Do the hard stuff first. This is what I keep telling myself. What I forgot on the morning I left Deux Montagnes, is that I don’t have to choose to make already hard stuff even harder.
When I prepared to leave I figured the morning chill would burn off within an hour. I am really not a fan of riding in the cold. All my time in the saddle in Quebec, however, has been scorching hot. Except, of course, the last time I left Tanya’s! I opted to not put on my heated vest and packed it conveniently in the bottom of my dry bag. I half-considered donning rain gear for added warmth, but like I said; I hoped the chill would burn off early.
Within an hour I was stopped and trying to wriggle into that rain gear after all. I’m sure the auto shop I parked in front of howled when they watched their footage that day. Let me paint a picture for you. I wheeled into the parking lot quick and leapt off my bike. I was a bit mad at myself for not just putting on my rain gear at Tanya’s to begin with. It’s a lot easier to do when you’re sitting on a sofa or chair. Nevertheless, I hauled it out of my side case and fought my way into my pants. I mean really fought. I had to sit right down on the ground because I kept falling over standing up.
So there I am, sitting on the ground stuffing my boots into my rain pants like a toddler. Nothing seemed to be going right. I’ve put these dang things on a dozen times, what was happening? Finally they were up to about my knees. I tried standing up, but then one foot slipped on gravel as I pushed up from all fours. Near face plant. Now laying down I flopped and bucked until I could get the pants up the rest of the way. I had recollections of my 1980s teen years trying to zip up my jeans with a coat hanger while I stretched out on my bed.
OK now I’m no longer freezing, but sweating buckets. I questioned whether I even NEEDED the extra layer from my rain gear now! Finally vertical, I took a step towards Jules so we could just get on the road again already. “What the hell” I’m thinking as I move, “there’s no way I ate that much at the spa that I can’t fit into my RAIN pants!” I looked down at myself and immediately threw my head back in a fit of laughter.
They were on backwards.
I was staring at the padded butt where I expected my front pocket to be. No WONDER they wouldn’t go on easily! Thankfully, wriggling out went faster and putting them on the right way didn’t require laying down or writhing beside my bike.
Like I say, when those folks checked their footage, I’m sure I put some smiles on those faces! I gave the camera a wave, hopped on Jules, and sped off into the frigid morning air.
Spending time with Tanya at Le Baluchon Eco Village was yet another cup-filling, soul-softening time on this cross-Canada motorcycle adventure. Sure I had taken time to stop and smell the flowers here and there, but it has been mostly eat-sleep-ride-repeat. I mean don’t get me wrong, I live for that, but after 5 weeks, stopping to engage in a little bit of self-care was a welcome rest.
Tanya booked us in for a girl’s getaway at this fabulous Auberge (Inn). This place has everything and I’ll get to that in a minute, but first I gotta tell you about Route 349. I WISH I had the benefit of more time when I was in Quebec. I would have loved to have had the luxury of exploring more of the country side. Route 349, for example, was a beautiful, serene road replete with quiet twisties. If you ride, you know what I mean; nothing in front of you. Nothing behind you. Just you, your bike, and the road. If you ever have the opportunity, make a plan to stay at the Inn and travel there via Route 349.
OK, back to the girly stuff…
The food was amazing. We had a great lunch that felt like home-made, yet from a fancy French restaurant all at the same time. Dinner was a 3 course amazeballs, gastronomic odyssey taking my tongue on a journey through the zing of the citrus trout tartare, the celebration of sun kissed tomatoes and sweet bell pepper of my gazpacho on to the heart of my meal; beef tenderloin with duck fat Pommes Anna. Oh my goodness, my friends! I have likely never had such a perfectly carmelized tenderloin so perfectly aged and cooked that it yielded to my fork with just a whisper of pressure. I think I may have squealed a little at that. I thought about how even my dad would have been impressed!
I’ve had my fill of fries on this trip, so the idea of more potatoes wasn’t high on my list, but I’ve never had such a perfect blend of a crispy crust and a succulent, velvety soft, melt in your mouth deliciousness! This dish shattered my long-held schema of what fried potatoes could be (especially since I’ve likely had eleventy four pounds of french fries since leaving home). It didn’t just elevate potatoes…it redefined them! Each wafer-thin slice lacquered in duck fat, and crisped to golden perfection became something transcendent. It was no longer a side, it was a statement!
Then dessert. I’ve rewritten this description at least four times because nothing I write effectively captures the exquisiteness of this chocolate!
This dessert was unapologetically indulgent. It was a layered tribute to chocolate in its MOST seductive form. At the heart was a truffle-like centre; dense, velvety, and as sensual as a forbidden kiss under a midnight sky. A chocolate mousse surrounded it in a cloud so airy, yet heavy on my tongue, igniting my senses like whispered promises on the nape of my neck. Encasing all of this a ganache so lustrous it reflected the sparkle in my eye. This was not just a coating; it was a curtain call, a finale worthy of a standing ovation.
When I finally did stand, I felt like I’d eaten my weight in that three course meal. It never ceases to amaze me how three seemingly tiny portions can have such an impact on my wardrobe! Yes, I am obsessed with the food at this place. It was the most sublime epicurean experience I’d had on this trip, or possibly in years.
Prior to dinner we walked the grounds. It is a beautiful piece of land and offers guests activities such as archery, horseback riding, kayaking and hiking. We just strolled along the wooden walkway through the forest, watched the ducks in the pond and stood for a long while at the waterfall. With every step I felt myself unwind just a little bit more. I felt my smile broaden just a little bit more. I felt the garbage of the past 18 months disappear just a little bit more.
