Woke up to gray, scudding clouds over Sydney promising rain, but not a lot of it.  And they lived up to the promise with off and on drizzle and light rain much of the day.  Fortunately I didn’t have far to go today so I wasn’t too concerned about the petty precipitation.  Took my time leaving the hotel after taking care of some long-distance domestic financial chores.  Even on the road, bills still have to be paid.  I even took time to wash my bike this morning, knowing it was going to rain today; seven days of bugs and mud make for an ugly bike.  As I write, it’s sitting in the rain, covered with mud again, but at least the bugs have been flushed down the Sydney sewer system.

Wish wished me well on my travels.

The only thing on my limited agenda today was to return to the Coal Miner’s Museum in Glace Bay for an extended look around, including a tour underground and undersea, as it turns out, because the mine tunnels go under the ocean.  The one I was in went only a few hundred yards beyond the beach and about 65 feet below the ocean floor.  But other mines in the area go out as far as eight miles from land and are 2,700 feet below the ocean floor.  Very interesting experience and I got to know, briefly, a retired miner named “Wish” Donovan who served as my tour guide and with whom I would like to have spent more time.  Wish mined coal for 36 years, as had his father and his father’s father.  And then, begining in the 1970s the mines began to close.  I think the last of the eight operating mines near Sydney closed in the 1990s after producing coal for more than 200 years, beginning when the French still held Nova Scotia.   Closing the mines devastated the economy of Cape Breton and they’re making efforts to re-open some, but it doesn’t look promising.

Wish explains the dangers of mining.

After having gone into a mine for a very short time and a very short distance, I can’t imagine wanting to do that for a living, but the miners I talked with in the past two days wouldn’t want to work anywhere else.  Coal dust that goes into your  mouth and lungs, also gets into your blood, I guess.

Wish reminisced about the miners’ camaraderie, the experiences of starting in the mine as a 16-year old, and the struggles of the Union to improve working conditions (mining is the most dangerous job in the world) and pay.  The history of coal mining in the late 19th and early 20th century was pretty much the history of labor struggling against absentee owners. The older miners, especially, have strong feelings about gains made by the unions before the 1950s.

This keeps the ceiling from falling on your head in a mine.

The museum exhibits included information on the geology of coal formation, the changing technology of mining, and the various uses for coal and coal by-products.  The museum was created when it won a competition to be one of 100 institutions to be substantially supported during Canada’s centennial celebration a few years back and was the brain child of one woman in Glace Bay who wanted to preserve a culture she could see disappearing.  They’ve also reconstructed such things as company houses and a company store that would have kept miners in debt no matter how hard they worked.

After I picked up a CD of the “Men of the Deeps” and Wish gave me a piece of coal (haven’t had one since Christmas as a child), I took one last look at the gray, misty skies over the ocean next to the museum, put on my rain gear and headed for the ferry departure point in North Sydney.  I got here about five hours early, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss the boat.  

My ride back in two weeks.

I watched the ferry that I’ll catch in two weeks for the return trip from Newfoundland depart for Argentia and then watched the ferry I’m about to board for Channel Port aux Basques make its landing and unload.  I think I’m still an hour away from boarding but thought I’d try to get this posted early so I can sleep on the way to Newfoundland.

I’m going to try to post Flickr pictures, but the wifi connection here at the ferry terminal is slow, so I’m not sure I’ll get any of them up.

All days on the road are good.  But some days on the road are absolutely outstanding.  Today was one of those days.  It’s 11 p.m. and I just returned to my hotel after listening to a wonderful music performance by an unlikely set of singers.  More on that later.  First, today’s ride

Coastline along the Cabot Trail.

Because I’ve made good time on the trip so far and haven’t any mechanical set backs or delays, I had some bonus time I could use to good riding advantage.  When Marilyn and I were in Nova Scotia in 2007 (I think)  [I’m unsure of the year, not who I was with], we were lucky enough to ride the Cabot Trail in the northwest corner of Cape Breton.  The Cabot Trail is one of those rides that, once you’ve done it, you want to do it again.  So today I did it again.  We had pretty good weather the first time, but today’s was even better with bright blue skies, puffy snow-white clouds, and temperatures approaching 80, which apparently is considered a heat wave for June in Nova Scotia.  I reversed the direction of the ride from the first circuit, and started on the western side and rode north and east.  The mountains in this corner of Nova Scotia rise about 2000-3000 feet from sea level and the Trail includes rides along the beach and over some of the highest passes.  A large part of the trail runs through Cape Breton Highlands National Park and the roads inside the park are decidedly superior to those maintained by local jurisdictions.

Best. Muffins. Ever.

