Day 3 – Ucluelet & Tofino
Breton
(Editorial note) I don’t know, to me, three hours in a wingback chair deeply engaged in a pitched battle of romantic seduction leans more to “entrenched” than “ensconced”. …but why quibble? Adventures awaited us that a lack of literary talent and a decent spellchecker could not diminish!
Saturday morning came with a delightful surprise. No rain! We had all day so there was no rush to head out. The morning past lazily with Mark relaxing in the jacuzzi tub upstairs and me relaxing by the fire downstairs enjoying the newspaper. Well, enjoying myself as much as I could with a large naked man prancing across the walkway above me. I sincerely feared this would have disturbing ramifications on my dreams that night… Putting my fears aside, we geared up and headed out for breakfast. With the prospect of dry roads ahead, I had visions of me on my screaming oriental rocket slashing and carving through the s-curves. Which made stalling my bike 12 times in the cafe parking lot all the more embarrassing.
Ucluelet without rain is much prettier.
Following breakfast and one more stall for good measure, we left for Long Beach. Beautiful ride up to the beach. Great road, nice curves and dry enough roads to see what the bikes could really do. My VFR is a 4 cylinder that runs on 2 valves when running at low revs and the other 2 valves kicking in at 7000 rpm. Rather an interesting experience when you’re leaned over accelerating through a corner and the afterburners kick in. First time’s a surprise, the rest pure fun. We pulled in at Long Beach, pulled out the cameras and proceeded to shoot anything and everything in sight. Both of us got some great pics. Mark took pictures of the stunning windswept beach and I took pictures of the stunning surfer girl in the bikini top. Well, at least I no longer had to worry about who would figure prominently in my dreams that night…
With every rock, wave and cleavage appropriately photographed, we jumped on the bikes and headed to Tofino for the Pacific Rim Whale Festival. Mark was really interested in the community BBQ but I wanted to check out the exhibit entitled “Smart, Sleek & Stinky”. Not sure what it was suppose to be about but I was seriously hoping it wasn’t a description of the local girls.
Windswept beach…
…windswept surfer girls.
Arriving in Tofino, we did what all bad ass bikers do when they hit town. We stopped for a latte, checked out an art gallery and, uh, took more pictures. Stopped off at the Wickaninnish Inn for a nice lunch before blasting back down the highway to Ucluelet. Back at the cabin, we spent a few quiet moments reflecting on the day over a lovely bottle of wine from our private reserve and then it was time to catch a cab to dinner at the Boat Basin. As Mark says, it really doesn’t suck being us.
Or took more pictures while stopping for a latte!
Mark
Harley riders are funny. Not in a cutting, acerbic, master-of-comic-timing kind of way. But funny nonetheless. And I do recognize that this statement comes with it a not inconsiderable threat of bodily injury. Which in no way makes it less true.
A ride like this has a lot of moments that tug on the threads of history. Staying somewhere like the Empress immerses you in the romance of travel in a bygone era. Travelling by motorcycle is itself rooted in a nostalgic view that celebrates rugged individualism and embraces the elements and all they can throw at you.
Today, though, we benefit from significant advances in technology. Our machines, and the clothing that protects us from the rain and from the road, have both made quantum advances. For most of us.
Pulling into the Chevron in Port Alberni yesterday, there were three bikes already at the pumps. Harley riders all, they had potatoe-potatoed by us while we were stopped in Cathedral Grove. (This was another impromptu Breton pee-break, an occurrence that is astonishing in its frequency).
As we’re leaving, out of the store strides this dude, dressed to the nines, or at least, the Harley rider’s equivalent. Ubiquitous beanie helmet, chaps, goggles, and hob-nailed boots. Actually, I don’t know what a hob-nail or its namesake boot actually looks like, but it sounds tough, and these pretty much lined up with my mental image. The piece-de-resistance, though, was this whacking great duster of a coat whose hem hovered a mere 12 inches above the deck. How he managed to ride in this thing without pulling an Isadora Duncan is beyond me.
I’m pretty sure that all weekend warriors have an inner dialogue that serves as their personal motorcycling narrative. For proof, I refer to Breton’s first installment. This guy’s inner story seems to combine equal measures of Dirty Harry-era Clint Eastwood, John Wayne and Quentin Tarantino. With an outward appearance that surpasses anything they managed to channel in Wild Hogs.
The day started phenomenally. A jacuzzi bath, a great read, and Breton bringing me a (weak but still welcome) coffee. With a request to cover up the ’embarrassingly small bits’. But Breton, my toes were already underwater.
This trip seems destined to be a never-ending back and forth of mockery and humiliation. I had just finished deriding Breton’s woeful inability to park on an uphill slope. This attempt was punctuated with him stalling his bike no less than a dozen times in an admirably consistent fashion. Not 5 minutes later, I am forced to concede that I’ve misplaced my wallet. But where? The Co-op last night? The hotel office this morning? The cabin? While Breton paid for breakfast (in retrospect, I like how my subconscious works…) I stroll outside to find my wallet in my topcase. Where it’s early been since last night when I bought groceries.