I took a schwack of photos on our walk and looked for the ‘perfect’ maple leave to bring home. I planned to frame them for my shade garden. The idea of looking at my framed maple leaves over the next few years and remembering this trip made me happy all over. You’ll notice I did not take pictures of my food. I rarely do that because I feel like it’s rude. Although a chef strives for beautiful presentation, I’ve been told that what they really want is to know how much the taste and texture of the food is appreciated.
I’m not sure at which point it was, but that feeling of absolute joy washed over me while sitting there laughing and talking with Tanya at dinner. Yet again I found myself so present in the moment that the joy must have been threateningly close to brimming over. “Don’t cry”, Tanya warned, and we laughed some more. Maybe it was the crisp air. Maybe it was the time spent communing with nature that afternoon. Maybe it was the bond that Tanya and I now have. Or perhaps, maybe it was because I knew these memories would bolster my soul in all the years ahead. All I know is that I was filled with gratitude that I could take this trip. I was grateful to know Tanya and for this special sister-like friendship.
It is this state of being present that repeatedly brings me joy. I hope I carry this with me always and remember this when life inevitably begins to feel a bit overwhelming down the road.
My sister-from-another-mister, Tanya :)
I never did find that perfect maple leaf, but Tanya was paying attention as I searched. Unbeknownst to me, she was searching too. The day I left her home to head back west, she presented me with this souvenir. Somehow between the wonderful breakfast she made for me on ‘go day’ and our teary farewell, she managed to craft the hell out of her finds from the Inn. I’ve yet to do it, but the plan is a double-pane frame to sandwich and seal this memento so I can enjoy it for years to come. I’m so pleased it made it home in my luggage in one piece!!
It’s funny how food, a good sleep, and leaving before rush hour hits can change one’s perspective. I had no problem at all navigating my way OUT of Bangor!
It was a wonderful day spent zig-zagging my way from the south east of Bangor to the north west of Maine before crossing into Quebec. I wish I could share the route Petunia (my phone) laid out for me, but she had me turning left, right, straight, repeat and on and on so I don’t recall the names/numbers of those roads. I do, however, recall very much enjoying a lot more twisties than I figured I’d get, and the narrow roads were quiet and relatively free from traffic.
I passed through a few little communities and really enjoyed my saddle time in Maine. I noticed most communities had banners with the faces, names, and dates of the lives of the community’s fallen soldiers. Soldiers were honoured from all conflicts. There were a lot of banners. Like I mean a lot. I was struck by how many hometown sons did not come home and my heart ached for all the moms in Maine.
I would have liked to have stayed south to experience more of the northern USA, but I was on a time budget. I needed to be back in Deux Montagnes so Jules could get her new tires only another day ahead. Actually, I was surprised how quickly I arrived at the border. I expected to be state-side at least until mid afternoon. I was back in Canada in time to have lunch in a little community about an hour north of where I crossed at Hereford, Quebec. I had a really nice chat with a fellow biker before continuing on to Sherbrooke and then Montreal.
I was fortunate to avoid driving through Montreal on my way out east, but unfortunately I wasn’t escaping it this day. To go around the island would have meant going a lot further south and then west than I preferred. Remember, I need to be in Deux Montagnes to get Jules into the shop so I couldn’t afford another day. “Fuck it” I thought, “how bad can it really be?”
Bad.
It was really, really bad.
When I left Bangor that morning, it was on the chilly side. Then sometime after lunch I geared up to meet the thunderstorm I rode through. Although I’d taken off my rain coat just before getting into the thick of it in Montreal, I still had on all my layers and my rain pants. I’d only stopped on the side of the highway to remove the jacket and with the high number of manic drivers, I didn’t take the time to remove all my layers. Given that Petunia assured me I had nothing but freeway ahead, I figured it would only mean about 45 minutes or so before I was passed the worst of the traffic. Shortly after I set out again, temperatures soared to about 32 degrees.
For two hours I inched along in first gear. Traffic was moving just enough that coming to a full stop wasn’t possible. There were quite a few moments where I thought I might fall right over from heat exhaustion! I tried to maneuver into the shade cast by the semi trucks, but this was a tricky feat. As the freeway wound around the island, the shade opportunities were shifty. Sometimes I’d be ok behind a semi, then the road would curve and it would be to the left, or maybe to the right. Rarely was the shade cast on me and Jules. Had I known this is what riding through Montreal was like, I’d have gladly overshot by a couple of hundred kilometers to get back to Deux Montanes! My clutch hand was in agony, my feet were on fire, and I was sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
When all signs pointed to my route going through downtown Montreal, I felt sick. Downtown driving had a suck factor of eleventy nine thousand. After about 90 minutes Petunia advised there was a road block ahead (remember I’d been moving along in only first gear as it was) and she had an alternate route that would save me 5 minutes. I jumped all over that. Even getting up to second gear and off the freeway to find a spot to layer down would have felt like a win. When the ramp appeared, I needled my way through traffic and gleefully picked up speed. “So long suckers!” I said out loud. And then, just like that, Petunia died.
Oh Shit.
I had zero idea where I was or where to go next. I hung a right off the ramp and carried on until I saw a gas station. Surprisingly, I wasn’t really even in a panic. Had I been lost in Montreal a couple of weeks ago, I may have been freaked out. But this day? Nah. It was nice to notice I was still pretty calm inside. Thirsty as hell and super overheated, but not panicked. After fueling up, I parked in the shade of a garbage bin in the parking lot to peel off as many layers as I could.