I recognized several of the stops Marilyn and I made on along the way including a cultural center in   Cheticamp focusing on  the Acadians, French-speaking settlers who were largely forced out by the British after the Seven Years War ended in 1764.  Many of them resettled in Louisiana and are known today as Cajuns.  But a significant number stayed behind in Cape Breton and that corner of Nova Scotia is largely French speaking.   When I stopped for lunch in Cheticamp at a boulangerie (bakery) for the best cranberry and blueberry muffins I’ve ever had, the radio was  playing  music  that could have been confused with Louisiana Cajun zydeco.  Interesting to hear country music sung in French

Cape Breton Highlands

The scenery along the Cabot Trail is almost always spectacular, and was sometimes spectacularly distracting as I tried to keep one eye on the mountains/coast/valleys and the other eye on the road where pot holes and road breaks lay in wait for inattentive motorcycle riders.  I navigated the various pitfalls successfully and made several stops at well-planned overlooks, which gave me a chance to put both eyes on the gorgeous scenery.The road followed the coast and then headed into the mountains  for 70 joyous miles of roller coaster twisties that let me scuff the tread on the sides of the tires for a change  and scrape some chrome off the bottom of my floorboards.  

The ride took a little longer than I thought it would due to muffin stops and scenic overlooks, but I still managed to get to Sydney where I’m spending the night by about 5:30 and in time to start the second half of my day.

Men of the Deeps

One of the best things–maybe the best thing–about rides like this one and the ride to Alaska last summer are the unplanned, serendipitous gifts of fortune we get from time to time.  And tonight’s event was one of those.  About 20 miles from Sydney is a town called Glace Bay, which has a coal mining museum I had wanted to visit the last time we were here but didn’t.  When I looked online this morning to check on hours of operation and current exhibits, I discovered that the coal miners’ choir known as “Men of the Deeps” was going to be performing tonight at the museum.  Marilyn first discovered the group on PBS about eight years ago and I had wanted to see them perform since then.  Formed originally in 1966, they’ve toured all the major cities in North America and have sung around the world as well.  Rather than go into any more detail here, let me just give you a link if you want to learn more about this amazingly  talented group of miners and former miners.  Click here for info on “Men of the Deeps.

76 years old and singing strong

I had expected to be entertained, but the hour+ performance was more than that.  It was a lesson in cultural history and working class pride.  These guys not only sing and tell mining stories through their songs, they evince a profound sense of pride in being in an elite group that made industrialization possible through their hard and dangerous work.  They’re aren’t touring outside the area this year, but the expectation is that they will tour possibily next year and certainly in the 50th anniversary year in 2016.  If they’re booked anywhere near me and I know it, I’m going to go hear them again

Now all I need is a UMW union card.

After the performance I got a chance to talk with several of the miners/singers.  One was near 80 and had been with the group since its 1966 beginning.   Another was the son of a long-term member.  Another was a 76-year-old with an obvious ability to enjoy life by doing what he enjoyed.  One insisted I share his hat.  I was honored.

I left the performance with toes tapping and spirits buoyed.  What a great ending to a great day.  Tomorrow I’m going to return to the museum and learn more about them and the work they and thousands of men like them did underground (under the sea, actually since some of the mines tunnel under the sea bed).

More  pictures on Flickr.  Click here

 Note:  This post was written on the 23rd but not published until the 24th.

In the past, especially when I’ve been riding in a group or as half a twosome, I’ve booked rooms along a carefully plotted route.  And that’s usually a good thing, because I don’t have to worry about finding a room at the end of a long day.  But this trip I built in more flexibility.  On the way to and from Newfoundland, I don’t have any reservations and I have only a vaguely plotted route.  So far, I haven’t had any real problem locating a place to stay when I decide I’ve travelled for enough.

Today was another day this built in flexibility worked to my advantage.  I initially thought I would just overnight on Prince Edward Island before heading to Sydney, Nova Scotia.  But when I rode yesterday across the island to the north shore and when I talked to Steve and Eileen Hauser (see yesterday’s post), I decided to stick around for a half day’s sight seeing.  Good idea.  Had I left the island first thing this morning I would have missed PEI’s striking beaches, dunes and cliffs, as well as an important cultural landmark and the provincial capital, Charlottetown.

Green, red, and blue are all you need to paint PEI.

One striking thing about the beaches, dunes and cliffs is that they’re red, just like the recently plowed potato fields that dot the countryside.  Apparently there’s a lot of iron content in the rocks and soil and it oxidizes (rusts), giving the island a Mars-like appearance (except of course for the green fields and the blue water and the cows and all the tourists which of course you won’t find on Mars unless you count NASA’s Mars rovers).  By 8 a.m. I was walking along the beach watching small fishing boats bobbing offshore and exploring the cliffs that in some places rise 30-40 feet above the water.  The tourists were either still in bed or enjoying a leisurely breakfast and I had my share of the beach to myself.  Very peaceful and a great way to start the day.  I stayed for about an hour until a horde of young beach goers getting a start on the summer holiday showed up, then I headed for a National Park site that preserves an important part of Canada’s literary past.

Anne was a figment of Montgomery’s imagination but the house was not.

Anne of Green Gables was published in 1911 by island resident Lucy Maud Montgomery who later published a dozen more books, all but one of them set on the island. The book became a modern classic, at least among children, and she became one of the island’s most famous residents.  Efforts to preserve historical elements of this fictional work in the 1930s included preserving the original house with the green gables that Montgomery wove into her story.  The external structure of the house has been preserved as it was, according to the young National Park interpreters I spoke with, but the interior has been recreated as the interior of the house which Montgomery created for Anne.  And, since it’s run by National Parks Canada, it’s all done very well.  Before leaving, I picked up a copy of the book for my granddaughter’s 8th birthday present.

