Around the World on a Bicycle

It's Sunday morning. We're on the Nova Star ferry, an 11 hour ride from Yarmouth back to Portland. We got to the ferry in plenty of time after getting up at six and riding the coastal road for the final 20 Canadien miles.

Yesterday was our first dose of riding in the rain, albeit only for the final hour or two. The rain started lightly but by the time we finished, it was steady, making for limited visibility and slippery conditions.

We spent most of the day riding separately. Shortly after leaving the Slumber Inn, we were faced with the option of taking the 101, the highway that runs south to Yarmouth or Rte. 1, the parallel coastal road that would take an hour plus longer. Eric opted for the highway. I took the coastal road. We met for lunch at Tim Hortons in Digby, about halfway, before going our separate ways again for the final couple of hours. It was nice to spent some time alone, free to chose my own pace and to stop a couple of times to stretch my hip.

I checked into the Cape View motel in Mavillette around 3 p.m., 30 minutes behind Eric. We waited for the rain to subside, watched a little football and then had dinner across the street at the Restaurant les Cape View; no relation to the motel.

As the storm broke, over the water, the sun's rays pierced the clouds in most spectacular fashion.








A rainbow also emerged behind us. The breathtaking scene felt like a declaration of god's presence. Having ridden more than 1,500 motorcycle miles during the past week, some of them dangerous miles, I accepted the declaration with warmth and serenity.

We exercised care during today's early morning ride to The ferry. The roads were still wet and the temperature was in the low 30s. That is a bad combination. Black ice tops the list of motorcycle hazards. We kept a moderate pace, crawled through the curves and kept in continual intercom communication. We arrived without incident at the anticipated time.

While waiting to board the ferry, a Taiwanese man on his bicycle pulled up behind us. He had a big smile on his face, saddle bags on his front and rear wheels and a stack of packs, pads and bags.


It turns out he left Taiwan a year ago and is one fifth into his around the world trip. His story is incredible.

He's ridden 10,000 miles so far across New Zealand, Australia, and Canada. He plans to ride from Portland to Florida via Boston, NYC and D.C. From there on to Mexico and South America. Check out his Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/nartaipei. He has spent almost no money, depending on the generosity of strangers for food and housing. Eric kindly offered him a room at my house while he is in Boston. Nice of Eric, don't you think?

I'd really like to get back to Boston tonight but I wouldn't be able to hit the road until 8 p.m. I don't want to ride three hours in the dark. Instead I will reluctantly enjoy the Portland nightlife and then get up for an early departure. Eric is unsure of his plans. I'm sure he'll wait to the last minute to decide.

It's been another memorable trip; 1,527 miles, good laughs, incredible beauty, great people and life-long stories to recount. We're already considering next year's destination. Eric wants to go to Turkey near the Syrian border. I think not. I'll settle for the Smokey Mountains, a place I've been suggesting for years. You can count on a spirited debate for the months ahead.

Until then, thanks for following.

-G.









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Location:Nova Star Ferry off Boothbay Harbor

Tidal bore

We had another day of beautiful riding. Besides stopping to add a quart of oil (my bike's been leaking a bit), we traveled non-stop from New Glasgow to a small town south of Truro where we watch the famed Bay of Fundy tidal bore. The arrival of the bore was delayed nearly an hour due to the full moon and shifting weather patterns. We killed the added time chatting with an Italian movie set designer

and his friend from Toronto, a couple from Holland who had driven down from Newfoundland and Labrador, a tour guide who did her best to explain to us the science behind the tides, and a few others who had gathered at the river outcrop.

The bore was less dramatic than I remember it being as a kid but it was fun nonetheless.

The guide said that six times more water than the Grand Canyon can hold funnels through there daily. Impressive.

A stop for lunch and a few more hours of riding brought us to Wolfville, home of Acadia University, where we hoped to stay for the night. However, given that it is Canada's Thanksgiving weekend, all the places in town were full. Nicely, the innkeeper where we pulled in assumed we were looking for a place to stay. Before we made it inside, he and his wife had already called around looking on our behalf. So kind. They secured us a room at the Slumber Inn, six mile down the road. We are staying there with dozens of 4x4 drivers who are in the area to race their vehicles on local dirt tracks today. The trailers in the parking lot are stacked with beat up pickup trucks, sedans, go carts and various other vehicles.

It is challenging sharing a small hotel room with someone for a week, especially with so much gear and when your routines and sleeping habits are so different. For it to work you need to compromise and be mindful and respectful of the other's space. Sometimes it works better than others. These trips serve as a reminder to occasionally go above and beyond at home.

We have a 150 miles to go to Yarmouth where we will spend the night before catching the morning ferry back to Portland, Maine tomorrow. I'm looking forward to getting back. I miss Margot, my daily routines and many of the exciting things going on at work.

