"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.


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