They really like that webcam of the lighthouse here in Ucluelet. Every place you go is showing it on a flatscreen TV. Breton is endlessly fascinated. I suspect a portion of Enmax bandwidth will soon be occupied bringing it to his desktop.
While we eat breakfast, Breton is reading a calendar of events here and in Tofino for WhaleFest. Apparently, today is the WhaleFest Community BBQ. Asks me, ‘What? They BBQ a whale?’ Replies Breton, ‘How many minutes a side do you think that is?’
So, this bike is definitely growing on me. Although it still lacks any real distinguishing characteristics, that’s sort of the point. It is just an incredibly capable, competent bike. Stopping at Long Beach, I commented to Breton, ‘You know, if I could only have one bike, and I couldn’t afford the calibre of bikes currently sitting in my garage, I could make a very strong case for it being this one.’ We then both agree that this comment made me sound like an elitist snob, and wisely decided to pursue other lines of inquiry.
With views like this, you don’t need a soundtrack. But it doesn’t hurt!
So the soundtrack is rocking. Riding up the Pacific Rim Highway this morning, the curves were fast and steady, the bike happily purred underneath me, and I was undisputedly in my happy place. Thanks, Dianne. You give good tunes (and so much more!)
Tofino is an interesting place. That it is a hippie town goes without saying. As a result, the locals are an unlikely combination of rubber-clad surfer, fleece-clad tri-athlete and Birkenstock-wearing (with socks, mind; this is the winter) hippy. All with a crunchy Granola outer shell.
Total count today is something on the order of 15 VW camper vans of varying vintages and states of repair (if you’re generous) or decay (if you’re not).
Breton’s hippy surfer fantasy, with VW bus.
The riding itself is exceptional, although the traffic is a wee tad challenging. Hard to avoid when there’s only one road in and one road out, and a double-solid yellow line for most of it.
Which didn’t stop a red Mazda Protégé from blasting past Breton and me, quickly followed two minutes later by another pass as we all executed a bend. At which point, he promptly turned right and exited the highway. Coincidentally, we did the same. Followed the road to the Wickaninnish Inn, our destination for lunch. Stopping to ask a friendly and helpful employee for parking directions, he generously suggests we park right out front. And then, to his credit, apologizes for blasting past us, but he was late for work. Kudos to him for mentioning it.
He said ‘park out front.’ We parked out front.
If the Wickaninnish Inn has anything like a dress code, I’m pretty sure that we don’t meet it. That both of us were wearing riding gear, with scuffed boots still showing signs of yesterday’s rain, in no way stopped them from seating us in the lounge. One of those rooms that define million-dollar view, with service that defines obsequious. And the food was pretty darn fine.
And to top it all off, as we return to the cabin, out of Cabin 2 walks Breton’s fantasy, all come to life. Blonde hair in an up-do (I refuse to reveal how I know what one of those is), 4 inch heels, little black dress, and two glasses of red wine in her hands. Breton’s response was downright Pavlovian. Sadly, an invitation to join her is politely rebuffed. But Breton will live to try again another day. And have some pleasant dreams tonight.
The next challenge our intrepid adventurers face is the task of getting to dinner. After a day of riding and a welcoming and pretty fabulous bottle of wine, taking the bikes is out of the question. And even if we could ride to the restaurant, there is no way that wine isn’t going to be consumed. Grammatically, that qualifies as a double negative. Which is a positive. Or in an alternative phrasing, when asked if wine will be involved at dinner, the answer is “Hell, yeah!”
If the food is anything like the view, I don’t want to leave.
And so, we throw ourselves on the mercies of Ucluelet’s one and only cab driver. Who sounds over the phone like she’s been smoking two packs a day since Bea Arthur was in short pants. As we later discover, the age assumption is way off. The smoking assumption, however, is bang on.
Not that she isn’t a totally cool lady. Originally from outside of Ottawa, she’s been in Ucluelet for 7 years and has been driving a cab for five. What she’s seen in that time is more than enough to fill a book, but then, in her words “I’d have to move out of town. One thing this job is not is dull.” Add to that a serious appreciation of food – she can cite the ingredients of meals from ages ago — and a love of dogs, gardening and people, and you have one fascinating individual.
Dinner itself is fabulous. The Boat Basin at Tauca Lea is one absolutely amazing restaurant. The wine list, while extensive, is not expensive. The overall price range is $30-$60. And the menu is phenomenal. A scallop appetizer is exceptional, as is the main course. Rare ahi tuna is served in a maple-soy glaze, with bok choi, lobster risotto and a wicked wasabi. Basically, it’s an amazingly put together deconstructed tuna roll. And the goat cheese cheesecake with raspberries doesn’t need any more introduction than that.
If ever you’re in Ucluelet, you have to go to the Boat Basin.
The meal ends with us waiting for the cab once more. Pausing by the bar, that leads me to summon over the bartender. “While this might be an unusual request, any chance of a cognac to go?” It becomes clear all to quickly that his hesitation has nothing to do with what liquor laws this might violate, so much as the question of what vessel he might reasonably use to accommodate the request. And so, armed with take out coffee cups of cognac, we allow our chauffeuse to return us to the cabin.