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| Paris Revisited by Don Cutts |
| Ottawa Section CVMG |
As it turned out, there were only two of us to make the trek to Paris by the northern route. Brian Given was to
meet me at my house at 7:30 Friday morning aboard his 1967 Velocette Venom. I was riding the Triumph. He
arrived soon after and noticed that the magneto end cap had parted company with the magneto body. We
decided to re-trace his route back to his house. As luck would have it, it was lost forever. I gave him a baggy
and two elastics and we secured it over the points end of the magneto. There were intermittent showers
forecast for the day but nothing we couldn’t tolerate.
We left the city limits around 8:50 a.m. and headed up past Perth. By the time we motored through Havelock
at the eighty mile mark, it was somewhat difficult to ignore the intermittent showers. I put on my two piece rain
suit and Brian threw on a peach coloured plastic bicycle poncho which was torn to shreds by the time
Kaledar came in sight. We pumped some gasoline and went in to the restaurant to have a hot coffee with
Brian looking as if he’d had a fight with a shower curtain. We were taken by surprise as ‘Talking Tom’
Mousseau came over to chat. He’s the most active rider in the club and the man of a thousand stories. He
was having his own problems with his big Yamaha XS 1100. He’d been spraying his high tension leads and
coils with WD 40 to keep the motor going. At this point, Brian finally gave in and bought a ten dollar rain suit
in the adjoining shop. After Kaledar, the miles of road construction started in earnest. When we got to Paris,
my recently greased rear chain was dry and rusty.
It wasn’t long before Brian and I hit the next town and there was Tom again, spraying and revving . By this
time, the intermittent showers had turned into a monsoon. Brian and I both had wet feet and gloves. Tom
was going to accompany a young lad on a motorcycle he had met along the way. The kid was soaked
through and half frozen. Tom would deter through Toronto.
We were still game at this point and Brian’s complexion was a healthy red from the lash of the driving rain.
Wet shoes had led to soaking socks and the wetness had begun to creep up the pant legs by that
treacherous process known as osmosis. After an interminable time, Peterborough came up and we pulled
into a haven called Tim Horton’s for hot fluids and food. I wrung out my sodden leather gloves in front of the
patrons gawking through the front window, much to their amusement. We compared hands and my oh my, we
both had black ones! The girls behind the cash shrank visibly when we accepted our change. After lunch, we
changed the magneto baggy and put on a dry one. Water had condensed inside; causing a slight misfire and
it would have false economy to retain the old one. I cut the baggy at the trailing edge to let it breathe a little.
Off again and bound for Lindsay. Somewhere between Lindsay and Uxbridge, we stopped to check the map.
It was so damp at this point that the map turned into pulp and a couple of gusts of wind tore it from my hands.
Within the minute, a girl ran up unseen and alarmed us terribly. She had a fresh map and her father had
stopped their car and sent her over. It was an awfully good omen. We were meant to get to the Promised
Land after all! After a quick skirmish with some West Nile Mosquitoes as I was down in the ditch for a pit stop,
we carried on through Newmarket to Orangeville, cannily passing the nation’s SARS capital with its nasty
traffic jams.
Weak from hunger and cold, we had a hot meal in Orangeville. This was where the rain finally stopped. The
rest of the trip down through Erin, Guelph Cambridge, Brantford and Paris was heaven, by comparison.
We pulled into the Paris fairgrounds and went to the Ottawa Section where we were not readily recognized. I
believe it was about 9:00 p.m. by then and we didn’t break any speed records.
We stayed at the Rose Court motel in town and needed every inch of space to hang out our riding and our
unpacked clothes to dry. It took 24 hours. The second night there, Ed Vallaincourt gave us heck for not
packing things in plastic bags and for not having waterproof gloves and foot gear i.e. Totes. We promised to
get some as soon as possible.