I hope you're enjoying a warm, dry autumn weekend, wherever you are.
-g.




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Location:Kentville, Canada

"Get your trash out of my toilet"

We were off to a late start and the weather was good. Exiting the park we went South westerly by the coast, stopping at small fishing village called White Point. I had picked a scenic and coastal hugging route, pursuant to George's request but had not factored in a short cable ferry ride across 100 yards of an inlet. As we approached the ferry line, a large truck pulled in back of our bikes. George made note of the girth of the driver over the intercom and then went to use the porta potti.. He took his water bottle in but did not leave with it -- symbolic in a way.

The truck driver was not, as it turned out, there for the ferry. He was there for the porta potti. As George exited, and as we started to load onto the boat, I heard two voices. One was George's -- "Hold that ferry for me, I have to get my gloves on!" Then a louder voice from the truck driver: " Get your trash out of my toilet!!!" I heard angry words scrambled over the intercom and gunned it onto the boat. George made it too, unscathed but, I could tell, humbled. The irony is that he really uses recycling and this was obviously a momentary lapse.

We rode past Antigosh. I had informed George falsely that it was a truck stop and we could not stay there. As it turned out it was a lovely university town, but I felt certain that we would find quieter accommodations on the western shore of central Nova Scotia. Besides there had to be a great Inn 20 mikes to the north at Cape George, right on the water.

There was nothing at Cape George except an "Interpretive Bluefin Tuna Center." If you are having a communications issue with your fish, this is a recommended destination, but there is no place to stay. Or eat.

George got out his iPad. New Glasgow was forty miles a way, due west. It sounded like a good place to stop, George said. The name conjured images of pub food and chats with the locals, something I shun and George covets. We were off. West. Directly west. Into the setting sun west. As it was going down.

I took the lead, virtually blinded at times but alerting George to road hazards and oncoming cars via intercom. There were no cars. There was nothing but sun. And sea.

We arrived after dark at a supermarket in New Glasgow. George could barely get off the bike. After he did get off, he shuffled, grunting, toward the supermarket. I cannot describe it. I trust he will have the commitment to blog integrity to post the video. But the truth is that he rides a motorcycle that is so low to he ground that it grinds the hips and knees. I would have been in worse shape.

We approached the market. George needed to go to the bathroom badly. He could not walk anymore. As I was about to ask the manager for one of the scooters, I spotted a wheelchair. There was no resistance; George sat in it immediately and I silently wheeled him to the bathroom. I then wheeled him through the produce aisle and he videoed the whole thing. A portent, I fear, of future bike trips. I am sure he will wheel me. It will all even out. But we will ride again.

Now happy at an Irish pub in New Glasgow. Bread pudding for the third night in a row.


Sent from my iPad


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Destination Cape George

It's 34 degrees out. I'm waiting outside the front door of The Tara Inn here in New Glasgow, across from a strip mall with a Dollar Store, an H&R Block and a shuttered appliance repair shop.




I'm not sure what differentiates an inn from a motel but this place is no different from the other cheap construction, single story rows of rooms and parking that we've stayed at over the years.

I knew our free Continental breakfast (I ended up having a powdered oatmeal and a frozen waffle with marmalade. Yum!) wouldn't be available for another hour but I thought I might be able sit in the lobby until then.






No such luck. There is a "Closed until 7 a.m" sign hanging on the door. I don't want to go back and wake up Eric so I am sitting out front on the yellow Adirondack chair next to a broken wooded lamp post. I did my best to wipe the dew from the chair with my shirtsleeve but with minimal success. It's more like I swirled it around. I'm not quite dressed for the wet and the chill but I'll deal with it.

There is a new requirement for a our trip this year. Eric insists on keeping the window open a few inches at night. I protest to win a few negotiating points but the fact is that it is fine with me. I love sleeping in the cold, fresh Canadien air. Enjoying the air is not why Eric does it. He read a story that someone died in a hotel room somewhere from carbon monoxide poisoning. He's convinced that all hotel and motel rooms are at risk. Yeah right. Whatever!

We rode another 250 miles yesterday; continuing down the eastern side of the Cabot Trail, through White Point and down the steep decline out of the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The switchbacks on the way out were so tight we couldn't pick up our heads to enjoy the scenery. We did stop along the way however, soaking in the sea air, the pine-scented woods, the rich foliage and the deep blue white capped ocean. We thought we even got a glimpse of some pilot whales playing out on the horizon.

Time seems to slow in places likes this; the rumble of the sea, birds chirping in the distance, the rustling leaves. The sounds create their own sense of rhythm and if you listen carefully I swear you can hear your own accompanying heartbeat providing a beat. Cape Breton is a very special place. I sure hope to return some day with Margot and the girls.

