Thru the Peephole: Musings on the Strange, Interesting, and Maddening Characters We Meet “On the Road”
By Allan Gereg of St. Clairsville, Ohio.
Chapter 6: Oh! Canada!—Unwanted Immigrants
I think it was in ’80 that Doug and I took our first bike trip to the Great White North. Ah, yes, the land of woods and lakes… and tiny blood-sucking insects… Canada… home of Great Beer and cigarettes in boxes! We planned a short trip into Ontario via Michigan… we headed to the Lake Superior coastline just to see what we could see in two or three days. We spent a day or two traveling up thru Michigan (Michiganders don’t waste time on the highways… we had the opportunity to read many Michigan license plates as they zoomed past us!). Our route took us “up the thumb” and along the Lake Huron coast… pretty country… and eventually to Mackinaw City, where we toured the old Fort Milimackinack. For those with a historical sense and using a little imagination, it’s not hard to visualize the French traders bartering for furs with the local Indians on this spot…a few shiny, colorful beads and mirrors and some iron hatchets in exchange for a treasure trove of mink and beaver furs that would adorn the wardrobes of the rich French nobility… and you could almost smell the gunpowder… when the Brits came to take the land from the French and their Indians for settlements… the conflict is legendary. (Wasn’t that about the time BSA began making bikes?)
After an enjoyable tour of the fort, we were off again… across the “dreaded” Mackinack Bridge—more than five miles of structure suspended over the strait between Lakes Michigan and Huron. As all know who have traveled this route, the bridge presents a variety of anxieties… it’s high above the water…Don’t Look Down!… the wind blows hard - sometimes hard enough to blow you into the next lane… Hold on Tight!… traffic is heavy - two lanes each way and no median… Watch out for those speeding cars and TRUCKS!… and finally, there’s miles of the infamous “bridge deck grating” in the middle lanes… Holey Shit!… PRAY!!… of course, Murphy’s Law kicked in and we were forced by construction into the left lane and onto the grating… Killer!… I just kept my weight on the pegs and tried to keep the bike from squirming into oncoming traffic… if you lost it here, you’d be Squashed like a Bug!…
Heavy Duty White Knuckle Time!!
Finally, across and onto the Upper Peninsula, it seemed the “adrenalin high” lasted for hours… being scared silly is exciting… not necessarily pleasant, but exciting, ay? We crossed the U.P. and reached Sault Ste. Marie and the Border. I’ve had a couple experiences crossing into Canada before… it was nothing special… the standard questions were asked… Who, Where, Why, and How Long?… that was it… the wave-thru and gone… Our crossing this time was not quite so simple.
Directly before we reached Canadian Customs, we stopped at a little scenic overlook/tourist info place and, by chance, 4 or 5 Jap - type bikes had also stopped. These guys had their girlfriends/wives with them sightseeing. Coincidentally, these bikes left when we did and we followed them to Customs. My last sight of them was as they freely cruised thru customs on into Canada… Great!… We pulled up to one of the customs booths, were asked the “questions“ by a female customs agent and were told to pull off and wait in the holding lot where they would give us a “thorough” inspection… Hmmm… Why Us?… the customs agent (female, again) rifled thru my Bates top-loading saddlebags, obviously hoping to confiscate “contraband”. Seemingly put-out because she didn’t/couldn’t find anything, she left things in a mess and said that I must re-pack and report to the Immigrations Oficer for further questioning! At this point, I was beginning to “simmer”, wondering what this was all about and taking my time to re-pack my bags the way I had them. Ms. Customs almost “tsk’d” and tapped her foot at my delay, as I thought a thousand Unprintables about her and her Authority! Likewise, Doug was going thru the same drill with another female agent. Once packed, we walked into the building to find the Immigrations Officer (I felt like an Armenian refugee… hey, I don’t Want to Spend my Life in your Country–just three days!). There she was… sitting behind the desk… a young girl of perhaps 25 years… in all her Power and Glory. We sat and she asked the “questions” again, and after our response asked, “All right, then… How much Currency are you carrying?”… I was stunned… wondering why this was asked… was she afraid that we were bringing in millions, or did she think we were Vagrants?… on BMW’s? (She didn’t know a BMW from an A&P!). We responded with a rough estimation of the money in our wallets… What Next?… As she studied us (with our black leather jackets and boots, and… My God!… Doug’s beard!), she demanded, “May I see the currency, please?”
May I See It Please?… May I See It, Please?
My “simmering” went to “full boil”, but I managed to hold back… we showed Agent of the Year our money. Finally, at this point, she was satisfied (how could she not be?… unless maybe aking for a “strip-search”!) and told us we were free to go. Well, I wasn’t going to let her go that easily… I wanted to say My Piece…“ Excuse me, now that you are finished, I ’d like to ask You a few questions. Why is it that you chose Us to go thru this grilling?… because we ride motorcycles? Why us?… 4 or 5 other bikes went ahead of us, but they were ‘couples’, that’s OK? I feel a little discriminated against that we were the ones stopped.” The agent was quick to defend, “Well, ours is a random policy… blah, blah,blah…” Then to my disbelief, she went on, “After all, it is a fact that most motorcyclists have criminal records!“
IZ ZAT A FACT?
Talk about stereotypes?… where’s this poor girl been for the last ten or fifteen years? All us “bikers” are not chain-wielding, dope-crazed degenerates like you think, Missy! Controlling our anger, Doug and I got out of the building and rode over to a Currency Exchange/Souvenir Stand… and there we got off the bikes, looked at each other and asked… “Whataya think? Let’s Get the Hell Outta Here! These Morons don’t like us, don’t want us, and are afraid of us… why spend our Money in their Country?… if they don’t want us… the Hell with ’Em!… let’s get back to the good ole U S of A!”
We went inside the souvenir stand for a drink and a cool-off… cooler heads prevailed… we decided to give it a chance, we’d go in and see how the rest of the country treated us… It was Great!… everyone was Congenial and Hospitable; we had a good time for the rest of our stay… but I’ll never forget the bitter feeling I had that day with the Immigrations Officer… like an Outcast and Outlaw… because I chose to be a motorcyclist!