The power cord I THOUGHT connected Petunia to Jules’ port was dangling in the breeze. Good grief! How it didn’t get caught up in my bike is a miracle! I fished out my battery pack from my trunk to charge my phone and figure out where I was. Although I’d given my other battery pack to Sam in PEI, I’d ordered a new one from Amazon and it was waiting for me at Mom’s in Nova Scotia when I arrived. I hadn’t really needed a portable charger until now, so I was pleased with that bit of planning. With Petunia now plugged in and charging, I hung out for about a half hour sipping and snacking.
In retrospect, it’s a good thing Petunia died when she did. Had she died either earlier or even a few minutes later, I would have been stuck on that slow moving freeway not knowing where to go or which exit to take. It turned out that I was only 11 kilometers from Tanya’s place. However, Petunia said it was going to take me another 45 minutes to drive those paltry 11 km. Ungh. Gross. Nevertheless, I was watered, fed, and was down to just my t-shirt under my jacket; much easier to take those high temps without all those layers.
I ended up spending another 5 days with Tanya. She was off work this time, so we had a lot more time to chill together. Jules was parked the whole visit with her fancy new 80/20 tires and I want to a spa.
I crossed the border into Maine without too much hassle. I didn’t have any nerves like I did heading into North Dakota, so I managed to keep my poop in a group and rode off without having forgotten anything. Back in Nova Scotia when I lunched with fellow riders, they recommended I ride highway 9 into Bangor. It was a nice little ride, but not as twisty as I expected. After Peru, though, not much really is!
OK so here is where the rubber hits the road for me a little bit. I am not a fan of spaghetti unless it’s on a plate covered with sauce, maybe has a meatball or two and has a mountain of cheese. I am definitely NOT a fan of the mess of spaghetti that showed up on Petunia every five minutes in the cities in the states. Invariably I end up on the wrong noodle and have to noodle around far too long to figure out where I need to go. This is exactly how my arrival in Bangor went.
I figured I would just roll into town, spot a motel, then Boom! I’d be unpacked and having a cold one while waiting for my supper. Here’s what actually happened…
I rolled into Bangor on highway 9 (#1 on the image below) and immediately zigged when I should have zagged and found myself on the 395 going past Bangor. Fuck. OK, no problem I think to myself. I’ll just turn off. Nope. More spaghetti. More misguided choices. Petunia seemed to be about 500 meters slower than Jules, so I didn’t know which exit to take until I was long past it. I came in at #1 on this map. I hit the first spaghetti (#2) and ended up leaving town (#3). I had to go a long way before turning around again. Then I ended up turned around again at the #4 spaghetti leaving town again. There was no easy way to get off this one either and I was getting frustrated. This was about when I realized Petunia wasn’t actually connected to any network.
Finally I found a side road, but now it’s rush hour and I’m running out of gas. I found a parking lot and now I’m fighting with Petunia to work outside Canada. She’s new to me and this is only the second time I’ve had to go on a freaking scavenger hunt to find the right setting. With my phone figured out, my next task was to find fuel, then food and a room. It’s starting to feel like the Shine Motel morning all over again. I’m hungry, I’m frustrated, and I’m forgetting that my helmet is NOT, in fact, the Cone of Silence.
I was parked in the parking lot of a veterinarian (somewhere around #5) and people were starting to leave work for the day. After cursing out Petunia, and cursing Bangor’s spaghetti highways, I finally pinned a nearby gas station. Once securing Petunia back in her holder and the route to the gas station now plugged in, I finally notice the stares I was getting. Oh gawd I could have died right there. It’s a hard lesson to realize my helmet does not shield the outside world from every song lyric I sing or every shit-losing, navigation tantrum I have.
I found fuel and took a moment at the gas station to find a hotel (X marks the spot..ish). Remember, it’s rush hour so now I’m dealing with spaghetti AND meatballs just to find the hotel. I got turned around again at spaghetti #6, but luckily there was another nearby exit to turn around. Finally I see the hotel ahead. I needed to turn left, but about eleventy nine meatballs were blocking the entrance while they waited for the light to turn green. I had another eleventy four meatballs coming in hot behind me, so I had to zip ahead. Except there wasn’t another opportunity to turn in.
After getting turned around in an industrial area, I had to re route back and give it another go. FAWK I was about ready to leave Bangor altogether at this point! All in, I spent an hour navigating these interchanges. Beverage in hand, I perused the menu. I laughed right out loud as sat at the bar and I’m telling you I must have looked crazy. The first entree listed was, you got it…spaghetti and meatballs.
I set Petunia up first for Magnetic Hill, then Hopewell Rocks, and then St. Stephen as I prepared to leave the Motel 6 in Moncton. My plan was to hit up some touristy spots and then head kitty-corner through Maine to re-enter Canada close to Montreal.
Just as I was about to mount, another motel guest came over to chat. I am all for having bike-side chats. In fact I love them! However, I thought about how I wished folks would approach me when I first start gearing up, rather than after pairing my music to my helmet. I am not an ass and I recognize it takes a little bit of something to approach strangers (I do it all the time), so I closed Spotify, took my helmet off, and said hello.