After leaving the Cabot Trail we cruised through the bras d'Or Lake District and then spend a couple of hours on rte. 104. The traffic speed was around 70 mph and the crosswinds were heavy. I'm getting more comfortable riding in these conditions but I wouldn't want to do it everyday. The margin for error is thin. You have to be hyper aware every moment. It's tiring.

We had to take an unexpected short ferry ride across the Strait of Canso at Port Hasting. The boat goes back and forth every 15 minutes or so, taking a small grouping of cars, trucks and motorcycles with it. While waiting I decided to use the Port-a-John on the side of the road. When inside I commented to Eric through the intercoms how clean it was. Someone obviously took pride in maintaining it. As the ferry was loading and I was walking back to my bike, an extremely big guy stood behind my bike and in front of his sanitary vacuum truck. He had a big scowl on his face. I whispered something disparaging about him to Eric and wondered what he wanted. As I approached the truck driver barked "Did you leave your water bottle in my toilet?". I responded "What?" A bit louder and more sternly; "Did you leave your water bottle in my toilet". In fact I had. I was a little intimidated but mostly I felt bad. I love people that take pride in their work. I said "Yes I did, I'm sorry." He replied "Go get it." I said "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done it. The bottle is not IN the toilet, it's on top of the soap dispenser and I'm not going back to get it. I refuse to miss this ferry." I didn't wait for his response. I hopped on the bike, gunned it and make it up the ramp just as the crew was pulling it up. Once comfortably secure, I glanced back to shore to see the guy give me some arm motion. I felt bad about the incident and confessed to Eric how stupid I had been.

I forgot to mention that we had another little incident as we were leaving Inverness on Wednesday. On the way out of town we stopped at the Irving station at the top of the hill. We filled our tanks with gas and our tires with air and then drove across the street to the hardware store. As we were removing our helmets, a car pulled up and the woman at the wheel rolled down her window. She sternly warned "If you don't go back and pay for your gas, you're going to see flashing lights in a minute." Yikes. In our haste to get going we had forgotten to pay. I tried to explain this to the clerk at the Irving. I could tell from her expression that she didn't believe a word of it. Ugly Americans.

Our target destination for last night was Cape George, a coastal inlet that Eric had read about in his guide book. Cape George was about 20 miles inland at the end of a winding harbor road. When we approached Antigonish, the cutoff point for Cape George, the temperature was dropping fast and it was nearing 6 p.m. Perfect since the sun sets at 6:30 and we really wanted to be off the roads before dark. The coastal road was spectacular as the water sat to our right with Cape Breton glistening off in the distance.

We arrived in Cape George without incident excited to find lodging. Disappointedly, there was none. This incredible spot on the Northumberland Strait is just a residential community; no hotels, motels, no b and b's. After many hours of riding, feeling a sore, fatigued and cold, we pulled out the iPhone to see how far it was to New Glasgow. Ouch, it was 40 miles away. We jumped on the bikes and booked it. The problem was that we were heading west and the sun was at eye level. We rode for 30 minutes with the sun directly in our eyes. For long stretches we were completely blinded. I couldn't see Eric 50 feet in front of me. I could only hear him as he kept screaming into the intercom "I can't see a thing". Not a calming voice by any means. Once the sun went down the riding became easier. We rode the final 20 miles cold, sore and tired but very relieved.

The seat on my bike is very low. Though my hip replacements have been a godsend, I can't ride more than a couple of hours without having to stretch. If I don't, they hurt, especially when it is cold. When we limped into New Glasgow we pulled into a shopping center so that we could warm up a bit and search our phones for a local hotel. When I got off my bike I couldn't move. My hips, the left one in particular, had seized up. I literally couldn't step more than a few inches at a time. A searing pain shot through my leg. Eric took the opportunity to video me as I struggled towards the grocery store. I had to go to the bathroom so bad. With my legs not working, I thought for sure I would have to stand behind a car and do my business. It was a pathetic scene.

Eric joined me and it took ten minutes to cross the 100 feet to the super market. We reached the automatic sliding glass doors and low and behold, just inside, there was a wheelchair. Hallelujah! I sat down, Eric wheeled me across the store to the men's room. Ahh, relief. Crisis averted. Thank the lord.

With that taken care of, my mind settled and I could think again. Eric wheeled me around as he hunted for a snack. He found a bagel and we then headed to the checkout counter. People didn't know what to make of us. It can't be very often that someone in full motorcycle hear is pushed around in a wheel chair.

Some shoppers tried not to stare. Others thought us childlike, glaring as they thought we were horsing around on the only in-store available handicap vehicle.

