I adjusted my position on the back of the police motorcycle, grateful for the reflective vest protecting me from the early September chill. “We’re expecting over 400 riders today,” Staff Sergeant Mike Gauthier told me as we prepared to join the convoy of motorcycles stretching behind us like a metal serpent along Highway 400.
This marked my third year covering the Wounded Warriors Canada Highway of Heroes Ride, but nothing prepared me for the sea of chrome and leather that greeted me at CFB Borden this morning.
The annual event, which kicked off in Barrie and wound through Central Ontario’s countryside, has evolved from a modest gathering of veterans and first responders into one of the region’s most powerful demonstrations of mental health solidarity.
“People don’t always see the invisible injuries,” said Scott Maxwell, Executive Director of Wounded Warriors Canada, as riders registered behind him. “These men and women served their communities, and many carry psychological wounds that outlast any physical injury.”
Maxwell’s organization has distributed more than $33 million to mental health programs since 2016, focusing specifically on operational stress injuries like PTSD among veterans, first responders, and their families.
What struck me most was the diversity among participants. Grey-haired veterans wearing faded military patches rode alongside young paramedics and police officers. Civilian supporters, some wearing memorial patches for family members lost to suicide, filled out the ranks.
“My daughter didn’t understand what was happening to me when I came back from Afghanistan,” retired Corporal James Wilkins shared as we waited for the ride to begin. “These rides give us a chance to feel normal again, to be around people who get it without explanation.”
The statistics behind events like this remain sobering. Veterans Affairs Canada reported last year that veterans face suicide rates significantly higher than the general population, with female veterans particularly at risk. First responders show similar patterns, with paramedics experiencing PTSD at rates approaching 25 percent according to a University of Regina study published in the Canadian Journal of Psychiatry.
As the procession rolled through communities between Barrie and Whitby, onlookers gathered on overpasses, some waving Canadian flags. Near Cookstown, a group of elementary school children held handmade signs thanking veterans for their service.
“That’s why we do this,” said Jennifer Casey, a paramedic from Orillia participating in her first ride. “When my partner died by suicide three years ago, I didn’t know where to turn. This community showed up for me when I needed it most.”
The Highway of Heroes, formally designated along Highway 401 from Trenton to Toronto, carries profound significance for military families. It’s the route fallen Canadian soldiers traveled after returning home from Afghanistan.
Today’s ride, while following a different path, carried the same spirit of remembrance and support.
“Healing isn’t linear,” psychologist Dr. Lorna Ferguson told me at one of the rest stops. She’s helped develop several of Wounded Warriors’ clinical programs. “What makes these peer support models effective is they create belonging. For someone struggling with trauma, feeling understood can be as therapeutic as formal treatment.”
The financial impact of these mental health initiatives extends beyond emotional support. The Parliamentary Budget Officer estimated in 2021 that disability benefits for veterans with PTSD alone cost taxpayers more than $420 million annually. Early intervention programs, like those funded through today’s ride, aim to reduce these long-term costs through prevention and timely care.
By mid-afternoon, the rumble of motorcycles announced the riders’ arrival at their final destination in Durham Region. The atmosphere felt both celebratory and solemn – a community united by shared experiences that many outside their circles struggle to comprehend.
“We raised over $175,000 today,” Maxwell announced to cheers from the crowd. “That’s hundreds of trauma therapy sessions, couples’ retreats, and service dog placements that wouldn’t happen otherwise.”
As participants dispersed, many exchanging contact information and promises to stay in touch, I spoke with Mississauga firefighter Darlene Chen, who summed up what makes these events so powerful.
“We spend our careers being the helpers, never asking for help,” she said, her motorcycle helmet balanced on her hip. “Then one day, you can’t carry it anymore. Knowing there’s a place to turn, people who understand – it saves lives. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
The sun was setting as I packed up my notebook, watching small groups of riders continuing conversations in the parking lot, reluctant to end the day’s camaraderie. Some laughed over road stories while others spoke in hushed tones, offering support to peers still struggling.
For a journalist who’s covered everything from cabinet shuffles to budget announcements, there was something uniquely Canadian about this gathering – not in flags or anthems, but in the quiet determination to care for those who’ve served, regardless of political stripe or uniform.
As Staff Sergeant Gauthier had told me earlier: “Mental health doesn’t have a party affiliation. Neither should its support.”