Leaving Green Gables, I headed along the coastal road again for one final look at the Gulf of St. Lawrence as it lapped the red shores of PEI then struck out across country through red and green farmland on my way to Charlottetown.  I didn’t spend much time there but I got a feel for the old city that is trying to use its city-center historical resources to create a vibrant urban core.  On the outskirts, though, Charlottetown is like all modern towns:  strip malls, traffic lights and box-store architecture.

The extra half day allowed me to see a little of the middle third of the island, but the eastern and western ends of that big red rock remain to be explored on a future trip that will require at least a week on the island.  

I re-crossed to the mainland on the Confederation Bridge after paying my $18 toll, which, since I didn’t pay a toll coming to the island, amounted to a reasonable $9 per trip across the bridge.  There was a ferry that would have taken me to Nova Scotia, but I wanted to see more of the Canadian countryside.  

Along the Sunrise Trail in Nova Scotia

At the Nova Scotia border I stopped at the visitor center and talked with Melinda who pointed out that the scenic route to the north might suit my interests more than the quicker but less scenic southern route.   The northern road is designated as the “Sunrise Trail” and goes through small fishing towns and vacation spots.  

“Pugwash: World Famous for Peace” Nice.

Plus I wanted to ride through “Pugwash” and “Tatamagouche” just because I liked the sounds of their names, so, like Robert Frost, I opted for the road less travelled on.

I’m in New Glasgow and still a couple hundred miles short of where I thought I would be after six days, but I built in an extra day just to be safe, so I’ll still have time tomorrow to ride the Cabot Trail (again) or go to a coal mining museum in Glace Bay that I missed the last time I was in Nova Scotia.

I started to order pie tonight after dinner, but the desert case had some primo looking baklava so I ordered that to go and ate it while I wrote this blog.  If there are typos, blame it on my sticky fingers. Some serious exercising is in my future when I get back to North Carolina.

One more note:  I have a very good wifi connection tonight so I posted today’s and yesterday’s pictures on the Flickr Album.  Click here.

I didn’t ride nearly as many miles today as yesterday, but in some ways today’s ride was more challenging.  I left the Interstate-like highway as quickly as I could after leaving Edmundston and headed cross country on a more scenic but much slower route.  In fact, Highway 108 in New Brunswick is little more than a paved logging road since there are no businesses, no houses, no nothing except mile after mile of trees and hills.  Signs warned drivers ahead of time that road conditions could be problematic, so I expected to go slow and I did.  Posted speeds were 70 an 80 kph (42 and 48 mph) but I was usually under those speed limits trying to avoid road breaks and pot holes for about 85 miles.  Still, given those challenges, I’m glad I left the four-lane highway and took the rustic route.

The Grand Falls at Grand Falls, NB

One of the first things I found after leaving the four-lane was a waterfall that, according to the official sign at the location, has a water flow 90% of Niagara Falls during the “spring freshet.”  Lots of water going over today even though they must be diverting some of it to a nearby hydroelectric plant.  They even had a zip line that went over the canyon and the falls, but I was there at 9 a.m. Sunday morning and no one else was around so I couldn’t try out the zip line.

Like Moses parting the Green Sea.

Once I got into the forest, the ride was like driving down an open-topped green tunnel.  Most of the time vision was limited to about 10 feet to either side of the road, but about a mile or two in front as the road often carved the shortest distance between two points.

All the important food groups.

Yesterday, observant readers may have noticed I made no mention of pie.  That’s because neither place I stopped to eat had any.  But one of them did have a caramel filled pastry that was almost as good.  Today I made it a point not to stop for lunch until I found a cafe/restaurant that looked like a promising pie candidate.  Today at the Kingway Family Restaurant I had a healthy lunch.  Grains (pie crust), fruit (blueberry filling), and dairy product (ice cream ala mode).  That was all the lunch I needed and got on the road again with my pie craving under control.

After ending the Highway 108 section of today’s ride and heading east, I paralleled but rarely saw the northern New Brunswick coastline until I turned north to get to Prince Edward Island.  Still, there was plenty of beautiful scenery to keep me occupied and to provide suitable inducement to stop once in a while and take it all in.

Wild flowers on PEI.

Once I crossed the 8-mile, Confederation Bridge over the Northumberland Strait that separates New Brunswick from PEI, I took another hour and a half to cross the Island to get to the northern coast.  The route was mostly backroads and gave me a chance to see some of the farming activity that, next to tourism and fishing, is the primary business on the island.  Potatoes, as it turns out, is the number one crop, followed by various berries, and then cattle.  Mostly neat, well-kept little farms with little farming communities centered around a local church–usually Catholic.  

PEI Rural Church

I saw the interior of the island but almost none of the coastline or larger cities, so I’m going to stay on the island for half a day tomorrow and look around some more.  Will try to get to Green Gables of Ann of Green Gables fame while I’m here and take a stroll through Charlottetown, the capital and main urban center.  I also expect to explore some of the beaches/cliffs if I can.  It’s a good thing I don’t have a real schedule (other than making my ferry connection to Newfoundland from Nova Scotia) so I can alter my travel plans as I want to.