We opted to spend the night at the Tara Inn ($80 per night), back down the road a mile. After warming up and stretching I felt much better. We mustered our energy and headed into town for dinner. An easy meal at the Dock Food Spirits and Ale House where the food was good and the bread pudding was to die for.

We go back to the room and watched Thursday night football for awhile. We turned it off with Baltimore up 21-0 after one period. How is it possible that Houston had a chance to win it in the closing seconds. We must have missed a terrific comeback.

We are off to Truro in a little while to see the famed Bay of Fundy tidal bore. We hope to rent a boat and experience it from up close, if you're allowed to do that kind of thing. Maybe we will do it anyway.

Until tomorrow, thanks for your loyal readership.
-George






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Location:New Glasgow, Canada

The Meathead goes to Meat Cove

The Cape Breton Highlands National Park is spectacular; our most overused adjective. But it is also spectacularly short compared with our other adventures. We hit peak foliage in a backdrop of the mountains dropping to the sea. Then it was over. We had arrived at the other side of the coast after two hours.

George had heard something about Meat Cove, which is that Northern tip of Nova Scotia. When George has heard about something, we usually go, even if the source cannot be identified.

We were warned by the innkeeper to be on the lookout for Moose. After about 15 miles, the road, which was wrapping around the Northern Highlands, turns to dirt. A quick burst on the intercom. “I am out of here,” my friend said. “But we are only five miles from Meat Cove, which you heard about, so I think you should continue.” No deal. “Have fun” and the headset went dead. George’s message, leaving no room for negotiation or compromise, made me that much more inclined to continue. So I guess I am little bit of a Meathead, just like Archie Bunker’s son in law. (Rob Reiner played him, but I cannot remember the name).

I don’t say this with any degree of spite, because George probably may a wise decision. The road might have been a little tough for him. But Meat Cove is a must see and stay for any adventure-inclined traveler visiting the Cabot Trail. Again, the highlands come down to the sea but there is also a very large promontory of highland sticking out to the sea.


There is also a gorgeous bluff where you can camp right on the ocean (or over it) or, if you prefer, stay in an unheated cabin for $70. No heat, but there is the critical wifi. The little restaurant only serves fresh seafood and lobster and you can rent kayaks. It is literally the “end of the road” as far as Nova Scotia goes, but you can hike into Northern Highlands from Meat Cove. The attached pictures tell some of the story. A must.


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Location:Meat Cove, Nova Scotia

Stunning, radiant, beauteous, splendid and exquisite

Dingwall, Cabot Trail, Cape Breton Highlands National Park

It's Wednesday at 6:30 p.m. We have an hour to kill before our 7:30 dinner reservation here at the Markland, a bunch of rental cabins overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Dingwall, a tiny town near the northeastern tip of Cape Breton. The other cabins are occupied by 26 bicycle riders, all part of Freewheeling Adventures, a bike and kayaking outfit out of Nova Scotia. We passed the riders along the way from Cheticamp where many of them rode the entire 50 miles. It will be interesting to break bread with them tonight. From our experience on other trips, bicyclists look down their noses at motorcyclist like us. I'll have to regale them at dinner with stories of Margot and my recent bicycle trip to southern Spain and of my new Trek FX hybrid bike. That should break the icy reception a bit, don't you think?

After a couple of 250 mile days, we rode around 100 miles today. The beauty along the Cabot Trail was exquisite, especially after we entered Cape Breton Highlands National Park. We made many stops along the way enjoying the mountain expanse of yellow, orange and red foliage,




the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the tiny fishing coves and villages. Cape Breton in every way has lived up to its billing. We've been blessed with mostly empty roads, allowing us to peacefully soak in the beauty and descend





the scenic twisty switchbacks without incident.

Our Bluetooth intercoms have enabled us to share a running commentary about the landscape. At one point we played Thesaurus, trying to come up with adjectives other than beautiful, amazing, magnificent and gorgeous. Stunning, radiant, beauteous, splendid, exquisite were among the few. We exhausted our alternatives quickly and agreed that neither of us has a future as successful novelists.

The intercoms have been a blessing and a curse. The blessing; we warn each other about steep turns ahead, potholes, gravel, oncoming trucks and other hazards. The curse; having to listen to Eric's ongoing yawning, burping and banal banter. A sampling from today; the locals probably buy their seafood from China; Cheticamp is so ticky tacky; this town is the lowlight so far; a fly just hit my helmet; another fly just hit my helmet, let's quit our jobs and ride to Alaska; let's buy one of the Mercedes engine Winnebagos; how much will you give me for my motorcycle; I'm going to to Newfoundland tomorrow. Eric's most repetitive comment, maybe every 60 minutes or so was "I'm starving, let's get something to eat". I tell him to keep some food in his tank bag but he never does.