I don’t recall the fella’s name, but he told me about all the 2 wheeled toys he has at home and how he never seems to have time to ride. I asked him about his favourites and he lit up! Then I did too. Smiles are infectious. This fella started out with kind of a quiet hello. By the time he was telling me about his favourite toys and his favourite rides, he was smiling ear to ear and no longer seemed to be timid about chatting with me.
That’s when it kind of hit me. If I hadn’t switched off Spotify, if I hadn’t removed my helmet, I would have missed his smile. I would have missed bearing witness to his transformation from timid to gregarious. Although his stories about long-ago moto adventures didn’t have a lasting impact on MY day, I know the new light in his eye from retelling would linger long after I rolled out of the parking lot that morning. I’ve stopped for every bike-side chat ever since.
This life is too short to miss a chance to light up the smile of someone else. It’s such an easy thing for any of us to do too, really. Maybe it’s a quick chat at the cash register, complimenting someone on their hair, noticing the care with which the grocery packer places your items in the bag. It’s all about being present with people. A mere moment of your time can have a lasting impact on the day for someone else.
The world would be a better place if we choose our moments wisely. And if we remember to always be kind; we each leave a piece of ourselves behind with every one we meet.
So…..Magnetic Hill…..
After leaving the parking lot, I set out for Magnetic Hill. I came up on it so quickly, that I missed turning into the parking lot. Thank goodness I missed that turn! I hung the next right thinking I’d whip back around, but an oncoming car prevented my u-turn. This meant I had to commit to the detour a little longer. Again, thank goodness for that! The road climbed higher and higher and I was treated to a magnificent view over the city. Had I not missed the parking lot, I’d never have seen this! Had that car not been coming down the hill, I’d have made my u-turn and again I would have missed this stunning view. This is why I don’t really fuss over these things anymore (think back to my mini freak out over the Aberdeen Motel detour).
There wasn’t a good spot to take a picture and besides….those wide angle views rarely make for good photographs by my phone. At the top I turned around in the parking lot of a winery and returned to the Magnetic Hill parking lot. The place was a ghost town, but it wasn’t even 8:00 am yet. I hopped off to read the signage. History, blah, blah, blah, white post, blah, blah, blah, put vehicle in neutral, keep your foot off the brake and roll uphill to where you started.
Wait. What?
Put my bike in neutral and don’t panic while I feel like I’m rolling backwards uphill? My cerebral cortex started freaking out with the memories of Jules’ regular naps on my off-road riding course last year. This whole thing feels sketchy on my own with no other curious tourists to help me upright my bike if she decides to sleep through this ‘magnetic experience’. Yeah… I was a chicken shit. But let me put this into context a bit here. Last summer I went on an off-road course on Vancouver Island that was supposed to be great for all levels. Even a relative newb to off-road like me. I mean I’d done a lot of gravel roads, but nothing more than that. I dumped my bike that weekend. A lot. Like a LOT a lot. I dumped it going uphill. I dumped it going backwards downhill. I dumped when I was pretty much standing still (shut up, you’ve been there too). So this whole ‘feel like you’re rolling uphill backwards’ thing on a bike felt iffy to me.
But ok, whatever. “I’m here, so I better see what’s what” I thought. I asked The Gang what they all wanted to do, and they were all for testing Jules’ fortitude.
The Gang (right to left as that’s the order in which they joined my adventure)
- Moosey from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan
- Duck from Quwackabeka Falls, Ontario (jk – it’s Kakabeka falls)
- Anne from PEI (duh)
- Lawrence the Lobster from N.S.
OK, so The Gang said “Go for it!” and I rolled out of the parking lot. I followed the arrows, I followed the signs, I watched for posts, and I looked for hills. Pretty soon I was in a residential area and workers were painting lines on the road. What the hell, man?! A) How did I miss it and B) how did I exit into residential when I was following the dang signs? Sigh. OK, whatever. I wasn’t so keen to roll uphill backwards that I wanted to navigate back around this residential area to then find a road to take me back to the parking lot. We headed out to see the Hopewell Rocks instead.
You have to drive through town to access the road to The Hopewell Rocks. I hadn’t planned on this next leg taking as long as it did. Google told me it was only 50 km away, so I figured that would be a quick rip down the highway. Oops. Wrong. Honestly I figured I’d be there between 8:30 and 9:00. In Pembroke, low tide was 9:00 am so I was thinking it’d be the same here. As I got past town, however, I could see water. Awe nuts! This meant it was NOT low tide.
When I parked and wandered up to the gate, the tide notice advised low tide was at 2:30 in the afternoon. Nuts! If you’re going to attempt to see The Hopewell Rocks, do yourself a favour and plan to stay in the area for 2 days. That way you can see the site at high tide and low tide. Obviously low tide is going to be more interesting, but the $50 pass is for 2 days. I didn’t pay just to see the tops of the rocks and I wasn’t interested in spending another day in Moncton. I needed to be in Deux Montagnes to get Jules’ new tires in 2 more sleeps. Skunked twice in one day! Turns out ‘flying by the seat of my pants’ has me foiled again!
But seriously – if you’re going to check out The Hopewell Rocks on your own adventure, I passed tons of accommodations on the way. Do better than I did and be sure to find a cool place to stay nearby so you can drive or even walk to the park. Then, be sure to go back the next day so you can see the difference at high tide. I’ll have to chalk this up to another one for the books for when Brian and I can do this trip together.
Next stop: St. Stephen, New Brunswick to cross into Maine.
