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At time of posting (June, 2004) this story is incomplete, as my computer crashed while I was writing the story last Fall, and before I got the computer up and running again, the back-up disk was mislaid.
I will try again to finish it.
.
September, 2003
I bought the GS1100GKE a few months ago because?
My daughter moved to Nova Scotia about a year ago, about a 2000 kilometre/1200 mile drive from here, and she had been asking me to visit her.
I had mentioned to her a couple of years ago that what I wanted most to do with the GS1100G , was to drive the Cabot Trail, in Nova Scotia, but other things got in the way, and I couldn?t do it.
This year, Carmen dragged me out to see another GS, a 1984 GS1100GKE. Windshield was scuffed from being covered with a tarp, but otherwise it looked and sounded just GREAT!
Drove it about 120 miles home.
The GK comes set up for distance driving.....so why not try it for that? Install new Metzelers, make a new windshield, replace headlight bulb, (xenon/blue type) change filter and all lubes/oils, check out shocks, forks, and electrics.....all?s good. GO.
Vacation time was here, so I asked my daughter for directions to her place. She sent me an e-mail, giving brief highway directions, but with no suggestions of distance or time.
I printed the e-mail, folded it, put it in my pocket,
The next day, after packing the GKE saddlebags with necessary clothes, camera and tools, I left home after lunch.
Aimed the GK south to the highway (401) and then headed east. Just after leaving Toronto, the speedometer wavered wildly for a few seconds, then quit. Drove on. Might as well look at it at the next gas stop...about 40 miles away.
Passed a Kawasaki and a highly polished H-D before that. The H-D passed me.
At the gas stop the speedo was fixed (cable had come loose) with the universal tool.....vice grips. Met both other riders at the gas stop. The Kawasaki rider said five hours to Montreal from there. I suggested less. (I had already passed him, so it was obvious I was willing to drive at higher speeds). The H-D rider was a woman with long braided, hair, who spoke little English and was reading a map. She had come from Quebec and was hoping to find her way home. Not really difficult....just follow 401. She went back into the restaurant and I left.
At a Quebec tourism office I met a delightful woman who provided maps and wrote on them as she spoke. That surprised me as she was writing upside down (for her) so I could read it as she wrote it, and I really appreciated it.
Passing Montreal, it was close to dusk, but Route 40, to Quebec City, would be a lousy road at noon. Just a simple highway, but the so-called engineers who designed it must have been high on crack cocaine, or something similar, and no one cross-checked their work before it was built. For a biker it can be fun in daylight, but for a tourist, driving it near dusk, it is not. Smooth and easy curves transform halfway through and become bends that require serious attention. That said, the on/off ramps are much, much, worse. You travel the first half of the ramp at a slower speed, with a standard riding attitude, but then find yourself going off the roadway because the radius on the curve has changed radically, so you have to switch to near-racing attitude partway along or lose it.
Amazingly, Route 40 changes names, but continues as a highway straight into the oldest part of Quebec city where is very suddenly degrades to a city street and stops, in the Lower City.
The place is fascinating. Tiny shops line the cobblestone streets. Signs beckon you to enter the various establishments. Restaurant menus and lists of items for sale line the street.
Pedestrians wander to and fro in front of you, apparently wondering why you are not walking.
A horse-drawn carriage turns ahead. It seems to contain tourists. You round a corner and immediately find the road has turned upwards at about 60 degrees! Damn! I don?t have a trail bike! Doesn?t matter. Ride it to the upper city. I spent about two hours riding around the city and its perimeter.
Rolling by the river (St. Lawrence) I look up towards the old Quebec Fort....I cannot actually see it, as it sits about 100 feet above me, atop a massive rock wall that runs almost straight up from the roadway.
Found a little cabin-type motel. Tiny A-frame cabins. You don?t really bang your head when you get up....just brush against the ceiling!
The forecast is for light rain showers, so it?s off for breakfast, gas, then back on the highway. Sun fades behind clouds, and the air smells of rain, so my speed stays up. The highway is uneventful until I near the river again, only now on the south side. Gorgeous views, but it is heavy overcast and rain is imminent, so I don?t want to stop.
Highway signs at south-east Quebec are hilarious! The one I liked best:
(Translated) The speed of life is 90Km.