Occasionally I turn my intercom off. Mostly I practice my Zen and remind myself that I must read "Anatomy of Peace", the book that Margot tells me will help me resolve conflict and understand and empathize with others. I have my doubts but in times like these I'm willing to try anything.

We stopped for lunch at the Rusty Anchor in Pleasant Bay. I had the vegetable soup, an egg salad sandwich, lemonade and a cup of coffee. Eric had salmon sliders, crispy French fries and a coke. It was a great respite as we sat quietly, overlooking the placid harbor and caught up on email.

To begin the day, while Eric was sleeping, I walked into Inverness and had a peaceful breakfast (dark roast coffee and scrambled eggs and toast - they don't have oatmeal) at the Downstreet Coffee Company, the former site of the Dancing Goat Restaurant on Main St. I mention this because we heard a tale about the Dancing Goat from the owners of the Rhubarb back in Peggy's Cove. It seems that the Downstreet owner, the General Partner of the new Cabot Links golf course in town, encouraged Mervin Tignley, the owner of the Dancing Goat in Margaree, to open a second restaurant on a store block owned by the General Partner in the center of Inverness. With the new golf course complete he convinced Mervin that the restaurant would boom.

The boom never materialized. With exploitive interest rates, high renovation costs and the exorbitant lease, the Dancing Goat went belly up, bringing the original Margaree restaurant down with it. Despite pleas from the locals, the landlord did nothing to reduce the rent or to help Mervin keep his doors open. Instead, he kicked him out and used the space to open his own place, Downstreet Coffee. Many of the residents are furious and are boycotting the Downstreet. I decided to eat here to hear the owner's side of the story. To no avail. Not surprisingly he had someone else open the place while he probably slept in.

There is a Frank Capra twist to the story. The residents of Margaree rallied together to raise the funds to put Mervin Tingley back in business. As the local newspaper headlined; "The huge loss to the community and our wonderful neighbor..." is up and running again". Neighbors helping neighbors. Like the end of "It's a Wonderful Life", this real life story brought tears to my eyes.

On another note, knowing that I was heading out on a motorcycle trip, Tom Murphy (one of our loyal blog followers), Northeastern's Assistant Basketball coach, told me last week that he had a premonition that I would die this time around. He repeated it several times. He even said that it would happen today at 1 p.m. Thanks Murph. It's nice to have such encouraging and supportive friends.

To play along, Eric and I staged an accident and sent Murph a photo of me on the ground next to my bike.



The following text was attached;
"Dear Mr. Murphy, This is Eric, George's friend. I regret to inform you that George hurdled over his handle bars at 1 p.m. today. He passed away shortly before the RCMP arrived on the scene. See attached picture. His new iPhone 6 survived the accident and is now in my possession. As he lay semi-conscious on the pavement, George asked that I pass this information on to you. My condolences, Eric"

Though Murph's premonition had been on my mind all week, needless to say I made it through the day unscathed. As Samuel Clemens once said, "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

When we checked into the Markland around 3:30 we were warned by the innkeeper that Moose are out in large numbers this year. He suggested that we avoid riding after 4 p.m. We thanked him for his advice and then headed out for a two hour tour of the northernmost tip of Cape Breton. 15 miles into the ride Eric and I split ways after he insisted on taking the dirt road the final five miles to Meat Cove. Easy for him to say. He has a 2012 BMW 1200GS dual sport bike with knobby tires and an electronic suspension specifically designed for rough terrain. My 2002 R1150r, with straight tires, is a road bike made for general commuting and touring. We are 600 miles from our Saturday destination. There is no way I was going to risk taking my bike on that fool hearty adventure.

Instead I ventured over to Bay St. Lawrence, a tiny fishing village tucked into the northeast most corner of Nova Scotia. There was not one person around. I took photos of the colorful boats



below a vibrant backdrop of foliage peaked hills engulfed by fast moving storm clouds. As the heavy winds began to swirl and the clouds turned dark, I hopped






on the bike and hoofed it back to our cozy cabin 25 miles away in Dingwall.





It was nice to have a little alone time and to explore a bit of the area on my own.

I'm not sure what we'll be doing tomorrow. Such is the way of Eric and my motorcycle adventures. Have a great night. -George

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Location:Cabot Trail

Catch Up

From Eric...

My apologies to faithful readers for my lapse in making a blog entry. It’s been a busy summer.

I do have to go back to our first trip in July to Maine. It was a four day affair, starting with a rendezvous in Portland Maine. Shortly after leaving a restaurant with a perfectly acceptable toilet, George had to go. Since we are so conscious of avoiding arrest, a good deal of thought usually goes into location. But downtown Portland has few private offerings, and George picked some bushes adjacent to an on ramp to I-95. I waited patiently on the narrow shoulder, ready to alert George of any law enforcement presence via Bluetooth helmet communication, while cars whizzed dangerously past me.