The 114 heading west was such a pretty ride! For a goodish while it ran along the coast and the views were so beautiful. I came across a covered bridge, zipped in and effortlessly angled Jules and The Gang for a photo. Remember my frontal lobe freak out on the course? Those memories prevent me from doing things like zipping down a dirt lane from time to time. The PTNJ (Post Traumatic Napping Jules) can be real, my friends! I was quite tickled with myself that I hadn’t even given it a second thought this time. I know. It doesn’t look sketchy at all, but the dirt trail from the highway to this little lane was not much more than a cart path.
Given that there had been over 1,000 covered bridges in NB once upon a time, I figured I’d better get a selfie with this one!
When I got to Alma, I fueled up and had the most amazing seafood chowder across the street. It was a hotel with rooms and a restaurant overlooking the sea. It was a pretty spot for sure. I kind of laughed about the boats sitting on the ground here because it was no low tide. Ah well. Hopefully I get back this way to see the Hopewell Rocks before the crumble to the sea!
Ok so I’m a bit of a dreamer/storyteller/owner of a wild imagination. As I strolled out to see these boats and the low tide goo after my lunch, this is what happened in my brain:
I’m just standing here minding my own business enjoying the sunshine and looking around when all of a sudden some guy runs up to me. He grabs my motorcycle keys from my hand, hucks them into the goo, then runs off laughing maniacally. What the hell am I going to do?! I started looking for access down the rocks onto the seabed. Then I thought about the quickly rising tide. How do I get back out of the goo with keys in hand before I was neck high in salt water?
After I played out all the options in my head, I laughed out loud at how my imagination gets away on me. But I was grateful for it as well. After 16 months in my last stressy gig, my colourful little side-line stories had come to a halt. These little side-line stories entertained my kids while waiting in doctors’ offices, in line at a grocery store, or just hanging out at home. They have kept my friends in tears with laughter, and have brought me joy even when they just stay in my head for my own enjoyment.
They’re back, so I guess this means I’m on the mend.
When I got to Moncton, I pulled off at a gas station to fuel up and figure out where to sleep for the night. You know I like the low roof, side of the highway style motels. I remember watching “One Week” years ago and the main character’s visit with another traveler outside their rooms*. Those have been some of my favourite experiences on this trip; chats with fellow travelers outside our rooms in the warm evenings across Canada. Anyway, I asked the person at the till in the gas station if there were any motels along the highway. His response brought an array of thoughts and feels for me.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been outside Moncton Before.”
I felt sad for whatever life circumstances meant this 20-something young man meant he hadn’t had the opportunity to venture outside his home town. It made me feel grateful for the opportunity for my own travels. It made me feel fiercely proud of my own fearless 20-something children. It did not, however, make me feel disappointed at having to figure out lodging on my own. I’ve grown to trust my choices and this night’s choice did not disappoint!
I pulled in front of the office at the Motel 6 with the Route 6 Spicy Bar & Grill, switched off Jules, and took off my lid. I was immediately greeted by a fella who congratulated me on being such a long way from home. He asked where I was headed. I told him I’d been out to PEI and Nova Scotia and and was now heading home. It felt pretty great, I’m not gonna lie, to hear how impressed some folks seemed to be when I shared my journey.
After checking in, the first order of business was a shower. It had been a long and sweaty day on the bike and I was really looking forward to a fabulous hot shower! I turned on the water and returned to my dry bag for my shampoo and such. I chuckle now as I recall the moment I pulled back the shower curtain ready to jump in. I can tell you, dear friends, although I chuckle now, I definitely was NOT laughing when this happened.
So I pulled back the curtain and you guys, I would have bet big money on the idea that a previous guest had shaved a cat in that tub! There were short and curlies from one end to the other and the water wasn’t draining. Already primed for a shower, but not interested in standing in hair soup, I perched with one foot on the edge of teh tub and the other gingerly steadied on the soap dish half way up the wall. The first half of this gymnastics routine wasn’t too bad. It was when I needed to switch my feet that it got interesting. Now that I was all soapy and slippery, it is a blinking MIRACLE I didn’t land butt first in the now very full and hairy tub.
It was a quick rinse, but still felt good. If we’re looking for silver linings here, I’d have to say the experience was enhanced by the feeling of gratification that this old, stiff body still had at least a small amount of athleticism left to pull off a feat like that! Next stop, let the office know the plugged tub was not my doing, and then find some grub.
Upon ordering my second beverage, I noticed some folks wandering outside with their drinks. Always an eager explorer, I grabbed my drink and wandered through the door too. To my delight, there was a lively patio filled with people visiting, laughing, and having a wonderful time. I saw a table of folks and sauntered over to say hello. They very happily obliged when I asked if I could join them. We got to talking and Dan exclaimed, “Hey! Are you the one with the bike?”
He excitedly told the group about my adventure and we all had some laughs. Danny, if you read this, you should know that your greeting when I pulled in that day brough such big smiles to my face and heart.
Thinking back now to visiting with Danny and Linda, Donna, Paul, and Hunter and feeling so blessed to have spent the evening with these people. It wasn’t rare for me to join in conversation with strangers along the way, but an evening of camaraderie that I felt with these folks was unprecedented. We laughed, shared stories, and enjoyed the very impressive and diverse musical talent of Hunter.