One was an accurate prediction. I had never seen an ATV crossing sign, but this was posted ahead of a bend in the road and, immediately after that, there was a line-up of about 6 ATVs, waiting for me to pass.
A few drops of rain catch up to me, so I speed up a bit and outrun it into New Brunswick. This is a very pretty area, and I would like to stop here. I have full rain gear, but I have little interest in driving on newly-wet roads that I have never seen before.
The highway signage is very different from Ontario. Posted limit is 100kmh (60mph), even though it runs by rows of private houses. People go on with their daily lives, completely unconcerned, despite non-stop despite a non-stop flow of trucks. In Ontario, the local citizens would be in terminal panic, and twist themselves and their local politicians inside out trying to get the speed limits reduced to 40kph. And, since Ontario politicians are intrinsically skilled at ignoring all forms of rational thought, they would succeed.
Two hours later, the sun appears likely to win, and the road has changed dramatically. It is now a beautifully smooth and extra-wide multi-lane highway. Speed is posted at 110kph, but there isn?t even one truck moving that slowly.
Stop at Hartland, N.B. They have the world?s longest covered bridge. An ancient (100 years old)
device that separates the two sides of the town, it?s 1282 feet long. You could get two cars to pass each other inside it, but it would be snug. The practice is to stop and wait for the other side to clear, then drive, making it a one-way trip. After going across, I could not find another way out of town, so I went back the same way. I was alone going back. The bike sounds really interesting in there.
Gas along this area is hard to find. There are almost no gas stations on or near the highway, so a few trips are up to ten miles each way. Sun is out and it is gorgeous, but a high cross wind made the back end twitch. About 20 minutes later it happened again. Stop and check air pressure....it is down a few pounds. Off the highway to find a garage. Found one....air pump connector goes on, but the pump doesn?t work...air pressure is reduced. The little hand pump I bought just before leaving home won?t do it. I find an ancient garage with a young owner. He used to own a GS750.E and offers me the air hose. His connector doesn?t fit either, so more air is lost. While I am getting really upset, he is spreading a concrete mix over gravel to fil a large hole. It can?t be more than a temporary fix, as water and frost will destroy it, .but I offer no comment. He can?t get air in my tire either, but disappears and rummages through mounds of stuff inside the garage, then returns with a portable air tank. It has a hose fitted with a standard nozzle. That works. .
Off again, vowing to make an adapter for any circumstance....which I do after reaching Nova Scotia; it now stays with the bike.
The rest of the ride through N.B. was uneventful until I discovered a dark-coloured section in the road shortly before entering Nova Scotia. It is a dip on a curve, where many vehicles have apparently bottomed out. I hit it at 100 and the bike bounced and went airborne. I recommend that anyone else driving that road watch for it.
The highway towards Halifax, Nova Scotia is again beautiful. The only complaint is the toll section, where they charge the same for a bike as for larger vehicles. At the toll area a truck I had passed a couple of times goes through (they just roll on, and on, while I had to keep leaving the highway for gas). I get directions from the toll-man as I slip the gloves back on, then watch the truck disappear from my mirrors as we head up the acceleration lane.
It is getting dark as I turn off the highway to head towards my daughter?s place. She has given me an exit from the next one...which I think is a few minutes away. A half-hour later I have noticed the exit signs are not in my favour, but I cannot go much faster as the road keeps changing from four to two-lanes, and is littered with construction warning signs, pylons, and diversions. On reaching her place, I wonder about why it got dark so early. I forgot there was a time zone change.
The next day she warms up her Buell Blast! and we go off to a small town for coffee. As we leave there, she pulls out of the parking lot ahead of me. I reach the edge of the parking lot and...........traffic stops! Then I get a friendly wave to go ahead. She had told me of this, but the reality was still a surprise, as courtesy like this is unheard of in other places.
In the evening, we ride out to another town where there a weekly bike meet. Impressive, indeed! It is a quite cool night, so I learn not as many show up as would do in warmer nights, but there were over a hundred bikes there. Wings are the best represented, but there are many types and makes, going all the way back to an early Vincent, which I saw the next week; the first one I had seen. (Photos in GS Garage)
My daughter had no advance knowledge of my trip (I asked for directions to her place Friday night, got her response on Saturday, and arrived there on Monday,) so she had other commitments for the week, but offered to ride her Buell and accompany me on a trip to the Cabot Trail if I would wait for the weekend.