After several minutes, George emerged and announced: “Hey Eric, I found a GPS!” He was holding a rectangular orange and black device that looked like those handheld black and white mini TV sets that were quite popular 20 years ago. I calmly told him that we had extended our welcome and that we should leave.

After several miles, we stopped at a gas station to examine George’s new GPS. If this was in fact a GPS, it appeared to be encrypted model since there was no map and readings seemed to pertain to levels of various toxic chemicals. I researched the item immediately on one of George’s various devices (it did have a name and model number) and found that you had to have security clearance to own or operate one. I suggest that George leave it behind the bushes at the gas station for some other adventurer to “discover.” When last checked, it was in George’s garage.

We took a ferry ride from Rockland to Vinlehaven. George’s motorcycle (the one I sold him at a steep discount from market value) tipped over during the ferry ride. We stayed in overpriced motel and had pizza food at what we thought was the only restaurant (only to discover after eating that there was a great place right across the street). We rented kayaks from the owner of the motel. It was an ocean estuary with a Class III type rapid going out to the ocean on an incoming tide. George decided to try to kayak the rapid to go out to the ocean and entered the rip at a right angle. It was an impulsive move, coming right after my words: “You may not want to enter perpendicularly . . . .” But, boom, he flipped immediately in water that no warmer than 50 degrees.

I immediately realized it was a life threatening situation as the racing water quickly swept George into the middle of the estuary and quite far from land. So I took out my iphone to capture the event on video. Bad for the iphone (it went into a two month coma from contact with the water, part of it medically induced with rice) and not very considerate on my part. George was immediately in trouble, holding onto the kayak, now filled with water and upside down. I had to act fast.

George, who is usually impervious to cold, was very very cold and I quickly calculated that we had about 6 minutes before hypothermia and shock would set it. So I maneuvered my kayak skillfully into the rip, told George to hold on and brought the nose of my kayak to the midpoint of his. Since the closest land was upstream.





I anchored my feet to the kayak pedals and, summoning adrenaline induced strength, managed to push the waterlogged vessel, with George hanging on, into strong current and then onto shore. I had saved his life.

We then left Vinelhaven.





This was the third or fourth time I had come to the place and it will be the last. Every trip was a disaster. Plus the Island has very little to offer except that it is, well, an island. Big deal. So is Sardinia and that’s full of trash.

We then went to Deer Island, a journey of about 5 miles by boat from Vinelhaven, but over 200 miles if you have to take the ferry back to Rockland. Deer Island was the summer home of my grandfather Grumpy and his partner, my former uncle Ed. George and I relocated the ancestral home, where I had spent many happy weeks as a child pouring gasoline on ant colonies on grandfather’s patio and then setting them afire. The reader would be correct in concluding that the prognosis for children that do these sorts of things is not promising and I look back on all of this with great shame.

Grumpy’s home





did not seem as large or magnificent as it was when I was a budding arsonist and it had fallen into disrepair and was for sale.

The next day we took a far more satisfying ocean kayak trip visiting several islands on a beautiful day. We stopped at Goat Island for a picnic and discovered the reason for its name. Two of the pesky critters, both sporting large horns, were determined that we would not leave without sharing. We shared, but barely made it into our boats alive.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip and I strongly recommend Stonington on Deer Isle, which has some really nice B and B’s, one of which we stayed in.

Fast forward to October 4. A rainy day in Waterville Valley and I am scheduled to meet George again in Portland the next day to take the ferry to Nova Scotia. Eager to get to Canada, I decided to bypass the overnight ferry trip and ride to meet George in Yarmouth, following the directions of my new motorcycle GPS, that I was anxious to try.

Two days and twelve hours of riding later, after riding through torrents of rain through the backroads of Maine and New Brunswick, I arrived in Yarmouth to meet George. I wondered why it had taken so long. I had relied completely on technology to get me to Nova Scotia, which seemed entirely fitting. Yesterday, I discovered that I had put the GPS on the wrong setting. I had arrived in the most efficient way possible – while the GPS was turned to “pedestrian mode.” The charted route had prioritized roads with sidewalks and large shoulders and avoided all highways.

We started out “along the coast” of south eastern Nova Scotia. George was quite insistent on that – that the coastbe “hugged.” He also wanted to find a hotel in Halifax, some 280 km away if we drove straight. It was a noble goal and truly a beautiful drive. Little coastal fishing villages and beautiful harbors and scenery. But if you “hug the coast,” it adds hours, more than doubling the time it takes to get to Halifax. On Tuesday night, it was getting dark.