That day I felt I was among friends I’d known for years. I felt a strong sense of belonging; something that I once chased so fiercely. Throughout the evening I made a point of pausing, to be present, so I could remember each moment. Some of my favourite moments were:
- Learning that Donna had recently vacationed within 30 minutes of my home in Alberta
- Hunter asking if I would be interested in hearing one of his original songs. I felt honoured to hear him sing and play his own song
- Watching Dan artfully deliver a tray of drinks to the table
- Assuring Dan that my sopping wet pants would soon dry (not so artful a delivery after all)
- Paul’s giggle
- Linda’s smiling face
When I set out the next morning, I half-considered staying another night. Instead, Jules and I wheeled out and rode into a new day with new adventures ahead.
*If you’ve never seen One Week, do yourself a favour and watch it. This 2008 flick was when I first knew I was going to ride a motorbike across Canada one day. Here’s the trailer for it. It still puts a lump of joy in my throat and makes all the happiness leak out my eyes!
Finally the morning arrived when it was time to hit the road again and head home from Mom’s in Yarmouth area. The Wharf Rat Rally was pretty much my last “to do”, and it was now September! Initially I’d planned to take the Cat from Yarmouth to Bar Harbour Maine. Then I learned it was a whopping $245 USD for a one way voyage. Gulp. Nope. That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t interested in spending nearly $400 to save myself a day of riding. Next I figured I’d take the boat from Digby to Saint John, NB. That too would have saved about a day’s ride. Unfortunately, it was booked for the next 3 days. I opted to just hit the highway.
It was another beautiful day for a ride and Jules and I were making good time. I came upon a couple of other bikes and tucked in behind for awhile. These situations are always a bit weird for me. Do I hang back like I’m one of them? Do I blow past them? I don’t ride hard to keep up to others, so why would I ease off to tag along? Eventually I decided to blow past. It always feels rude for some reason, so I gave a big wave and carried on.
I hauled off for fuel at a big truck stop and noticed the other bikers had pulled in too. When Jules was topped up, I wheeled over to park next to the folks I’d passed. Andrea and Rick were there to meet up with other folks for lunch and they invited me to join them. It’s always such a treat to share a meal with others. It’s an even better treat to share the meal with new friends. When we left the truck stop, I continued on my way to Moncton; my first stop on my way home.
I’ll tell you about my time in Moncton in my next post, but let me just back it up a minute here. I’m writing this two weeks after my adventure ended with me rolling into my driveway to see Brian sitting on my front steps. He had dinner ready, a bottle of wine and hot bath on standby. I felt blessed. I thought I’d returned home much the same person as when I left; unemployed*, loving life, and lucky to have great kids, wonderful friends, and the love of a man who was my high school sweetheart a gazillion years ago. All of those things were still the case when I arrived home, but I really am not quite the same person.
Early on in my days alone after saying goodbye to Brian in Manitoba, I started to feel pretty dang lonely. It was pretty much like the loneliness I felt on my solo Irish adventure too. When I got home two weeks ago, I didn’t think I was any different a human being than when I’d left in August of this year. I guess that’s the beauty of personal growth…you don’t actually know you’ve grown until you encounter a situation and think, “Huh! Six months ago, my reaction would have been entirely different!”. That’s what’s happening to me now.
I have a lot of time on my hands these past two weeks. Much of that idle time I’ve spent alone. I live alone. I work from home alone. All of this is just me and my four walls. Or my yard. Or….with Jules. Now I’m ok with the alone-ness. Sure Ireland was nearly a decade ago and I’ve had a ton more experiences since then. But I think it’s more than that. I think riding through that loneliness on this cross-Canada adventure for six weeks and emerging on the other side of it comfortable with my own company is a change that will pay dividends in myriad ways moving forward.
People asked me how I coped with the loneliness. I guess for me writing about my adventures helped me heaps. Of course I’d always look for an eatery where I could sit up at a bar and chat with whomever might be sitting there. That was definitely an easy way to connect with others. On the road though, when I’m only stopping for a short while here and there, I really worked hard at being present with whomever I chatted.
So what does ‘being present’ actually look like? Just stop for five minutes and really connect with whomever you’re speaking; even if it’s in passing. Stop everything and just listen. It was when I was present that I noticed the light in the eyes of others, the eagerness of other people to share that they too have a bike, or whatever they want to share. Being present didn’t just help me overcome my own loneliness, I could see how it made a difference in the life of another if even for just a moment. I didn’t have to know that person to recognize their smile was genuine and they continued to wear it even when walking away.
The more people I spoke with along my journey, the more I realized the loneliness is part of the human condition. We all experience it in some way at some time in our lives. Sharing those stories helps others realize it’s not a shameful way to feel.
I don’t typically do this, but if you’ve done a solo adventure of any kind and noticed differences in yourself afterwards, I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
*My last contract ended July 31 of this year. Rather than looking for another gig, I chose to invest in myself for awhile. This cross Canada adventure was the first deposit to the bank of Deanna’s Health and Sanity.
The morning I set out for the Digby Wharf Rat Rally was entirely unique on this adventure. This day was the first time I’d set out for a day ride. I wore only a t-shirt under my jacket, and Jules just wore her luggage. I left my dry bag at home, of course, because it held everything I used day-to-day.
We set out along the Evangeline Trail about 8:00 am. Although I’d traveled this#1 highway many times over the last twenty years, this was my first time on a bike. As I breathed in the salty air, gazed out over the Bay of Fundy, and soaked up the summer sun, my heart filled with joy. I rolled past familiar homes, thought of the people I once knew to live there, and felt grateful for the memories. I recalled taking the kids to walk the beach down by Dargie Cove, climbing the rocks at Smugglers Cove and eating clams & chips in a restaurant that seemed to be no more. For 90 minutes Jules and I swept along the winding rode towards Digby. Apart from the slight discomfort from having left my sheepskin back at Mom’s, it was a perfect ride.