What to say?
At that moment, there was nothing in the world that I would like more.
Some concern existed. She took the full training course, and got her licence and bike last year, but had only covered about 3500km on her own, but the Cabot Trail is a demanding route...and over 300km away. I had been watching her closely on the local trips. She?s actually pretty good, but this would be her first long trip, so my mirrors would have to be full of her as we go
.
Friday rolled around and we headed off towards Cape Breton. I watch her in the mirrors. Constantly. We reach a stretch of road covered in pieces of rubber form a blown truck tire. I immediately pick the pattern and hunt my way through, without slowing, while she shows great aplomb in slowing a bit, then switching lanes and going around it. I am impressed.
A stop in Truro, eat lunch, another stop in Antigonish, where she captured the attention of a few passersby, while stripping in the parking lot. (Well, it was warm). Then it was off again, and across the S-shaped Canso Causeway to Cape Breton. The Causeway appears like just another bunch of rock across the water, carrying a mile or so of two-lane traffic and a railroad track, with a swing bridge at one end. The unseen reality is that this is the deepest man-made pile of rocks in the world; the water is over 200 feet deep, and it took 3 years to complete it, using rock carved and blown out of nearby mountains and trucked continuously to the water?s edge, where it was pushed over by bulldozers.
We stopped at a tourist hut for a few ideas, then headed up the highway towards the Cabot Trail, 80 km away. It was nearing dusk as we got away from the Causeway and into the trees. There may have been a few sights I missed at that time, as I was concentrating on where I was going, while looking through tears.
We stopped at a wide basin for a bit, Golden sand bars graced the water, the sand and water flecked with strong red streaks of evening sun, all of it backed with rolling hills in many shades of green, and tinges of russet, as a few trees were adopting their fall colours. And we saw this from atop an apple tree! Actually it was growing on the side of the hill, and showed us a huge canopy of apples, but they were unreachable as the hill was too steep. (Photos in GS Garage)
We stopped at a motel, then went up to the Red Barn (a restaurant and store-tourist trap) for dinner. The Red Barn is at the intersection that marks the beginning and end of the Cabot Trail. From there you decide to follow the Trail clockwise, or counter-clockwise.
The next morning, we went clockwise.
This was finally it!
A slim roadway, with lanes narrower than I am accustomed to, almost no shoulders, and not a good surface. Concerns about what the road would be like in the twisty parts arose, but were soon forgotten, lost in the amazement of the beauty surrounding us. I am used to trees...I live in a small town, and there are farms and treed areas all around us. What I don?t have is a panorama of trees, massed in numbers that roll across hills and valleys, creating a carpetscape in the distance. The carpet has a meandering thread of roadway across undulating hills, popping up in the distance, like a wandering serpent, seeking unseen delights in valleys, before it rises again to momentarily bask in the sun, finally creeping up to tall bluffs whose noble stance reflects the morning sunlight onto the ocean below. Then the thread disappears as it rounds a high, distant curve.
I tried to take photos of this....also in GS Garage.....The photos do not do it justice. Every time you move forward a bit, the view changes, and even more is revealed.
On we went, then took a side road for no particular reason, except it said there was an outlook along there. We finally stopped at a church, where they told us it was ALL outlook. This was an interesting village, with an old burial ground, filled with mostly simple stones, some apparently hand-hewn by families of the deceased, with inscriptions roughly chiselled into the surface. On the front row, the average age of the deceased was 30. At the roadside we met a man from Ohio, who was touring the island on a bicycle. (Photo) He has toured much of Canada on a bicycle, driving into the area by car, then enjoying the countryside close-up. The views across the cemetery are gorgeous. (Photo) The house perched on the hill on the far side overlooks the road we would eventually be back on, but we did not know that then. The villagers sent us back down the road to find the lookout. Hmmmmm....the first turn turned out to be a very long driveway. I had fun turning the bike around on the steep gravel, while she had shown better sense and stopped nearer the bottom. Her common sense and riding skills are both pretty good.