One of the comments on this blog yesterday came from Steve Hauser, a rider I rode with in Colorado two years ago when I was invited to ride with “The Twisted Riders,” a group of not-too-twisted individuals largely from Indiana who taught me a thing or two about handling a motorcycle at high speed on the twisties.  He said he and his wife were going to be in Prince Edward Island today and gave me the name of their motel.  Not having made reservations, that motel was as good as any other so I headed there and ran into them at a cafe next to the motel.  After dinner, Steve had his Kentucky Bourbon and I had my Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey and we talked about riding and retirement and the good life.  It was nice to meet Steve’s wife Eileen and I wished them well on the rest of the tour.

 I’m going to try to publish this post initially without pictures because the wifi at the hotel is very weak and it doesn’t seem to handle large files very well.  I’ve been unable to add pictures to the Flickr Album and I’m not sure I can add them to the blog tonight.  Will try to fix all that when I get a stronger wifi connection.

Don’t know where I’ll end up tomorrow, but I’m sure it’s where I’ll belong.  Everyone stay safe.

I can’t wait to get on the road again.

Parce que j’ai traversé des ÉTATS-UNIS au Québec francophone, j’ai pensé qu’il était approprié que j’écris ce soir l’entrée de blog en français. Je ne savais pas qu’un Français quand je suis entré au Canada, mais étant donné que tous les signes au Québec sont en français, et tous les gens là-bas parlent, J’ai simplement repris comme s’il s’agissait je rode partout dans la province et dans le Nouveau-brunswick . J’ai été étonné lorsque j’ai obtenu pour le Nouveau-brunswick , que la plupart des gens ici aussi parler et il est enseigné à tous les élèves de l’école.  Je suppose que cela a quelque chose à faire avec seulement à 10 kilomètres de Québec. Comme je suis aller plus loin à l’est demain, le français sera devenu plus rare et l’anglais sera la langue maternelle primaire. Mais ils continueront à utiliser une monnaie je ne pas complètement comprendre et un système de mesure que nous devrions adopter aux ÉTATS-UNIS .

What?  You don’t read French?  OK.  Here’s the first paragraph in AMEERICUN.  And the rest of the post will be in English also.  I was just trying to expand your linguistic horizons.

Because I crossed from the United States into French-speaking Quebec, I thought it only appropriate that I write tonight’s blog entry in French.  I didn’t know any French when I entered Canada but since all the signs in Quebec are in French and all the people there speak it, I just picked it up as I rode across the province and into New Brunswick.  I was surpised when I got to New Brunswick that most of the people here also speak it and it’s taught to all students in school.  I guess it has something to do with being only 10 miles from Quebec.  As I go further east tomorrow, French will be become more rare and English will be the primary tongue.  But they will continue to use a currency I don’t completely understand and a measuring system that we should adopt in the United States.

Vermont covered bridge

Another early start (kickstand up about 0715) gave me time to wander around Vermont a little on my way to the border crossing to the north.  I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but wanted to see some of the countryside.  Vermont is known for its cheddar (and other) cheeses and that must explain the hundreds of farms with thousands of cows.  I’m not complaining, really, but the pungent odor that permeates diary operations and feed lots followed me for many miles this morning.  It’s not something I want to live with, but the earthy smell bespeaks a more agrarian America and is no doubt something that was far more noticed a hundred years ago when the U.S. had a predominantly rural- and animal-based population.

I also happened to chance upon a “restored” covered bridge just outside Middlebury.  I’m sure if I ride around the New England countryside I’d discover a lot more of them, including ones that haven’t been restored.  It’s pretty much a lost art since iron and steel and concrete replaced the wooden trusses that required protection from the elements.  That could be another road trip:  See New England’s Covered Bridges.  Any takers?

Welcome to Quebec (and all of Canada)

Today was a long day on the road (480 miles) and between my Vermont wanderings and the 100/90 kph (62/55 mph) speed limit across Canada, there wasn’t much time to stop and explore along the way.  Despite my current look which my daughter suggests makes me look like a serial killer, I made it past the decidedly stern Canadian border patrol officers, who apparently have their sense of humor removed at border patrol school.  After greeting me with a formal “good morning sir,” she proceeded to ask me the basic questions:  

Where was I going?  Canada.  
No, where are you going IN Canada.  Oh.  Newfoundland.  
Do you know anyone in Canada?  I looked and she didn’t have a nametag, so I said no.  
Do you have any weapons?  Sinister pause.  No.  
Do you have any alcohol?  A bottle of Jack Daniels for personal use.  
Are you bringing in more than $10,000.  Pause.  Are you kidding?  
Are you bringing in more than $10,000.  Uh, no maam.  
Pull forward.  

And she didn’t even thank me for having signed my passport, which a keen-eyed U.S. border guard had pointedly brought to my attention on last year’s trip to Alaska.

St. Lawrence was pretty, but no ships. 

The ride across Quebec took me on the outskirts of Montreal and Quebec City and along the St. Lawrence Seaway for about 100+ miles.  I knew the river was there all the time, but trees and hills mostly hid the water from view.  At one point I could see the water AND there was a place to stop, so I pulled over and looked for big ships, but to no avail.  I was a little surprised because I thought the waterway was pretty busy.  Sailing up the river must have been exciting for early European explorers who probably thought they had found the elusive Northwest Passage.  It was a lovely view, though, and worth the stop.  Note:  The St. Lawrence is one of less than a handful of rivers in North America that runs South to North.  So does the St. John’s back in Orange Park.