I pulled into the row of bikes on Waterstreet around 9:30, dumped what I didn’t need on my person in my trunk, and set off to explore. It was pretty cool to feel like I was part of something bigger than my solo trip. I’d never been with so many bikers in one place before! I’m not interested in Sturgis and this crowd was big enough for me. The thing I love about bikers is that they’re always so welcoming and eager to talk about their ride.
On more than one occasion I felt like a celebrity! When people learned I traveled from Alberta, and that I’d made the trip alone, they called me a lot of things; brave, tough, impressive, inspiring, strong, courageous, awesome… I never felt like these things were necessarily accurate descriptors at first. But the more people I met, the more I heard, “Wow! That’s always been a dream of mine too”. Each time I heard that, I responded with “Do it. You’ll never regret it, you’ll come out of it a different person”. Some told me I’d inspired them and made them feel it was attainable. If I managed to encourage even one person to follow their own dream of adventure, whatever that may be, then the sharing of my story was worth the time to tell them.
I’d just been putting one mile in front of the next on this trip and never really thought a lot about how far I’d come. Each day I’d get up, load Jules, head east, and look for interesting things to check out along the way before finding a place to sleep at night. Every day was on repeat with new highway, hopefully new sights and new friends. It never really felt like a big leap to do this trip. I guess the biggest leap may have been to choose not to find another contract. In less than 24 hours after my contract was finished, I was on my bike pointing east. I didn’t plan anything in advance. I didn’t overthink it. I just left. It was more of a survival tactic at that point, than anything else. Overthinking would have paralyzed me.
Many of the folks I spoke to asked if I had gone here, seen this, or done that. Sometimes I said yes and we’d talk about our common memories. Sometimes I’d say no and they’d chastise me for having missed an opportunity. Initially I had a bit of FOMO and regretted NOT checking out the thing they described, or turning down the route they had ridden. I had to remind myself that their journey was their journey. If they’d ridden the Gaspe Peninsula, great. I didn’t, but it didn’t mean that I’d failed. It just meant, “not this time” because Canada is fucking massive and it’s not possible to see everything or ride every magnificent piece of highway in one 6 week trip. It took a lot of inner convincing though, let me tell you.
My conversations at the Rally also made me cognizant of how I share my story. This was my journey, but at no point have I ever felt like it is the most amazing thing anyone has ever done. I’ve never felt like anyone who does NOT jump on a bike and go ’till they hit water is less than. As much as I love to share my stories, I feel it’s best done here. My audience can choose to relive with me or not. When I’m actually in conversation with real people though, I tend to only retell if they ask. I’d much rather listen to their adventures and see the light in their eyes when they relive the curves, describe the sights, and reminisce about the people they have met.
With Jules sporting a new sticker giving her bragging rights for having attended the 2025 Digby Wharf Rat Rally, and me getting a new t-shirt for my own bragging rights, we hit the road again. We set out towards the #1, but somehow I zigged when I should have zagged and found myself going down a quiet interior secondary road.
It was a nice road, but I felt I was missing out by not catching the coastal views again. I’ve mentioned a time or two in my stories that I’ve been avoiding gravel roads this trip. Jules can take ’em with her 50/50’s no problem, and I’ve done a lot of gravel travel. I’ve been leery about remote off road travel on my own though. Here, however, the area was populated enough and the gravel roads were well traveled. I could easily walk for help if Jules decided to take an unplanned nap along the way. Off we bounced down some decent gravel heading back towards the Evangeline Trail. Trucking along at a good pace, we eventually came to the highway. Getting back ON meant a longish wait as the traffic had really picked up.
By the time we got back to Yarmouth I wasn’t ready to call it a day yet. I had been craving calamari since hitting Quebec, but still hadn’t even seen it on any menus! I sat on the patio at Rudders on Waterstreet with excited anticipation. Finally calamari! If you’re ever in Yarmouth and looking for calamari, Don’t go to Rudders. The only way I can describe the batter is by likening it to the biscuits I had with my seafood chowder coming off the Cabot Trail. Great for biscuits, terrible for calamari.
I am not a great picture-taker! There were a ton of bikes, but I didn’t even consider taking pics of them all! I was usually caught up in chatting with people. I did, however, want to get a shot with the Digby scallop fleet and all the sailboats. Had I KNOWN that The Bluenose II was docked in Digby that day, I could have gotten a pic there! I missed her in Lunenburg, but I got her in Yarmouth the day after the Rally.
When my very dear friend Chrissy picked me up for lunch my first new day at Mom’s, it was as though the years since our last visit were mere moments. I’d forgotten how much I missed her bright smile! We laughed over lunch, laughed while we walked the beach, and laughed again on the drive back. The next day we went for a very long walk and talked about things only good friends talk about. You know your friendship is true when time stands still between visits, when stories flow, laughter comes readily, and the quiet moments are easy. I love you to the moon and back Chrissy!
My entire time in Nova Scotia was like this, really! Whether sitting with Mom, visiting with Peter, or chatting with Bob, every moment was easy. When my sister in law arrived, I couldn’t get up for a hug fast enough. The love I felt when we held onto one another was so full and ran so deep. Blood doesn’t make us sisters, but love sure as hell does! Although this is my ex-husband’s family, they have always been mine too. I may have divorced him, but not everyone else. This trip made me realize how much time I’ve wasted being angry when I could have been coming home to heal instead. I am so very blessed to have two moms and sisters from other misters across the country!