A little farther along, we found the road and went up, sharply up, took a really tight turn and found the road halved itself, part staying paved, the rest gravel....and then I stopped to look at the dogs who lived in the house we has just come to visit! OK , time to turn around again, then stop and pick apples., and maybe a picture or two (photo) beside the apple tree, and looking down on the village we had just left. Now we could see the length of the valley, and its lush farmlands linking the lakes.
Down the hill and back to the main road, and onto those undulating hills. Rise, rise, and then around the bend. This is spectacular. Rolling up to the top of a mountain, means going back down, and this becomes instantly clear as we reach the peak and the road turns sharply right, and descends. But the moment atop the mountain is irresistably beautiful and our attention is split between control of the bikes, and trying to swallow that moment whole. Stopping is out of the question, as the road is cut into the side of the mountain, with no shoulder except a shallow ditch, partly filled with broken rock. The road was far from straight before this, in fact, there is seldom a straight section more than half a mile in length on the whole of the trail, but this is the point where the twisties begin! Switch and switchback, down we go. And then we are heading back inland, and we can see the church we were visiting a while before. It looks like the road we were on intersects with the main one at each end. After a sharp twist or two, we drop onto the approach to the bridge across the narrows between the mentioned lakes. Ahh......damnnnnn!! Too fast! This is not a bridge, it is a series of gigantic bloody potholes that somehow stay above the water, waiting for unwary motorcyclists or high-flying boaters. The gigantic holes are mixed up with some sort of construction. Fortunately, we got nearly all the way across before meeting oncoming traffic, so we had the entire road to avoid the biggest holes.
The road almost never runs straight. Even when it does, that lasts for one minute or less. Most of the turns or curves are not harsh, but all are enjoyable. We traverse the countryside, exit the valley and trees, and reach the ocean?s edge, where homes and farm buildings sit well away from the road, on the long slopes away from the water. Fishing boats are fewer than expected, and, with the season at its end, they have been drawn up on shore. They are considerably smaller than I had imagined. I am amazed they take these things out to sea. Through the villages and back upwards.
Daughter is doing really well with the Buell. We add just a bit to the speed, and she handles that too. My initial expectations of poor road quality on tight turns have proven misplaced; the surfaces on every sharp turn are very good. One learns quickly, however, to pay attention to the lower numbers on warning signs. When they say 30 kph, or even 25 kph. THEY MEAN IT!
We stop for lunch in an Acadian restaurant. A woman sits just outside the door, working with wool that she pulls through the cloth, and makes her own pictures. I missed that on the way in. My daughter didn?t. Food served here is a bit different, and very enjoyable. The main language is French, but not Quebecois; it is the Acadian version, adapted to these shores over the years.
After lunch we stop to see how much the woman outside the door has progressed. She is quick and deft with her movements, and shows us how the pieces are tied and pulled. Fascinating workmanship. Before leaving, I went into the store next door. Very impressive for a small village, it is a true general store. One side is a large, and well-stocked, supermarket then it switches itself into a full-sized hardware store. Purchase: two steel washers to tighten my mirror. Cost: $0.09. (Plus tax). My daughter chose to stay outside. She had seen a man with a little dog beside the parking lot, and went over there. The dog dislikes all men except him, and showed its annoyance at my approach. He warned me it might bite. Sure enough, it growled, barked, then opened its mouth and licked my hand. We talked to the man for about ten minutes. He had retired and moved here to be away from busy city life, to be free to enjoy his surroundings, and to enjoy life
His wish is fulfilled.
We head off towards the highlands again. Shortly, we come to a wide area in the road. Pull off to the left into a scenic outlook. This is truly awesome. The rocks below look like they have been pieced together from puzzles, while off to the right, too far away to see details, the sea breaks upwards onto the rocks and the camera lens shows it leaving cascades of bubbles as the water falls away.
(See photos)
A dressed Harley and a Nomad are there, both with older riders and women as their passengers.. Surprisingly, the women are older than the guys they are with. The H-D woman is a regular rider, but her bike is broke. She is the oldest of the four, and she is a gem. They have heard the name Buell, but had not seen one before. They check out the label on the bike. I head across the road, over the guard rail, and look for photos to take. A tree stands about 60 feet above the rocks, skinny and without any lower branches, only a top. I take the photo. Walking out onto the rocks, there is little to see but haze. Look down, and there is a long, slender, valley, with a ribbon of river trekking its way over the rocky basin. You can hear the water, and it causes you to wonder......?If you are near the mountain top, and there is no visible lake, where does the water come from??
