"It's not the destination, it's the journey." Somebody else.
Most people should go somewhere on a motorcycle, then they wouldn't wonder anymore, they'd understand.
I read somewhere the typical Canadian motorcyclist rides less than 2,000 kilometers a year. We started our 4th day having already ridden 1,400. Every morning we start off having zipped the liners into our jackets with extra layers underneath, wearing neck warmers and warm gloves. By the time we make our first fuel stop for the day it's warming up so we start to shed layers and swap our clothes into our bags for lighter ones and thinner gloves. It doesn't seem to matter what road we pick, they're all fun, and as long as we continue to avoid cities and large towns the traffic stays light.
Today we headed for Portland Maine and the Atlantic Ocean. I got us lost in traffic on the outskirts but completely by accident manage to take us to exactly the perfect spot. We found a park that came complete with a lighthouse and sandy beach, and after some frolicking in the surf occurs, Jennifer got her lobster lunch.
But it's time to start the return trip. We've spent three and a half days going nowhere fast, it's time to head home with the same attitude. Jennifer gets busy with her iPhone and manages to get us a room in Lincoln New Hampshire on the other side of the White Mountains Parkway. She grabbed the lead just as we entered the park and spent the next hour trying to keep up with a Cadillac STS that seemed to be every bit as determined to leave her behind as she was to stay with it. Demerit points for any speeding tickets we might have received in that state wouldn't have followed us home, but a criminal charge would. At some point in the states speeding becomes a felony. But none of us wanted to be shown up by a car, a Cadillac no less, so we chased him all the way through to the other side. The road was a series of continuous sweeping curves carved into the side of a mountain with few safe places to pass other traffic and we passed anyway. In the end the Cadillac outran us, but he damn sure had to work for it.
After dinner Jennifer went down to the lobby with her iPad to send some emails and Skype with her kids so I started running regular refills of Vodka and lemonade down to her. Booze is so cheap in some of these states that I felt obligated to encourage my travelling companions to consume as much as they could hold. And then some. The effects of which were merely enhanced for me by all the painkillers I'd had to take to get through the later part of the afternoon. I'd avoided using the Morphine as I'd been told that combining it with alcohol could inhibit breathing, but nobody had said anything about there being any detrimental effects from combining strawberry flavored Vodka, lemonade, and Tylenol 3's with Codeine. When Mark fell asleep I grabbed the Vodka, lemonade, and ice bucket with my tingling fingers and headed to the lobby. There was a steady stream of people coming and going, registering or going to or coming from dinner, the pool, or the exercise room, and the first thing they saw and heard when they came into the lobby was a totally trashed Jennifer and I laughing our heads off as we watched filthy videos of Adam Sandler. "Push it in and out....... at a medium pace......" We thought it better to return to the room before we got thrown out, we were far to drunk to be able to drive to another hotel.
Day 5
We left New Hampshire...... at a medium pace....."
Not true, but that's what I was singing in my helmet as Mark led us out of the parking lot Monday at 9:15 in bright sunshine and 4 degree temperatures. Truth is he set a damn quick pace, he had to, we were 3 states and and one province away from home. We tore along roads that looked just like all the rest we'd spent the last 4 days on, alternating between long sweeping curves, scenic vistas, and twisty turny roller coasters that were as much fun as anything I have ever driven on.
My favorite part was Highway 2 between Barre and Burlington Vermont. There's also an Interstate, I 89, that runs between those 2 cities, and as we swooped and dove through the hills we passed over or under it more than a dozen times, at one point doing so at least 4 times in less than 5 minutes. We'd cross I 89, and it would disappear in our mirrors as we dropped down a hill curving sharply to follow a path alongside a river that was probably originally a horse trail blazed when the area was first settled hundreds of years ago. For several kilometers we'd alternate between cracking our throttles wide on the short straight stretches and trail braking as we went into the next curve, suddenly grabbing handfuls of clutch and front brake as the turns tightened up and getting back on the throttles as the turn widened out, when suddenly we'd be on an overpass with I 89 flashing by underneath us. At one point while crossing up over a mountain pass we came out of some trees and found ourselves running alongside it for several kilometers before carving into another turn and suddenly finding ourselves entering yet another little town that nobody going by on the Interstate would ever know existed. We probably could have covered the distance between those 2 cities in less than half the time it took us, but what would have been the fun in that? I felt sorry for all those people mindlessly following the Interstate. Unlike them, we knew why we had gone, and we were having every bit as much fun coming back as we'd had going.
To avoid getting stuck in traffic in Burlington on highway 2 we finally surrendered to the inevitable and pulled out onto I 89 to see a huge rainstorm directly in front of us. Mark picked up the speed even more and it eventually slid off to the side as the road took a gentle (boring) turn. We picked up Highway 2 again on the other side of Burlington just before it started island hopping across Lake Champlain on a series of bridges and causeways.
Far too soon we were back in upper New York state approaching the reserve at Akwesasne and our planned border crossing. We stopped for lunch at a total dump-dive-hole in the wall pizza joint for lunch. This place was so bad that I'm surprised we went in. The decor was from the mid seventies, prints of Marmaduke comic strips and military photographs from Vietnam adorned the walls. The windows were filthy, grease was running down the walls, and the proprietor was such a mess he made the rest of the place look good.
But the pizza? Holy Crapoly! It was one of the best meals I'd had in the last 5 days. There's just no telling.
Long before any of us wanted this trip to end, we were at the border. We crossed quickly, and after we got our helmets and gear back on, I turned to Jennifer and stuck out my hand. She hesitated for a moment, then pulled Mark and I and in for a three way hug. We'd gassed up a few kilometers before so we knew we wouldn't be stopping again before we hit Ottawa and went our separate ways.
I met Jennifer more than a decade ago the day she came through my door for a job interview. I remember she said way back then that her boyfriend worked as a salesman in a motorcycle shop, and that one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world, (even more than kids, sorry kids) was a bike of her own. She's been doing my books in capacity or another ever since. She finally got her bike 2 years ago, she'd put it off to have kids.
I met Mark more than 3 decades ago, one night when my girlfriend at the time asked me to render an opinion on a motorcycle that she was interested in buying from Mark's brother Simon. After we'd agreed on a price and lit a joint to seal the deal, Mark emerged from the basement following the smoke trail. When the joint was done he disappeared. The next time I met him was when we were both flying planes and dropping skydivers in Embrun almost 2 decades later.
You know you're getting on in years when you measure time in decades.
You know you've got friends when you measure them in Time and Distance.
5 Days, 2210 kilometers.
Mark? Jennifer? When do we go again? I just checked the weather and hotel rooms. We could be in a $78 room in the Travelodge just outside Quebec City on Saturday night, drinkin' vodka and pink lemonade while we argue about which route we'll take back home Sunday morning.
I know why the birds sing in the morning....Because They CAN!!!!! I'm a Pilot and a Skydiver. The closest I have ever come to the feeling of flight here on earth is on a good road with more turns than you can count, either chasing or trying to keep ahead of your friends.
Fall isn't over yet. Gaspesie, anyone?
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