The plan was simple: take off mid-summer and ride my Royal Enfield Classic 350 across the northern states of the U.S., sticking to backroads—those two-lane arteries winding through forgotten western towns and others finding new life. The route would tip its hat to Yellowstone, mark my first solo ride, and then thread through Duluth and along the Great Lakes into Ontario. The ultimate goal? Meet up with friends who live on the banks of the St. Lawrence River.
But, as life often does, time got in the way. There wasn’t enough of it to ride across the country and still tour Nova Scotia, the real reason behind this imagined voyage. The dream began to slip away as the weeks barreled toward the departure date, and the excitement dimmed into something less tangible.
Desperation kicked in. I scoured Google for ways to ship the bike closer to my destination, but the costs were sky-high. Even if I managed to ship it, I’d still have to ride it back. It felt hopeless. Then, one late night, as I swiped through Facebook Marketplace, something caught my eye—a 2003 Kawasaki Concours Touring bike.
At first, I didn’t know much about it, but a quick dive into its history revealed a storied lineage—a touring bike with DNA borrowed from the Ninja. It was a bigger, faster machine than I was used to, but I was intrigued. The bike had been sitting unused for two years, and the owner seemed eager to see it go to someone who would ride it. With the exchange rate in my favor, I picked it up for $828 USD. It needed a new front tire and a safety check, but otherwise, it was in great condition.
Moving from a 350cc thumper to a 996cc inline-four with six gears was a leap, but after a few spins around town, I had it figured out. To my surprise, the Kawasaki didn’t ruin me for my beloved Royal Enfield. They were different beasts, each with its own charm.
After a few days spent sorting insurance, paperwork, and other logistics for riding through Canada, we were ready to go. The plan was ambitious: head to Montreal, then wind through New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, taking in the Cabot Trail and the Fundy Trail. Halifax, St. John’s, whale watching, ferry crossings—these were the images fueling the ride. Lobster rolls and fish and chips would keep us going, and we’d loop through Maine to catch the fall colors before heading back to Ontario. At least, that was the idea. Whether we’d manage it all was another story.
We set out with high spirits, the bike loaded and the road stretching ahead. But even before we made it off the driveway, the Kawasaki nearly toppled over. Fully loaded and tall to begin with, it wobbled precariously as I brushed past it to adjust a bag. It started to tip, and my friend—standing just close enough—managed to catch it with his body. We locked eyes, both gripping the bike, hearts racing. “Whoa—whew!” we muttered in unison, no blame exchanged, just gratitude that disaster had been narrowly avoided. It should’ve been a sign of things to come, but we laughed it off and got back on the bike.
Not far into the journey, our first actual mishap struck. Heather, in her excitement, had left her gloves perched on the top of the rear bag. We’d been riding for a while when she suddenly tapped my shoulder and shouted through the helmet comms, “My gloves! They’re gone!” We pulled over immediately, scanning the shoulder for any sign of them.
Nothing!
Turning the bike around, we crawled back in second gear, eyes fixed on the road, hoping to spot them. We retraced our steps all the way to the driveway where we had started, certain they’d be waiting for us there. But they weren’t. Frustrated but determined, we set off again, scanning every inch of the shoulder. Then, about 3 kilometers from where we’d first realized they were missing, I spotted them—two small black specks resting just off the side of the road.
I couldn’t believe they had stayed put on the bag for as long as they had before finally floating off. Heather, geared up in her helmet and jacket, hopped off the bike and jogged toward them, weaving through passing cars like a helmeted superhero on a rescue mission. Gloves in hand, she returned triumphant, her grin visible even through the visor. Crisis averted, we laughed at the absurdity of it all and continued on our way.
A few turns later, we merged onto the 401 toward Montreal. In hindsight, we should have taken Route 2, which hugs the riverbanks and offers far more scenic views. The freeway, by contrast, was a dull stretch of asphalt, lined with trees that offered little in the way of distraction. Traffic thickened as we approached the city, the miles blending into monotony.
The Kawasaki was a revelation in many ways. The power it delivered, especially when overtaking large trucks on the highway, was exhilarating. A twist of the throttle and the machine surged forward with ease, its inline-four engine humming with smooth efficiency. The windscreen was a marvel too, shielding me from the constant battering of the wind and making high-speed cruising almost effortless. Heather, perched comfortably behind me, was thoroughly impressed. She praised the smoothness of the ride, the softer rear suspension that soaked up bumps, and the ample storage for our gear. For her, it was a significant upgrade. For me, though, the experience was a mixed bag. As much as I appreciated the Kawasaki’s prowess, I couldn’t help but miss the raw, elemental charm of my Royal Enfield Classic.
An hour into the ride, my right hip began to throb. I wasn’t used to the Kawasaki’s riding position, with the foot pegs angled back in a sportier stance. On the Enfield, the pegs sit directly below, allowing for a more upright and natural posture. Here, I felt cramped, folded into this machine of power. While the sixth gear and cruising speed were undeniably nice, I longed for the pop and thump of the Enfield, the rhythm of the single-cylinder engine that felt alive beneath me. Heather teased me as I lamented the difference, saying, “Of course you’d turn this into an excuse to buy another bike.” I laughed and waved her off. “Okay, okay,” I said, though the thought had already taken root. Maybe a Super Meteor would be the answer—something that stayed true to the brand but could stretch its legs on the open road. Still, the Kawasaki was growing on me. It had its charm, and for now, it was carrying us forward, carving out a new chapter in our adventure.
By the time we rolled into Quebec City, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across its historic walls. The city was stunning, a maze of narrow streets and one-way alleys. The girls hopped off to check into the hotel while I maneuvered the bike into a courtyard, where a grinning attendant motioned me to park. As I unloaded, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the bike, tall and top-heavy, might topple over at any moment. But it held firm.
After freshening up and with night falling, we ventured out into the city. Quebec City at dusk was magical—a living postcard perched on a hill, its streets tumbling downward toward the river and port. The air pulsed with life: the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. French floated through the air like music. Cafés, restaurants, and bars spilled onto the cobblestone streets, each corner offering its own rhythm.
We found a cozy spot for dinner, shared stories, and toasted to the road ahead. Quebec City had welcomed us with open arms, leaving us eager for the miles and memories still to come.
To be continued…
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