Premium gas for the motorcycle in Canada is about $2.00 more per gallon than in the states, coming in at between $5.50 and $6.00.  Hope it doesn’t go any higher than that.  I noticed as I rolled slowly across Canada that there are A LOT of little cars.  Gas prices no doubt have a relationship to auto sales.  Eventually the same phenomenon will likely hit the US when we see gas prices at about $7.00 a gallon.

Temperature never got above 65 degrees today so I stayed in my leather jacket.  Tomorrow will probably start out in the 40s so I’ll add chaps (which my Wyoming friend Linda says are “Shaps” not “CHaps).   Cloudy skies all day but no rain.  Not bad so far on the rain front:  Four riding days and only one of those required rain gear.  Tomorrow’s forecast shows a 30% chance for rain on Prince Edward Island where I’m heading.  Maybe my luck will hold.

More than 1,600 miles added to the odometer so far this trip.  And I’m only just gettin’ started.  I can’t wait to get on the road again.

Thanks again for tuning in and following along.

 Enjoy more pictures. Link to Flickr: Click here

What could be more All American than hot dogs, baseball and apple pie and traveling on an American-made motorcycle?  I managed to squeeze all of that into one day (if you count Apple Crisp as an apple pie).

The jewell of Cooperstown.

I was close enough to Cooperstown, New York, to visit the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, so I took a quick tour of the place.  It’s an amazing collection and display of baseball memorabilia that begins in the mid 19th century and goes to the present big-league, big-money enterprise that America’s favorite pasttime has become.  From changing equipment to the changing faces of the game to the always changing records that may get harder to break but usually get broken somehow, this three-story museum has something for every baseball fan.  It’s clearly a place where baseball aficionados can spend days and the 2 hours I allowed myself didn’t do the place justice.  

Me and the Bambino

But it was fun to walk through and it brought back memories of my youth when I actually played the game, knew the players, collected the cards (which my mother threw away while cleaning out the basement) and even attended a few games.  The display of the old Milwaukee Braves, for example, recalled my first trip to a Major League stadium to watch Eddie Mathews, Del Crandall, Warren Spahn and young fella by the name of Hank Aaron play the game.  Don’t remember who they played or what the score was, but I remember sitting in the stands on the third base side of the stadium eating pop corn and cheering for the Braves.  Today’s visit to the Hall of Fame also included a chance to watch other old men reminisce to young boys who dream of a chance to go to the big dance.  It was 2 hours well spent.  

Cooperstown Diner

Old fashioned hot dogs

After the museum, I walked around Cooperstown and discovered an old diner that still served hot dogs the way they’re meant to be served.  I ordered a jumbo dog but they were out so the cook gave me two of their regular dogs.  I told Louise-the-waitress I thought they were two jumbo dogs but she assured me they weren’t.  I ate them both so I didn’t have room for the pie I expected to have with lunch.  Instead, when I got to Middlebury, VT, and settled in for the night, I found a cafe that had homemade Apple Crisp with apples actually peeled in the kitchen.  Not quite pie but close enough.

Adirondack Mountains

For the first time on this trip I completely avoided Interstate highways, depending instead on the fortunes of state roads, county roads and some roads that didn’t qualify as either.  The quality of the roads in New York continued to be a mix of truly awful, moderately terrible, and, in some cases, pretty good.  A constant problem was trying to predict when a pretty good road would devolve into the bone-jarring variety.  I always slowed down after the first major bump, which they occasionally warned drivers was ahead somewhere in the undefined distance, but hitting the first one each time resulted in a series of unkind words for the NY DOT.

Colorful hives, but I don’t think the fence will keep the bees in.

 While the roads may not always have been to my liking, the scenery almost certainly was.  Every time I travel across America I’m reminded what a beautiful place it is.  Soaring mountains, rolling hills, cascading streams and serene lakes.  What a good way to spend the day.  The mountains in New York, at least the ones I saw were mostly in the Adirondack State Park (the biggest state park in the U.S.)  At only about 3500 feet, the tree-covered slopes are not as tall as those in North Carolina/Tennessee or the American West, but they still have the power to instill awe in the viewer.  But what made these hills different from others, I think,, is  that they are dotted with thousands of lakes.  Once I got into the Park, I was almost always in sight of water somewhere, in the form of brooks, creeks, streams, ponds or lakes.  Sometimes you have to search for the lakes between the trees, but that’s not always a good idea when you also have to be searching for road breaks and pot holes.

Pastoral pleasures.

One of my realizations today was that triple digit roads are better for riding than two digit or one digit roads.  And roads with names of local farmers or landmarks instead of numbers are even better.  The small county roads, where you have to go slower because they make no effort to straighten them out and the narrow asphalt ribbons frequently intersect driveways and hidden farm roads, are the best places to slow down and smell the roses (or the hay or the alfalfa or the manure).  And sometimes it’s nice to just stop on the road and look around at well-kept farms, contented stock and hard-working farmers.