It was a very good weekend at the Rally. Saturday night found the Ottawa gang eating in town as there were
no more tickets to the banquet. Then we all piled into Tim Conway’s Ford pickup, inside and out, while Brian
Baker hot rodded it out into the countryside to a country fair. Tim had been celebrating a weekend of
freedom that day so we needed a steady hand at the wheel. ‘Burnout’ Baker didn’t disappoint his riders as he
shaved down the rubber. Brian Morrison was rolling around in the box behind having a grand time. We
stopped at an ice cream parlour for refreshment and then returned to the motorcycle rally. Meanwhile,
‘Talkin’ Tom was back in his tent fighting the demon of food poisoning but luckily he pulled through that night.
The Ottawa crowd was ten feet away in their tent, with Tim Conway regaling the drunk and disorderly crew
with stories of insurance fraud. Sunday afternoon came all too soon, after the judging of the splendid
vintage machines. Brian and I pulled out of the Fairgrounds and had lunch downtown with John Gurr and
Dave Linkletter.
We were off to London next. John followed us as we were looking for Highway 2. I pulled up the hill, from the
intersection where the three roads meet, and waited for Brian to catch up. He never did. Coming back I saw
John Gurr pointing down the hill. There was Brian with a becalmed engine and gas streaming from his new
concentric carburetor. John and I rushed over and got the float bowl off. The new plastic float was sitting in
the bottom of the bowl and full of gasoline. Brian had become the latest victim of the dreaded ‘Paris Triangle’
. John, being an aircraft mechanic, reckoned it was similar to that other phenomenon, the feared ‘Bermuda
Triangle’. Luckily, John Cousins came by and volunteered to bring back a concentric carburettor with a good
float. An hour later, everything was back together. Another twenty minutes of kicking, pushing and sweating
had us on our way.
We had two days of sunshine in London while visiting people and browsing through the Princess Auto store
for extra tools. A vintage man on the road cannot have too many tools. We pushed on through scenic
farmland to St Thomas, Tillsonburg, Dunnville and up to Niagara on Tuesday. Crossing to the USA we
motored through Rochester and on to Oswego by 9:00 p.m.
We wanted to make it up to Watertown before we stopped for the night but common sense dictated that we
should stop. The wall of bugs, my dark visor and the dozens of ‘Deer Crossing’ signs was just a mite too
much.
Wednesday morning saw us stopping at Sackets Harbor for breakfast and then on to the ferry boats to
Wolfe Island and Kingston from Cape Vincent. Brian had to push his Velocity on and off the boats a few times
as these irascible machines will prove stubborn to start in front of onlookers.
At Kingston we went and had lunch and then went to Frank Tetzlaff’s shop to meet him. He was slated to run
down to the Bridge restaurant at Prescott to have supper with the Old Bastards Chapter, led by Captain Ernie
Olivo. We would ride down there and then later just head home to Ottawa. It all seemed so simple. At 6:30 p.
m. we set off down the 401 and as we approached the second off ramp to Gananoque, Brian’s machine failed
and he pulled off onto the shoulder. Frank on his Yamaha and I on the Triumph were one third of a mile
ahead. After five minutes of looking back at Brian struggling like a lost soul in Hell, we motored back on the
shoulder. Frank was torn between his engagement at Prescott and leaving us to get the motorbike sorted
out. The battle between food and friends was short-lived. However, he swore he would be back within four
hours and then get his truck, if necessary. He told us to push the machine down the off-ramp and there
would be a Tim Horton’s Coffee Shop just as we turned right. I drove the Triumph along the ramp to the main
road, a distance of some three hundred yards and turned right. I had to ride over half a mile to find Tim
Horton’s around a bend down the road. Frank was not being exactly straight forward when he was explaining
the easy strategy to Brian. I waited at the coffee shop for Brian to bring his machine along. He eventually got
there after about 45 minutes in the heat. It was alarming to imagine what he was thinking of as he staggered
in.
Around 10:45, Frank rode in and then went off to Kingston to get the truck. We got the bike stored at his
shop by midnight. The next morning, Brian and I took the automatic advance unit off the magneto and found
that the fibre gear had stripped its teeth in certain spots. This was somewhat unusual and went against what
we knew of Velocettes.
Brian took the bus home to Ottawa that afternoon and returned that evening with a trailer. I rode home later
in the day.