I will try again to finish it.
.
September, 2003
I bought the GS1100GKE a few months ago because?
My daughter moved to Nova Scotia about a year ago, about a 2000 kilometre/1200 mile drive from here, and she had been asking me to visit her.
I had mentioned to her a couple of years ago that what I wanted most to do with the GS1100G , was to drive the Cabot Trail, in Nova Scotia, but other things got in the way, and I couldn?t do it.
This year, Carmen dragged me out to see another GS, a 1984 GS1100GKE. Windshield was scuffed from being covered with a tarp, but otherwise it looked and sounded just GREAT!
Drove it about 120 miles home.
The GK comes set up for distance driving.....so why not try it for that? Install new Metzelers, make a new windshield, replace headlight bulb, (xenon/blue type) change filter and all lubes/oils, check out shocks, forks, and electrics.....all?s good. GO.
Vacation time was here, so I asked my daughter for directions to her place. She sent me an e-mail, giving brief highway directions, but with no suggestions of distance or time.
I printed the e-mail, folded it, put it in my pocket,
The next day, after packing the GKE saddlebags with necessary clothes, camera and tools, I left home after lunch.
Aimed the GK south to the highway (401) and then headed east. Just after leaving Toronto, the speedometer wavered wildly for a few seconds, then quit. Drove on. Might as well look at it at the next gas stop...about 40 miles away.
Passed a Kawasaki and a highly polished H-D before that. The H-D passed me.
At the gas stop the speedo was fixed (cable had come loose) with the universal tool.....vice grips. Met both other riders at the gas stop. The Kawasaki rider said five hours to Montreal from there. I suggested less. (I had already passed him, so it was obvious I was willing to drive at higher speeds). The H-D rider was a woman with long braided, hair, who spoke little English and was reading a map. She had come from Quebec and was hoping to find her way home. Not really difficult....just follow 401. She went back into the restaurant and I left.
At a Quebec tourism office I met a delightful woman who provided maps and wrote on them as she spoke. That surprised me as she was writing upside down (for her) so I could read it as she wrote it, and I really appreciated it.
Passing Montreal, it was close to dusk, but Route 40, to Quebec City, would be a lousy road at noon. Just a simple highway, but the so-called engineers who designed it must have been high on crack cocaine, or something similar, and no one cross-checked their work before it was built. For a biker it can be fun in daylight, but for a tourist, driving it near dusk, it is not. Smooth and easy curves transform halfway through and become bends that require serious attention. That said, the on/off ramps are much, much, worse. You travel the first half of the ramp at a slower speed, with a standard riding attitude, but then find yourself going off the roadway because the radius on the curve has changed radically, so you have to switch to near-racing attitude partway along or lose it.
Amazingly, Route 40 changes names, but continues as a highway straight into the oldest part of Quebec city where is very suddenly degrades to a city street and stops, in the Lower City.
The place is fascinating. Tiny shops line the cobblestone streets. Signs beckon you to enter the various establishments. Restaurant menus and lists of items for sale line the street.
Pedestrians wander to and fro in front of you, apparently wondering why you are not walking.
A horse-drawn carriage turns ahead. It seems to contain tourists. You round a corner and immediately find the road has turned upwards at about 60 degrees! Damn! I don?t have a trail bike! Doesn?t matter. Ride it to the upper city. I spent about two hours riding around the city and its perimeter.
Rolling by the river (St. Lawrence) I look up towards the old Quebec Fort....I cannot actually see it, as it sits about 100 feet above me, atop a massive rock wall that runs almost straight up from the roadway.
Found a little cabin-type motel. Tiny A-frame cabins. You don?t really bang your head when you get up....just brush against the ceiling!
The forecast is for light rain showers, so it?s off for breakfast, gas, then back on the highway. Sun fades behind clouds, and the air smells of rain, so my speed stays up. The highway is uneventful until I near the river again, only now on the south side. Gorgeous views, but it is heavy overcast and rain is imminent, so I don?t want to stop.
Highway signs at south-east Quebec are hilarious! The one I liked best:
(Translated) The speed of life is 90Km.
One was an accurate prediction. I had never seen an ATV crossing sign, but this was posted ahead of a bend in the road and, immediately after that, there was a line-up of about 6 ATVs, waiting for me to pass.