Between the two-hour stop at Cooperstown and the enjoyable but slow country roads, it too, me almost 11 hours to go less than 400 miles.  I’m ready to finish my Jack, take a last look at the sun as it sets over Vermont and get ready to head for Canada, eh?

I should cross into Canada about 11 a.m. tomorrow and will head for a currency exchange to trade my Andrew Jacksons for some Loonies and Toonies.  Looking forward to roads where the speed limit is 100.  Well, in Kilometers Per Hour, anyway.

Everyone stay safe and I’ll try to do the same, eh?

Enjoy more pictures.  Link to Flickr:  Click here

Finding rain on this trip didn’t take long.  Only the second day on the road and I had about 2 hours of the wet stuff even though I changed course and tried to navigate around it.  I went through a few sprinkles in West Virginia and Maryland, but not enough to even consider putting on rain gear.  When I stopped for lunch in Pennsylvania and checked the weather radar, however, I knew there would be no avoiding the hundred-mile rain band dousing the Keystone state.   My external clothing pack was already covered, and I slipped my official Harley Davidson rain pants on to get a jump on the inevitable rain.  But I only rode about 20 minutes more before I stopped to add the jacket as well.  It was a gentle rain for the most part and I’m sure farmers were glad to get it.  It never came close to raining hard enough to send me scrambling for cover and a place to pull over.  The rain gear kept me dry but I wish I could have stopped more often this afternoon to take in some of the gorgeous Pennsylvania scenery.

Riding PA 522 just before the rain started.

This morning, I found myself on I-81 going north for more miles than I liked, so I turned off the GPS and headed cross country.  I knew there was a pretty good road (PA 522) that would take me closer to and into some small mountains and foothills, so that’s where I headed.  Interstates are boring and they almost never have good pie stops.  You need small town cafes and diners for that.  And I found one in time for another early lunch.  I hadn’t intended to eat more than an obscenely large piece of pie, but I started talking with Mr. Williams who told me that he and his family had just opened the “Sunny Ridge Station Family Restaurant” last week so I decided to help him out a little and ordered his namesake “Williams Burger” and a cup of cream of potato soup.  Turned out his granddaughter in the kitchen does all the creative cooking. She invented the Williams Burger, which consists of 1/3 pound ground beef patty covered with fried onions and a sauce that includes BBQ sauce and brown sugar and some other no doubt secret ingredients served on a Kaiser roll.  Not bad.  But the cream of potato soup was outstanding.  Best I’ve had in many a year.  

Good but not great.

When I finally got to what I stopped for in the first place–PIE–I opted for the granddaughter’s Boston Cream Pie, which, by the way, won’t win any awards.  She sure makes good potato soup, though.  She should put it in a pie shell and bake it.  Call it Cream of Potato Pie.  The place started to fill up around noon as I was donning rain gear and getting ready to leave, so maybe the “Sunny Ridge Station Family Restaurant” will still be there the next time I go riding down PA 522.  I’ll try the cherry pie.  It looked good.

Pennsylvania has miles of beautiful farm country and lots of REALLY BIG barns.  I had hoped to get pictures of some of the barns, but it was either raining or there was no place to pull off to take a picture.  Trust me, even a city boy can tell that those are some fine old barns.

One of many beautiful homes.

The other thing I noticed today as I was rolled through small town after small town (or village or borough or township) was the 19th century architecture that dominated the towns’ main streets.  Beautiful old homes and downtown buildings, many of which are being or have been restored, often with the colorful palettes typical of Victorian era houses.  When the rain finally quit I found myself in Mifflinburg on PA 45 and was so struck by the downtown and the houses that lined Main Street that I parked the bike and walked around for a while.  Of course not every house has been restored to the glory that the picture here and others on Flickr attest, but clearly many of them have been lovingly rehabbed, restored and nursed back to life.  I would liked to have seen the insides but no one seemed eager to invite a wild-bearded biker into their parlor.  Too bad.

Just outside Williamsport

By 3:30 the rain was gone completely and I had gorgeous blue skies with billowing white clouds for the remainder of the day, including the time I went through Williamsport in the spectacular Susquehanna River Valley.  In the back of my mind I knew I had heard something about Williamsport, but couldn’t remember what it was.  And then I saw a “Little League International” sign and one of the many voices in my head whispered “Little League World Series.”  A quick turn into a parking lot gave me a chance to see the “Field of Dreams” for many young boys (and a few girls) who work so hard at learning the finer points of America’s Favorite Pastime.  It would be fun to go through Williamsport when the Little League World Series sends young dreamers scurrying around the bases to youthful fame and fleeting glory.

One final note tonight:  The roads in Pennsylvania where I spent most of the day–either wet or dry–were in pretty good shape.  Some had been recently repaved, a couple were brand new, and the rest were solid and I didn’t have to adjust speed or direction to avoid potholes.  But New York–I made it to Elmira where I’m comfortably ensconsed in a Hampton Inn– well, New York is another story.  I’ve only driven about 30 miles in New York and all of it on an Interstate whose number I can’t remember.  And that road is terrible.  Crumbling pavement, expansion joint ridges that jar your teeth, pot holes that could swallow a small car.   I’d rather ride the Alaska Highway again.   I think I’m avoiding all Interstates tomorrow and I’m hoping that the back roads are in better shape because they’re less heavily travelled.

