I rode out west last October from Toronto to Christina Lake in B.C. through blinding rain and cross-winds off Lake Superior so strong I thought I would become a permanent part of the foreboding landscape, frozen bones and steel embedded like nickel in the sheer rock faces that hug those northern Ontario highways. I lost my drive belt while passing a transport truck on the desolate Trans Canada forever heading into the setting sun an hour east of Regina. My right hand twisted the throttle and Henk, uncharacteristically unresponsive, fell behind. I twisted again, this time in a slight panic, and he continued sharply losing pavement beside the semi. Luckily there was nothing but a combine in a canola field as my closest competing traffic and I managed to pull to the shoulder and use my cellphone that I’d brought along for that single emergency. The belt was frayed (after 67,000 kilometres) and hanging off the back of the bike. The poor boys at the Regina Harley shop didn’t know what to do with a Buell who’s belt had come off. I told them it was the exact same piece as the Harley Sportster and after making a few calls to confirm (why would they believe a girl from the city?), they said they thought they might have me back on the road within twenty-four hours. Turned out they’d never taken apart a Buell before and I spent two nights enjoying the luxuries of room service and a view of the prairies at Regina's very comfortable downtown Delta Hotel and catching up on some writing while worrying what kind of Frankenstein those boys were making out of my beloved Henk. Back on my westward way I arrived in southern Alberta just in time for hundred mile headwinds and fought desperately all afternoon to keep my head attached to my spine. With no faring on Henk, I was having surreal visions of my head actually detaching at the fourth vertebra and flying off into the wind, pigtails and all, like the tumbleweeds I was dodging.

But these little (mis)adventures are the real reason for the ride, aren’t they? We grow stronger because of them, despite at the time thinking we’re going to die. If riding Henk through driving winds and blinding rains is a metaphor for life, and ten times out of ten, I have come out alive and even stronger, then I should know better than to fear leaving this comfortable house and this city I’ve come to love and my kitty and the man I’ve grown extremely fond of. Shouldn't I?