Home cooked meals, beach combing, poking around antique shops, evening drives to Cape Forchu, a birthday celebration, and the feels that come only from being home made leaving so hard. Each time I’ve left, I’ve cried. This time was no different. I’d said all my “See you soons”, packed up Jules, and set out for home. My trip was officially half over and it was time to point west. The first 5 minutes were spent ugly-face crying in my helmet. Stupid map makers put Nova Scotia way too far from Alberta and I wasn’t sure when I’d get the chance to come home here again.
I hopped on my bike and set off towards Halifax from the Aberdeen before 8:00 am. I made great time and soaked up the sun and crisp morning air for several hours before I hauled off to fuel the tanks; mine and Jules’.
The Smitty’s parking lot in this town (don’t recall where I was) was a gong show. Sigh. Where to park so I’m not in the way? I saw a sliver of space between a girder and a pickup, but nosing in would have been too tight a turn in that busy and jam-packed lot. Without an obvious spot to park, I circled around back only to come out into the alley next to the restaurant. The only spot I can see from the alley is that sliver on the other side of the girders. Jules had no problem slipping down the ditch, up the other side, and sqeaking in between the girders to settle nicely into that sliver. I marveled at myself at this point. I realized I hadn’t even really given this maneuver a second thought. I had no worries I’d dump, hit concrete, get too close that truck, or get myself in a predicament that meant I was relying on my bad hip to get out of it after breakfast. It’s amazing how a new day erases yesterday’s self doubt. This win filled my little heart with glee as I plopped into a booth for bacon and eggs.
Back on the road, Petunia helped me navigate around Halifax and down the south shore. I looked forward to seeing Peggy’s Cove again. It had been about 16 years since my last visit and I still remember the sense of awe I felt at my first time 25 years ago. That first time was in March and the Atlantic was rough that day. As a prairie girl, I’d never seen anything like it. The waves fiercely pounded on the rocks. The wind howled around me and I could feel the salt left on my young face. Although it was a calm and glorious summer day now, I expected to feel somewhat the same when I looked out over the ocean.
Well holy doodle, Batman! What a goat show! A gazillion cars parked along the highway. Eleventy Two people walking to and fro, across the road, in the middle of the road, beside the road and basically like ants on a dropped icecream cone. Gross. Disappointing. I followed traffic and was surprised by the commercialism. Where were the quaint, brightly coloured homes I could still see in my memories? Where were the wide open spaces from which you could see the lighthouse and the grand rocks upon which it stood?
Now there is an entry fee and the view is blocked by an entry building. I was so disappointed. I decided I’d do the tourist thing at Peggy’s Cove when I visit again. That day will come when I can share the beauty of the maritimes with my bestie, Sharon. She’s always wanted to come this way and I figured Peggy’s Cove could wait until then. On I rode.
The traffic thinned out somewhat and I settled in for a slow and meandering ride along the coast. It was such a pretty ride! I rolled through Indian Harbour, Hackett’s Cove and Glen Market. Petunia kept telling me to head to the 103, but not today Petunia, not today! The #3 was such a pretty ride! If you have the time and the opportunity, be sure to take it! It adds hours, but it really is a treat.
I rode past Boutiliers Point, Queensland, and Hubbard’s Beach. If time had permitted, the 329 would have rewarded me with some beautiful views, but I told Mom I’d be there by 5 pm. I continued on the 3 to Chester and Mahone Bay. I was sad to not have the time for that 329, but Mahone Bay was very pretty, so I didn’t feel like I’d missed too much. Besides, I figured I could ride that and other side routes when I do this trip again with Brian one day.
I did detour in to Lunenburg, though. I wondered if perhaps The Bluenose II may have been in town. Again, a goat show. There was little opportunity to experience the gorgeous homes and shops. With steep streets, lots of stop signs, and hordes of pedestrians in the middle of the road, it was very motorbike unfriendly. Another stop for me and Sharon, I thought. It would be easier to navigate those go-and-stops and steep slopes on 4 wheels (or two feet), rather than two wheels. I decided it was best to get back on the 3.
So there I was perched near the top of a hill waiting to turn right to bo back up yet another steep hill. It was my turn at the stop sign, but a walker was about to step in front to cross my path just as I started to throttle up the hill to turn. I shook my head no at him. He looked at me and started to step down into the street. Nothing like a ‘show down’ to liven up a ride.
“Don’t do it man!” I said, “I’m on a bike on a hill, pal, and I gotta go!” He hesitated, but when I shouted “Dude!” and shook my head again, he took me seriously and stepped back on the curb. With these slopes, and in the middle of tight uphill turn, I had no interest in stopping. If I hadn’t already stopped for eleventy twelve freaking people already, I may have had more patience (and faith in my ability to not dump my bike).
I went on through Bridgewater, stopped for fuel and a bite, then booked it down the 103. It was already 3 pm. I’d been on the road for 7 hours at this point and I still had a longish way to go. The rest of #3 will have to wait for my return someday. When I got to the Hardscratch road to head into Yarmouth, all the exhaustion melted away and was replaced with joy and anticipation. I was not far from my destination now and that meant time with people I love who love me back.
I rolled through the familiar streets and felt my helmet rise up a few inches thanks to my larger-than-life smile pushing my cheeks higher and higher. When I parked, Mom greeted me with open arms all over again. It was good to be home.
The Happy Canuck 