Through New York and into Vermont tomorrow.  I can’t wait to get on the road again.

Flickr link:  Click here

Ten hours and 478 miles between Maggie Valley and my motel in Luray, Virginia.  What a perfect day on a motorcycle.  I layed awake most of the time after 2:30 a.m. this morning thinking about the 30+ day adventure that lay before me and I’m a little tired tonight.   I had planned to go kickstand up at 0700 but I was so ready and so anxious that I actually fired the engine, loaded Willie Nelson on the CD and started a few minutes before 7, much to the chagrin of one of my neighbors who wanted to wave goodbye from her porch as I left.  Sorry Yvonne, but at least I revved my engine as I went by on my farewell loop around Raven Ridge circle.

For the first hour on the road (mostly interstate to get through Asheville) low-lying clouds hugged the ground and climbed the mountain sides but usually failed to get to the top of the peaks, providing occasional glimpses of the Smokies at their best.  I headed east for about 60 miles before turning north, and when I did the mountains were mostly on my left side as I rolled through rolling farmland and foothills.  Good roads though, with enough sharp and steep twisties thrown in to keep the ride interesting.

My view for much of the day

Thanks to farmers who were out early mowing hay, I was reminded of one of the great pleasures of riding a motorcycle:  the smells.  There are few aromatic delights more invigorating than fresh cut hay in the morning.  You miss that riding in a car with recycled, air-conditioned conditioned air that always smells stalely the same.  Note to friends on four wheels:  Go for a ride in the country from time to time, roll down your windows and take a deep breath.  Aaahhhhh.  Riding a motorcycle is always sensual because all the senses seem to be heightened:  Smell the fresh mown hay.  See a kaleidoscope of colors as scenery flashes by all around you.  Feel the wind (and bugs) in your face and on your arms as air rushes by at 70 mph.  Hear the gentle roar of the engine (volume dependent on muffler choice) and the woosh of the air going by.  Taste?  Well maybe not so much taste unless you’re grinning real big and a bug smashes between your nose and your chin.  All in all, though, riding on two wheels is truly sensual.

Pie in a bowl. Hey, it works.

I suspect long-time readers of this blog are waiting for me to get to the good stuff.  OK.  Here it is.  Apple pie for an early lunch at a real diner.  And the slice was so big and so full and so juicy that the waitress, somewhat puzzled by my 11 a.m. menu selection, had to put it in a bowl.   Maybe it was deep-dish apple pie.   Definitely a good gastronomic start to the trip, even though I opted not to add the ice cream that would have no doubt nicely complemented my apple pie lunch with diner coffee chaser.

Almost 500 miles today and no rain.  That’s a good start.  But the temperatures did climb into the mid 90s as several Virginia cities set June 18 record highs.  I kept my long sleeves on to protect my arms from the sun and it wasn’t too uncomfortable as long as I was rolling.  Lengthy stop lights were another matter.

Pink elephants: whether you’re on the wagon or on a motorcycle

One of the great things about a trip like this is that you never know what what to expect as you round a curve.  For example, today I didn’t expect to see a pink elephant, but suddenly there it was.  Perched on a platform high in the air.  And below this particularly poised pachyderm was a plethora of other beasts and fowls of various stripes.  All composed of the same concrete mixture as the Dumbo want-to-be.  It was worth turning around and going back for a second look and a few pictures.  I even found a motorcycle with less power than mine standing near a hippopotamus and a squad of grape-laden Greek warriors.  (More pictures are available on the Flickr link below.)

Jackson made a name for himself in Eastern Virginia.

Most of the day I rode parallel to the eastern slopes of the mountains, sometimes separated from them by several miles of lush farm fields sprouting corn, tobacco, and lots of hay and dotted with agricultural structures and vehicles in various states of disrepair.  This was especially true as I rode the “Stonewall Jackson Memorial Highway” in the Shenandoah Valley.  Earlier in the day I had putted along on the “JEB Stuart Memorial Highway.”  In Virginia, of course, you’re never far from reminders of the Recent Unpleasantness between the States and I whizzed past several fine-print highway historical markers that I’m sure recounted the excellent exploits of troops on both sides of the Civil War but that I couldn’t read because I was going too fast and they were written too small and there was no place to pull over and stop or even turn around so I kept going.  Some genius in the Virginia DOT Highway Historical section needs to come up with a solution.

Fields, farms and mountains. Nice.

Tomorrow I continue north, probably ending somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania or maybe New York depending on the weather, the quality of the roads, my response to reveille and whether or not there are more concrete kingdoms or equally entertaining oddities to explore.

I’ve put pictures on a Flickr Album designated for the Newfoundland/Labrador trip.  If all goes well, you should be able to see them by clicking on this link (which I’ll link to in each blog post from here on out):  https://flic.kr/s/aHsjXhQnYK

Since I prepacked a half dozen times in the last two weeks and checked the bike over several times and did pre-ride planning since last fall, there wasn’t much to do today but take care of a couple domestic chores and drum my fingers on the table.  I’m as ready as I can get and eagerly anticipate kickstand up tomorrow at 0700.