Many of our critical route choices are handed over the intercom, less than half a mile from a critical intersection where we are forced to make a choice that has consequences. It’s a fast conversation. Go right to “Peggy’s Cove” which George wanted to see after reading about it on “someone’s blog” or straight on the highway to the brew factory in Halifax. So around 5.30 pm, we had our usual conversation. “Which one, George, which way? I want you to be happy.” George: “I don’t care, whatever you want.” Eric: “You sure? We have to decide, intersection approaching.” George: “You decide.”

So I make the turn for Peggy’s Cove, and we got there before sunset. We arrived at a cragged outcropping with a lighthouse, where much of the rescue efforts were coordinated on Swiss air flight 111 which went down some miles off the coast in 1998 (Moving memorial).





We watched the sun go down (separately) over the western facing water (even though we were on the eastern shore – there is a road to the west). George: “Why didn’t you go to Halifax? I want to be closer to the action.” Eric: “You told me to decide. Didn’t you enjoy the sunset?” George: “Yes, but I thought you knew I wanted to go to Halifax.” And so on.

We stayed at beachfront motel and took off to Halifax the next morning. It was a late start for reasons I would prefer not to recount. My bike, the recipient of a recent oil change at the local “A and H Auto” (note “Auto”) was leaking oil. We went to a snowmobile shop to get help. Jeremy tightened the oil filter for free. (I gave him beer money). We progressed. A man started yelling at George from a pick up truck. I could hear the conversation over the intercom. George thought it was a Boston driver, provoking a little trouble. In reality, it was a kind Halifaxan, telling George his right turn signal was out. Another fix with superglue in a parking lot and we were off. It was really late.

During many of our rides, we often make offers and counter offers about George’s purchase of my motorcycle. Sometimes we come close and yesterday’s barter fell apart over financing terms after the price was settled. Once negotiations collapse, prior offers and counteroffers are rescinded. Thank God. Because shortly after the conclusion of our last discussions, I actually rode George’s motorcycle for several minutes and fully appreciated the endurance it takes to be on that machine. The seat is so low it feels like a mini bike. Only a mini bike designed by someone who also believes in joint replacement surgery without anesthesia because the pegs are so poorly positioned that your knee is almost always in a constant backward flex. I have new admiration for my friend’s resistance to pain. This was torture

I mentioned to George that the red brake light was flashing on his motorcycle and asked that was OK. “Oh, that just means the ABS isn’t working.” No big deal. The roads were dry and I continued on. Several miles later, I applied the brakes to pull over. No brakes. I pulled on the lever and it went right to the handle. I coasted, sweating, into a strip mall, thinking that I would use the building to stop me if necessary.

Inverness is a nice place on the east coast of Cape Breton Island. It was dark again when we arrived, but it was important for some reason to get here. We had dinner at the Coal Miner’s restaurant and met Pam, our server, who haslived here all her life and whose Chinese grandfather met a native Canadian indigenous person and married. Interesting history here. Pristine harbor and great views, but a former mining town. Plugging on to the Cabot trail today under cloudy skies.


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Location:Inverness, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia

Heading North

It's a crisp Tuesday morning, high 30's, clear skies, no breeze and a gorgeous view overlooking the harbor of Peggy's Cove, a small rural community located on the eastern shore of St. Margaret's Bay, about 15 miles south of Halifax. I'm sitting in an Adirondack chair on the rocks behind our motel.


The waves are lapping a mere ten feet in front of me. An occasional car is whipping by, the folks in the room next to ours are packing up, Eric is asleep, and I am finally able to find a few minutes to craft a blog entry.

I had heard a lot about Halifax. Since we will be staying in small coastal towns the rest of the trip I had wanted to explore the city last night. However, Eric felt strongly otherwise. Since arguments in the past have revolved around which routes to take or what places to stay, I quickly acquiesced. It's too early in the trip for disagreements.

Peggy's Cove is not a bad alternative. It is best known for Peggy's Point Lighthouse, a classic red and white lighthouse operated by the Canadien Coast Guard. We arrived at the


lighthouse as the sun was going down. Despite the many warning signs indicating that several people are swept of the rocks each year by waves, sometimes drowning, we perched ourselves out on the granite outcrop to view and photograph the spectacular sunset. Gorgeous.

We then hopped on our bikes to find a place to stay. A mile from the light we found the Sea Cliff motel. They had one room left for $105 plus tax. I say "plus tax" because everything is plus tax and it adds a sizable chunk to the total; in this case $221. It's a good way for the locals to pass their revenue burden on to their visitors.

At the recommendation of the hotel clerk, we had pizza and beer at the Rhubarb Restaurant just up the road. The pizza was decent, the beer was less so ( they claim to have a thriving craft beer industry up here but no evidence of it last night), but the proprietors were nice, engaging and offered a few ideas to keep us busy up on the Cabot trail.