A few drops of rain catch up to me, so I speed up a bit and outrun it into New Brunswick. This is a very pretty area, and I would like to stop here. I have full rain gear, but I have little interest in driving on newly-wet roads that I have never seen before.
The highway signage is very different from Ontario. Posted limit is 100kmh (60mph), even though it runs by rows of private houses. People go on with their daily lives, completely unconcerned, despite non-stop despite a non-stop flow of trucks. In Ontario, the local citizens would be in terminal panic, and twist themselves and their local politicians inside out trying to get the speed limits reduced to 40kph. And, since Ontario politicians are intrinsically skilled at ignoring all forms of rational thought, they would succeed.
Two hours later, the sun appears likely to win, and the road has changed dramatically. It is now a beautifully smooth and extra-wide multi-lane highway. Speed is posted at 110kph, but there isn?t even one truck moving that slowly.
Stop at Hartland, N.B. They have the world?s longest covered bridge. An ancient (100 years old)
device that separates the two sides of the town, it?s 1282 feet long. You could get two cars to pass each other inside it, but it would be snug. The practice is to stop and wait for the other side to clear, then drive, making it a one-way trip. After going across, I could not find another way out of town, so I went back the same way. I was alone going back. The bike sounds really interesting in there.
Gas along this area is hard to find. There are almost no gas stations on or near the highway, so a few trips are up to ten miles each way. Sun is out and it is gorgeous, but a high cross wind made the back end twitch. About 20 minutes later it happened again. Stop and check air pressure....it is down a few pounds. Off the highway to find a garage. Found one....air pump connector goes on, but the pump doesn?t work...air pressure is reduced. The little hand pump I bought just before leaving home won?t do it. I find an ancient garage with a young owner. He used to own a GS750.E and offers me the air hose. His connector doesn?t fit either, so more air is lost. While I am getting really upset, he is spreading a concrete mix over gravel to fil a large hole. It can?t be more than a temporary fix, as water and frost will destroy it, .but I offer no comment. He can?t get air in my tire either, but disappears and rummages through mounds of stuff inside the garage, then returns with a portable air tank. It has a hose fitted with a standard nozzle. That works. .
Off again, vowing to make an adapter for any circumstance....which I do after reaching Nova Scotia; it now stays with the bike.
The rest of the ride through N.B. was uneventful until I discovered a dark-coloured section in the road shortly before entering Nova Scotia. It is a dip on a curve, where many vehicles have apparently bottomed out. I hit it at 100 and the bike bounced and went airborne. I recommend that anyone else driving that road watch for it.
The highway towards Halifax, Nova Scotia is again beautiful. The only complaint is the toll section, where they charge the same for a bike as for larger vehicles. At the toll area a truck I had passed a couple of times goes through (they just roll on, and on, while I had to keep leaving the highway for gas). I get directions from the toll-man as I slip the gloves back on, then watch the truck disappear from my mirrors as we head up the acceleration lane.
It is getting dark as I turn off the highway to head towards my daughter?s place. She has given me an exit from the next one...which I think is a few minutes away. A half-hour later I have noticed the exit signs are not in my favour, but I cannot go much faster as the road keeps changing from four to two-lanes, and is littered with construction warning signs, pylons, and diversions. On reaching her place, I wonder about why it got dark so early. I forgot there was a time zone change.
The next day she warms up her Buell Blast! and we go off to a small town for coffee. As we leave there, she pulls out of the parking lot ahead of me. I reach the edge of the parking lot and...........traffic stops! Then I get a friendly wave to go ahead. She had told me of this, but the reality was still a surprise, as courtesy like this is unheard of in other places.
In the evening, we ride out to another town where there a weekly bike meet. Impressive, indeed! It is a quite cool night, so I learn not as many show up as would do in warmer nights, but there were over a hundred bikes there. Wings are the best represented, but there are many types and makes, going all the way back to an early Vincent, which I saw the next week; the first one I had seen. (Photos in GS Garage)
My daughter had no advance knowledge of my trip (I asked for directions to her place Friday night, got her response on Saturday, and arrived there on Monday,) so she had other commitments for the week, but offered to ride her Buell and accompany me on a trip to the Cabot Trail if I would wait for the weekend.