Maggie Valley Friends

Just as we have great friends in Florida who gathered to wish Marilyn and me bon voyage last year when we headed for Alaska, so too do we have great NEW friends in North Carolina who also gathered today to wish me well during the next 30+ days.  Marilyn and I are fortunate to have so many people who care about us.   At least I think that’s what it is.  It may be, however, that we just surround ourselves with people who latch on to any excuse to have a drink.

What was supposed to be a one-hour chips and nibbles happy hour turned into a two-hour, too-much food party in the pavillion of our cabin community.  The organizer even had a “Newfoundland Quiz” that I wasn’t allowed to participate in since I’ve been reading about Newfoundland/Labrador for the past six months.  I told the group about my ill-planned itinerary for the next month (i.e. go north until every sentence ends with “eh”, then head east and look for a big island) and related what I hoped to see along the way (e.g. gentlemen’s clubs and hot biker chicks).  

Happy trails, indeed

Lots of laughs and well wishes.  Good friends, many of whom will be on their porches at 0700 to wave goodbye as I glide by with Willie Nelson providing a musical send off, are nice to have.

I think I must be getting pretty good at packing a motorcycle for long trips, having done it every year for about the past decade.  When I finally got everything packed I still had room left in my tour pack for my helmet.  That’s a lot of space for “Newfie” souvenirs.  I was so bereft of ride-related things to do today that I actually weighed all the stuff I’m taking.  The clothing pack, which will be on the passenger seat behind me, came in at 21 pounds, including a full bottle of Jack Daniels, an iPad and assorted heart, cholesterol and diabetes drugs apparently prescribed for all gentlemen of advanced years.  The right saddle bag has tools, rain gear, cold weather gear, first-aid kit, and assorted bungy cords and cargo nets:  15 pounds.  Left saddle bag has chaps, leather jacket, tennis shoes and one pair of Levis:  13 pounds.  Tour pack has camera, tripod, notebook, hoodie, and heated jacket:  11 pounds.  Total weight:  60 pounds.  Not bad.

I didn’t mention this on last night’s blog, but I meant to.  Please feel free to comment on the blog.  It helps me feel connected.  Connected not just to people who understand the same currency and weights and measures as me, but connected to friends and fellow travelers.   I know you’re there because I check site visits on the blog stats, but it’s nice to communicate, too.  Say hi once in a while and I’ll say hi back atcha.

Tomorrow night I’ll be somewhere in the middle of Virginia.  As the Jack slowly melts a couple of ice cubes and I review the day’s miles, I’ll fill you in on tomorrow’s journey.

Now there’s only one thing left to say:  I can’t wait to get on the road again.

In two days I’ll be on the road again.  This time for 30+ days as I ride from North Carolina to Newfoundland and Labrador for a little look see in our neighbor to the North.  I’m ready now.  I’ve been ready for days.  I’m anxious to fire up the big V-Twin, raise the kickstand and roll down the road.  And I’m anxious once again to share the adventure with friends and family.

Thanks to everyone rejoining me on the blog after following Marilyn and my adventures last year as we putted our way to Alaska and back.  Believe me, knowing that friends and family faithfully followed our journey and enjoyed, vicariously at least, our travels and my attempts to record them turned out to be as energizing as straddling the big Harleys each day.  I can’t guarantee this year’s solo adventure will be as exciting or as interesting as last year’s two-month dream-come-true, but I promise I’ll try to take you along on another pie-filled adventure that will make you want to do something equally as crazy.

Clean bike, at least for now

I’ve packed and repacked.  I’ve checked the bike and put on a new front tire.  The fluids and the air pressure are at their proper levels.  Today I even washed and polished my Alaska Highway-scarred Ultra Classic.  I’ve worried about what to take and what I’m forgetting until I’ve probably driven Marilyn crazy.  She’s probably as anxious for me to get on the road as I am, though I think there’s a part of her (not the hind part) that wishes she was going on this ride, too.

Why Newfoundland? Well, I haven’t been there before. And I don’t have a Harley-Davidson t-shirt from there. And two North Carolina neighbors who went there several years ago highly recommended it. But mostly because when I looked at various Newfoundland/Labrador (it’s all one province) websites, it seemed like a great destination and a great place to ride. It has the northern end of the Appalachian mountain chain (which I can currently see from where I’m typing in my cabin); icebergs from the Arctic; an abundance of whales, moose and other creatures large and small; world class historic sites (e.g. the first European contact via the Vikings); music and folk festivals; summer theater; and plenty of gorgeous scenery and friendly people. Now, perhaps, I’ve come under the sway of the Siren Song of chamber-of-commerce PR hacks who just want me to come north and bring my U.S. currency. But I don’t think so. I think it’s going to be a great place to ride and visit. I’ll let you know over the next 30 days.

Each rocking chair comes with your choice of wine or Jack Daniels.

I’ll miss my little North Carolina cabin and the person who lives in it. And I’ll miss the frequent rides on North Carolina mountain roads and the always wonderful Blue Ridge Parkway. But they’ll be here when I get back. Once again, thanks for joining me on this year’s adventure. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

Note: In the blog, click on the small pictures to see larger versions. In a day or so I’ll add a link to a Flickr album with new pictures each day.