Despite everything, we had a good time.
Don Cutts.
meet me at my house at 7:30 Friday morning aboard his 1967 Velocette Venom. I was riding the Triumph. He
arrived soon after and noticed that the magneto end cap had parted company with the magneto body. We
decided to re-trace his route back to his house. As luck would have it, it was lost forever. I gave him a baggy
and two elastics and we secured it over the points end of the magneto. There were intermittent showers
forecast for the day but nothing we couldn’t tolerate.
We left the city limits around 8:50 a.m. and headed up past Perth. By the time we motored through Havelock
at the eighty mile mark, it was somewhat difficult to ignore the intermittent showers. I put on my two piece rain
suit and Brian threw on a peach coloured plastic bicycle poncho which was torn to shreds by the time
Kaledar came in sight. We pumped some gasoline and went in to the restaurant to have a hot coffee with
Brian looking as if he’d had a fight with a shower curtain. We were taken by surprise as ‘Talking Tom’
Mousseau came over to chat. He’s the most active rider in the club and the man of a thousand stories. He
was having his own problems with his big Yamaha XS 1100. He’d been spraying his high tension leads and
coils with WD 40 to keep the motor going. At this point, Brian finally gave in and bought a ten dollar rain suit
in the adjoining shop. After Kaledar, the miles of road construction started in earnest. When we got to Paris,
my recently greased rear chain was dry and rusty.
It wasn’t long before Brian and I hit the next town and there was Tom again, spraying and revving . By this
time, the intermittent showers had turned into a monsoon. Brian and I both had wet feet and gloves. Tom
was going to accompany a young lad on a motorcycle he had met along the way. The kid was soaked
through and half frozen. Tom would deter through Toronto.
We were still game at this point and Brian’s complexion was a healthy red from the lash of the driving rain.
Wet shoes had led to soaking socks and the wetness had begun to creep up the pant legs by that
treacherous process known as osmosis. After an interminable time, Peterborough came up and we pulled
into a haven called Tim Horton’s for hot fluids and food. I wrung out my sodden leather gloves in front of the
patrons gawking through the front window, much to their amusement. We compared hands and my oh my, we
both had black ones! The girls behind the cash shrank visibly when we accepted our change. After lunch, we
changed the magneto baggy and put on a dry one. Water had condensed inside; causing a slight misfire and
it would have false economy to retain the old one. I cut the baggy at the trailing edge to let it breathe a little.
Off again and bound for Lindsay. Somewhere between Lindsay and Uxbridge, we stopped to check the map.
It was so damp at this point that the map turned into pulp and a couple of gusts of wind tore it from my hands.
Within the minute, a girl ran up unseen and alarmed us terribly. She had a fresh map and her father had
stopped their car and sent her over. It was an awfully good omen. We were meant to get to the Promised
Land after all! After a quick skirmish with some West Nile Mosquitoes as I was down in the ditch for a pit stop,
we carried on through Newmarket to Orangeville, cannily passing the nation’s SARS capital with its nasty
traffic jams.
Weak from hunger and cold, we had a hot meal in Orangeville. This was where the rain finally stopped. The
rest of the trip down through Erin, Guelph Cambridge, Brantford and Paris was heaven, by comparison.
We pulled into the Paris fairgrounds and went to the Ottawa Section where we were not readily recognized. I
believe it was about 9:00 p.m. by then and we didn’t break any speed records.
We stayed at the Rose Court motel in town and needed every inch of space to hang out our riding and our
unpacked clothes to dry. It took 24 hours. The second night there, Ed Vallaincourt gave us heck for not
packing things in plastic bags and for not having waterproof gloves and foot gear i.e. Totes. We promised to
get some as soon as possible.
