any way of communicating with each other. Somehow we ended up on a busy highway. Signs indicated that Hull lay to the south of us. No worries, I thought, Jack has a plan. There’s no way he would drag me into Hull on a Friday afternoon.

The sun grew hot and the traffic heavy. We kept passing signs marking the distance to Hull, but Jack rode on, apparently unconcerned. Relax. Just follow Jack. He knows what he’s doing. Any minute now we’re going to exit the highway and get back into the country. Sure.

Par for the course

Turns out that Hull was intensely busy on that sweltering afternoon. A plethora of signs greeted us, but all in French. At last something familiar appeared on the horizon – the iconic Golden Arches. 

Never have Big Macs tasted so good. The young woman behind the counter recharged our radios while we ate and consulted the map. Jack developed a Plan B to get us back into Ontario. 

In our hotel room that evening we laughed at the excursion behind us. “I kept thinking you had a plan,” I said.

“I did!” said Jack. “I was watching for our exit, but it never came up and the next thing I knew we were riding downtown in rush hour.” 

All these years later I’m still following Jack most of the time. Having been to Hull and back, I understand that missed exits and wrong turns are par for the course. 

More than a memory now, that trip has become metaphorical. Life is the journey ordained for me, but I’m not navigating on my own. I’m following an infallible leader who’s more accurate than the best GPS. He leads me ever onward, past distractions and safely through hazards and difficulties. I’m bound to make some wrong turns along the way, but my destination is sure. He calls me steadily into the future – to a place he designed and where he abides already.  As ill prepared as I am for its grandeur, I know he will welcome me there.

I’ll bet the scenery is amazing

This article appeared in our September 14 issue under the title “The Plan.”