What to say?
At that moment, there was nothing in the world that I would like more.
Some concern existed. She took the full training course, and got her licence and bike last year, but had only covered about 3500km on her own, but the Cabot Trail is a demanding route...and over 300km away. I had been watching her closely on the local trips. She?s actually pretty good, but this would be her first long trip, so my mirrors would have to be full of her as we go
.
Friday rolled around and we headed off towards Cape Breton. I watch her in the mirrors. Constantly. We reach a stretch of road covered in pieces of rubber form a blown truck tire. I immediately pick the pattern and hunt my way through, without slowing, while she shows great aplomb in slowing a bit, then switching lanes and going around it. I am impressed.
A stop in Truro, eat lunch, another stop in Antigonish, where she captured the attention of a few passersby, while stripping in the parking lot. (Well, it was warm). Then it was off again, and across the S-shaped Canso Causeway to Cape Breton. The Causeway appears like just another bunch of rock across the water, carrying a mile or so of two-lane traffic and a railroad track, with a swing bridge at one end. The unseen reality is that this is the deepest man-made pile of rocks in the world; the water is over 200 feet deep, and it took 3 years to complete it, using rock carved and blown out of nearby mountains and trucked continuously to the water?s edge, where it was pushed over by bulldozers.
We stopped at a tourist hut for a few ideas, then headed up the highway towards the Cabot Trail, 80 km away. It was nearing dusk as we got away from the Causeway and into the trees. There may have been a few sights I missed at that time, as I was concentrating on where I was going, while looking through tears.
We stopped at a wide basin for a bit, Golden sand bars graced the water, the sand and water flecked with strong red streaks of evening sun, all of it backed with rolling hills in many shades of green, and tinges of russet, as a few trees were adopting their fall colours. And we saw this from atop an apple tree! Actually it was growing on the side of the hill, and showed us a huge canopy of apples, but they were unreachable as the hill was too steep. (Photos in GS Garage)
We stopped at a motel, then went up to the Red Barn (a restaurant and store-tourist trap) for dinner. The Red Barn is at the intersection that marks the beginning and end of the Cabot Trail. From there you decide to follow the Trail clockwise, or counter-clockwise.
The next morning, we went clockwise.
This was finally it!
A slim roadway, with lanes narrower than I am accustomed to, almost no shoulders, and not a good surface. Concerns about what the road would be like in the twisty parts arose, but were soon forgotten, lost in the amazement of the beauty surrounding us. I am used to trees...I live in a small town, and there are farms and treed areas all around us. What I don?t have is a panorama of trees, massed in numbers that roll across hills and valleys, creating a carpetscape in the distance. The carpet has a meandering thread of roadway across undulating hills, popping up in the distance, like a wandering serpent, seeking unseen delights in valleys, before it rises again to momentarily bask in the sun, finally creeping up to tall bluffs whose noble stance reflects the morning sunlight onto the ocean below. Then the thread disappears as it rounds a high, distant curve.
I tried to take photos of this....also in GS Garage.....The photos do not do it justice. Every time you move forward a bit, the view changes, and even more is revealed.
On we went, then took a side road for no particular reason, except it said there was an outlook along there. We finally stopped at a church, where they told us it was ALL outlook. This was an interesting village, with an old burial ground, filled with mostly simple stones, some apparently hand-hewn by families of the deceased, with inscriptions roughly chiselled into the surface. On the front row, the average age of the deceased was 30. At the roadside we met a man from Ohio, who was touring the island on a bicycle. (Photo) He has toured much of Canada on a bicycle, driving into the area by car, then enjoying the countryside close-up. The views across the cemetery are gorgeous. (Photo) The house perched on the hill on the far side overlooks the road we would eventually be back on, but we did not know that then. The villagers sent us back down the road to find the lookout. Hmmmmm....the first turn turned out to be a very long driveway. I had fun turning the bike around on the steep gravel, while she had shown better sense and stopped nearer the bottom. Her common sense and riding skills are both pretty good.
A little farther along, we found the road and went up, sharply up, took a really tight turn and found the road halved itself, part staying paved, the rest gravel....and then I stopped to look at the dogs who lived in the house we has just come to visit! OK , time to turn around again, then stop and pick apples., and maybe a picture or two (photo) beside the apple tree, and looking down on the village we had just left. Now we could see the length of the valley, and its lush farmlands linking the lakes.