It was a very good weekend at the Rally. Saturday night found the Ottawa gang eating in town as there were
no more tickets to the banquet. Then we all piled into Tim Conway’s Ford pickup, inside and out, while Brian
Baker hot rodded it out into the countryside to a country fair. Tim had been celebrating a weekend of
freedom that day so we needed a steady hand at the wheel. ‘Burnout’ Baker didn’t disappoint his riders as he
shaved down the rubber. Brian Morrison was rolling around in the box behind having a grand time. We
stopped at an ice cream parlour for refreshment and then returned to the motorcycle rally. Meanwhile,
‘Talkin’ Tom was back in his tent fighting the demon of food poisoning but luckily he pulled through that night.
The Ottawa crowd was ten feet away in their tent, with Tim Conway regaling the drunk and disorderly crew
with stories of insurance fraud. Sunday afternoon came all too soon, after the judging of the splendid
vintage machines. Brian and I pulled out of the Fairgrounds and had lunch downtown with John Gurr and
Dave Linkletter.
We were off to London next. John followed us as we were looking for Highway 2. I pulled up the hill, from the
intersection where the three roads meet, and waited for Brian to catch up. He never did. Coming back I saw
John Gurr pointing down the hill. There was Brian with a becalmed engine and gas streaming from his new
concentric carburetor. John and I rushed over and got the float bowl off. The new plastic float was sitting in
the bottom of the bowl and full of gasoline. Brian had become the latest victim of the dreaded ‘Paris Triangle’
. John, being an aircraft mechanic, reckoned it was similar to that other phenomenon, the feared ‘Bermuda
Triangle’. Luckily, John Cousins came by and volunteered to bring back a concentric carburettor with a good
float. An hour later, everything was back together. Another twenty minutes of kicking, pushing and sweating
had us on our way.
We had two days of sunshine in London while visiting people and browsing through the Princess Auto store
for extra tools. A vintage man on the road cannot have too many tools. We pushed on through scenic
farmland to St Thomas, Tillsonburg, Dunnville and up to Niagara on Tuesday. Crossing to the USA we
motored through Rochester and on to Oswego by 9:00 p.m.
We wanted to make it up to Watertown before we stopped for the night but common sense dictated that we
should stop. The wall of bugs, my dark visor and the dozens of ‘Deer Crossing’ signs was just a mite too
much.
Wednesday morning saw us stopping at Sackets Harbor for breakfast and then on to the ferry boats to
Wolfe Island and Kingston from Cape Vincent. Brian had to push his Velocity on and off the boats a few times
as these irascible machines will prove stubborn to start in front of onlookers.
At Kingston we went and had lunch and then went to Frank Tetzlaff’s shop to meet him. He was slated to run
down to the Bridge restaurant at Prescott to have supper with the Old Bastards Chapter, led by Captain Ernie
Olivo. We would ride down there and then later just head home to Ottawa. It all seemed so simple. At 6:30 p.
m. we set off down the 401 and as we approached the second off ramp to Gananoque, Brian’s machine failed
and he pulled off onto the shoulder. Frank on his Yamaha and I on the Triumph were one third of a mile
ahead. After five minutes of looking back at Brian struggling like a lost soul in Hell, we motored back on the
shoulder. Frank was torn between his engagement at Prescott and leaving us to get the motorbike sorted
out. The battle between food and friends was short-lived. However, he swore he would be back within four
hours and then get his truck, if necessary. He told us to push the machine down the off-ramp and there
would be a Tim Horton’s Coffee Shop just as we turned right. I drove the Triumph along the ramp to the main
road, a distance of some three hundred yards and turned right. I had to ride over half a mile to find Tim
Horton’s around a bend down the road. Frank was not being exactly straight forward when he was explaining
the easy strategy to Brian. I waited at the coffee shop for Brian to bring his machine along. He eventually got
there after about 45 minutes in the heat. It was alarming to imagine what he was thinking of as he staggered
in.
Around 10:45, Frank rode in and then went off to Kingston to get the truck. We got the bike stored at his
shop by midnight. The next morning, Brian and I took the automatic advance unit off the magneto and found
that the fibre gear had stripped its teeth in certain spots. This was somewhat unusual and went against what
we knew of Velocettes.
Brian took the bus home to Ottawa that afternoon and returned that evening with a trailer. I rode home later
in the day.
Despite everything, we had a good time.
Don Cutts.