The overnight ferry on Sunday from Portland to Yarmouth was easy, relaxing and restful. Calm seas, the buzz of the engine and a comfy mattress allowed for a great night sleep. A hot shower, an early morning walk around the ship and a sunrise breakfast was a


wonderful way to start the day.

The only downside to the evening was that the TV in the bar carries only five channels and NBC isn't one of them. The Patriots were on Sunday Night Football and I, and many others were crushed not to be able to watch them. Instead it was CNN carrying on about Ebola having reached American shores. The network needs to be careful. It's escalating coverage of this outbreak is starting to feel panicky.

I'm told the Pats won big. Phew! They needed that. The critics had been predicting the apocalypse all week. Time to back off guys. Tom Brady is the man.

Despite no Patriots game, I stayed for a beer (Shipyard IPA), commiserated with other disappointed fans, and then went to see the casino. The boat had few passengers. Only half a dozen of the 50 or so one armed bandits were occupied. One Black Jack table ($5 min., $100 max) was open. A married couple deliberated on their every move. A tipsy truck driver was hitting on the Russian card dealer. I hung around for awhile in case she needed someone to run interference. Not necessary. She knew exactly what she was doing as he continued to tip her a portion of each winning hand, the few that he had anyway.

It's been more than 45 years since I've been to Nova Scotia. When I was about ten, my parents and four youngest kids piled into our red VW bus, drove to Bar Harbor and took the "Blue Nose" ferry to Yarmouth. We ventured their to pick up my two eldest siblings who were spending a month at a camp in Cape Breton Island. My memories of the trip are vague. I remember camping with my mother, as always, slaving over a Coleman stove to prepare three daily meals (I appreciate her more with ever passing day). I remember attending some the Scottish games, the bagpipes at sunset and the Tartan caps my parents bought for each us. Beyond that, it was just another one of those fun summer family trips that have merged together in my mind.

It's not a very good time to leave work. Summer is over, the students are back and our teams are in high gear. Coaches and staff are working overtime. There's budget planning to be done, new initiatives to launch, HR issues to deal with, and so much more. That said, we've been taking these annual trips for five years. I can't stop now. I'll try to forget about work and enjoy the fresh air, autumn crisp and ruby splendor ahead.

Eric met my boat yesterday morning at the scheduled 9 a.m. arrival. One of the benefits of riding a motorcycle is that they allow you to get on and off the boat first. As soon as the ramp went down, I rolled out into the parking lot where Eric was just pulling up. Perfect timing. We pulled out the map, pointed to the eastern-most road and headed towards it.

To get to Peggy's Cove, we rode most of the day covering 250 miles, alternating between Rte. 3, the coastal "Lighthouse Route" and Highway 103. Rte 103 was indistinguishable from any small highway back home but the Lighthouse Route, oh my. Harbor after harbor of small peers, fishing vessels, lobstermen, rocky shores, red and amber trees and deep blue choppy waters. One town, Lunenberg, was so picturess, it seemed as if it was created for postcards.


Lunenberg has been deemed a World Heritage site. Though it was beautiful, neither Eric nor I thought it was worthy of that distinction, especially since it draws lots of tourists and is full of the many souvenir shops and uninteresting museums that comes with that.

Today we have another long day of riding. We hope to cover nearly 300 miles, mostly on small roads, in order to get to the head of the Cabot Trail. I reserved an Airbnb.com cabin on the northern coast for Wednesday night. In order to minimize the riding in the forecasted Wednesday rain, we want to make it as far as possible today.

-------
A quick update.
It's 11 a.m. and we've only made it about 15 miles. Eric has an oil leak. We've had to stop at Halifax Motorsports. The guy is seeing if he can tighten the non-BMW oil filter that Eric's local New Hampshire dealer put in last week. BMW customizes everything for better performance. The downside is that non-standard parts are difficult to find and costs much more. We are paying the price now. This is going to knock us back at least an hour.
We hope to get on the road soon. Have a great day.
-George





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Location:Prospect Rd,Halifax,Canada

Packing up

Top off oil and gas; check. Tire pressure; check. Tools, rain gear, EpiPen, thermal underwear; check, check, check, check. I'm ready.
It's time for our annual motorcycle trip. I'm heading out after the Northeastern women's soccer game today to catch an overnight ferry form Portland, ME to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Eric, who left yesterday, will meet me in Yarmouth on Monday morning. We will cruise up the eastern shore to Halifax and then on to Cape Breton Island and the Cabot Trail. After that, who knows. As long as I'm back to work by Tuesday the 14th, the destination doesn't matter. We will ride the coast, enjoy the foliage and explore areas that we learn about from the locals.
We plan to blog along the way. If interested, check back every couple of days for updates.


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Location:Newton, MA