Down the hill and back to the main road, and onto those undulating hills. Rise, rise, and then around the bend. This is spectacular. Rolling up to the top of a mountain, means going back down, and this becomes instantly clear as we reach the peak and the road turns sharply right, and descends. But the moment atop the mountain is irresistably beautiful and our attention is split between control of the bikes, and trying to swallow that moment whole. Stopping is out of the question, as the road is cut into the side of the mountain, with no shoulder except a shallow ditch, partly filled with broken rock. The road was far from straight before this, in fact, there is seldom a straight section more than half a mile in length on the whole of the trail, but this is the point where the twisties begin! Switch and switchback, down we go. And then we are heading back inland, and we can see the church we were visiting a while before. It looks like the road we were on intersects with the main one at each end. After a sharp twist or two, we drop onto the approach to the bridge across the narrows between the mentioned lakes. Ahh......damnnnnn!! Too fast! This is not a bridge, it is a series of gigantic bloody potholes that somehow stay above the water, waiting for unwary motorcyclists or high-flying boaters. The gigantic holes are mixed up with some sort of construction. Fortunately, we got nearly all the way across before meeting oncoming traffic, so we had the entire road to avoid the biggest holes.
The road almost never runs straight. Even when it does, that lasts for one minute or less. Most of the turns or curves are not harsh, but all are enjoyable. We traverse the countryside, exit the valley and trees, and reach the ocean?s edge, where homes and farm buildings sit well away from the road, on the long slopes away from the water. Fishing boats are fewer than expected, and, with the season at its end, they have been drawn up on shore. They are considerably smaller than I had imagined. I am amazed they take these things out to sea. Through the villages and back upwards.
Daughter is doing really well with the Buell. We add just a bit to the speed, and she handles that too. My initial expectations of poor road quality on tight turns have proven misplaced; the surfaces on every sharp turn are very good. One learns quickly, however, to pay attention to the lower numbers on warning signs. When they say 30 kph, or even 25 kph. THEY MEAN IT!
We stop for lunch in an Acadian restaurant. A woman sits just outside the door, working with wool that she pulls through the cloth, and makes her own pictures. I missed that on the way in. My daughter didn?t. Food served here is a bit different, and very enjoyable. The main language is French, but not Quebecois; it is the Acadian version, adapted to these shores over the years.
After lunch we stop to see how much the woman outside the door has progressed. She is quick and deft with her movements, and shows us how the pieces are tied and pulled. Fascinating workmanship. Before leaving, I went into the store next door. Very impressive for a small village, it is a true general store. One side is a large, and well-stocked, supermarket then it switches itself into a full-sized hardware store. Purchase: two steel washers to tighten my mirror. Cost: $0.09. (Plus tax). My daughter chose to stay outside. She had seen a man with a little dog beside the parking lot, and went over there. The dog dislikes all men except him, and showed its annoyance at my approach. He warned me it might bite. Sure enough, it growled, barked, then opened its mouth and licked my hand. We talked to the man for about ten minutes. He had retired and moved here to be away from busy city life, to be free to enjoy his surroundings, and to enjoy life
His wish is fulfilled.
We head off towards the highlands again. Shortly, we come to a wide area in the road. Pull off to the left into a scenic outlook. This is truly awesome. The rocks below look like they have been pieced together from puzzles, while off to the right, too far away to see details, the sea breaks upwards onto the rocks and the camera lens shows it leaving cascades of bubbles as the water falls away.
(See photos)
A dressed Harley and a Nomad are there, both with older riders and women as their passengers.. Surprisingly, the women are older than the guys they are with. The H-D woman is a regular rider, but her bike is broke. She is the oldest of the four, and she is a gem. They have heard the name Buell, but had not seen one before. They check out the label on the bike. I head across the road, over the guard rail, and look for photos to take. A tree stands about 60 feet above the rocks, skinny and without any lower branches, only a top. I take the photo. Walking out onto the rocks, there is little to see but haze. Look down, and there is a long, slender, valley, with a ribbon of river trekking its way over the rocky basin. You can hear the water, and it causes you to wonder......?If you are near the mountain top, and there is no visible lake, where does the water come from??
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