Wings, Waves & Surf

Ernest Cornelius, my riding partner, eagerly assists me in preparing for our travel ritual. He serves as our ambassador, navigator, electrical troubleshooter and many other key duties. I can honestly say, with his assistance, touring is both fun and fairly worry free.
After completing our pre-travel cycle maintenance, we prepared to attend Wing Ding. An added attraction was that a respectable contingency of our GWRRA Chapter (MI-S2) participants also attended. After visiting the vendor booths and attending a couple of cycle seminars, we gathered at Riley & Velma Palmer’s motor home for a campsite cookout. It was a welcome retreat from the rally as well as a great opportunity to mingle with Chapter friends while meeting new friends from other places.
Speaking of new friends, we planned to travel northeast toward Maine and Nova Scotia. While preparing to attend a Wing Ding activity, we met Danny & Ellen Bell, a couple from New Brunswick who were doing maintenance on their motorcycle. Danny is a truck driver with years of travel experience. The Bells were happy to share their experiences in Nova Scotia, and Danny volunteered to map out our route. We’ll be forever grateful.
Following Closing Ceremonies, we set out along Route 24 east for the greater portion of our travel. This rural road extends through quaint Indiana countryside, meandering past small farms and social gatherings at local A & W restaurants. Much like our entire stay in Indiana, it was a swelteringly hot and humid day. The pastoral settings we traversed reminded me of venues I’d read in Sherwood Anderson’s novel Winesburg, Ohio.
Finally we reached the Ohio turnpike where we could begin a steady run. It was around nine in the evening, and we knew it would be very competitive finding accommodations during the holiday weekend. Our run was interrupted by a noise Ernie heard clanking on the front of his motorcycle. As I pulled ahead of him, I could observe that his fog light bracket had fractured. We pulled over, disconnected the bracket and stored it in his trunk. We were then able to return to the highway. Driving hard, we stopped in several towns only to discover numerous establishments displaying No Vacancy signs.
Cleveland, Akron, Youngstown. Youngstown seemed to offer the widest variety of accommodations. Choices were limited because I require non-smoking rooms. When we located a prospective motel, we encountered an unexpected problem. Ernie paid for the room, but we discovered the room was poorly maintained and the linen was filthy. Despite our exhaustion, we returned to the office and requested a refund. The clerk refused to return Ernie’s money. It was two in the morning, and we were fatigued and frustrated and had no patience for foolishness. Ernie became irate, and the clerk called the police. When they arrived, the police informed us that the clerk has a reputation for mistreating customers. We were asked to wait for the owner to arrive.
In the meantime, we checked into another motel and slept until late morning. When the owner arrived, he informed Ernie that the establishment had experienced problems with housekeeping and had fired those responsible. He then refunded our money.
After receiving the refund, we ate breakfast and started out. It was now a bright, sunny day, one with much less humidity. Finally the sweltering heat seemed to lift. Crossing the Ohio Valley the night before had been very chilly; we had donned heavier outer wear. Now we were experiencing pleasant, warm weather. It made our trek through Pennsylvania, New York, and Connecticut a joyful, leisurely excursion.
As we ascended the lush, green Allegheny highways, I reflected on the pride once expressed by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in his “I Have a Dream” speech. We live in a beautiful country, and with each spiraling curve and rising hilltop, I felt proud to be an American and privileged to be free to experience our country’s natural beauty.
Our route followed I-80 east to I-81 north to Scranton, Pennsylvania. Then we interchanged to I-84 east into Middletown, New York.
We had been running very well. Then we encountered another unscheduled stop for maintenance. Ernie felt a shimmy in his bike and complained that the front end seemed unsteady when accelerating, especially in curves. When we pulled over, we discovered two steering stem bolts loose enough they could be turned by hand. We corrected the problem, double checked it and examined other areas of the bike before crossing into Connecticut.
By this time we were road-weary again, and we decided to seek lodging. Again we experienced many No Vacancy postings. However, we were persistent, finally checking into a motel in a small town west of Danbury. The establishment was overpriced. However, after shuttling around to many inns, our fatigue combined with the late night hour made the rate acceptable.
The next morning proved to be the most comfortable we had experienced thus far. It was somewhat overcast—welcome weather for us. We continued along I-84 east in search of a suitable diner for breakfast. By now, we’d become irritated by the number of toll booths we’d encountered. The East Coast seems riddled with toll booths—they appear like eyesores on the landscape, diverting our focus away from the soothing, lush vegetation.
We crossed a portion of Massachusetts via a couple bypasses of and a section of Interstate 90 east. We continued along New Hampshire’s Blue Star Turnpike (aka I-95 north) to Portland, Maine. Our arrival was within ninety minutes of the registration schedule to board the Canadian-bound Scotia Prince ferry. While waiting to load our bikes on board, Ernie mingled with a crowd of cyclists who were also waiting. He is a magician when it comes to socializing. They were talking about motorcycles, and he is well versed on the subject.
While Ernie engaged the motorcyclists, I encountered a gentleman named Paul, and his twelve-year-old daughter Katrina who were on a bicycle journey. They began in Ottawa and pedalled through Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. They were boarding the ferry with their tandem bicycle and were planning to do some touring around Nova Scotia before returning home. I asked Paul how he convinced his daughter to participate. He said that he invited his wife, who declined, but his daughter was excited about the opportunity. Katrina, preoccupied with a novel, looked up and assured me they were having a wonderful time.
Cycles were invited to ride aboard first. That allowed us to help secure our bikes and settle into the limited space of our cabins. As the ship left port, we toured several decks and the casino area before returning to our cramped cabins. We looked forward to a comfortable night’s sleep before disembarking in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, at 8 a.m. the next morning.
Once off the ship we cleared customs and stopped in the maritime town of Yarmouth. We exchanged our money at the visitor information center. Hindsight revealed it would have been better to have exchanged money at one of the provincial banks for a better return on the dollar.
One should keep in mind that Nova Scotia is an island, so you’re never more than a short drive from water and historic maritime sites. Armed with that information, you can stretch your dollars further. The more sites you take in, the more souvenirs you purchase in the process. As consumers, we must have planned to return with a piece of Nova Scotia.
Our route took us along Highway 103 south through numerous small fishing villages. The people seemed friendly, often waving to us as we passed. Shelburne was the first stop to whet our curiosity. It is a village reputed to be the site of the third finest natural harbor in the world.
Most of the houses in the community, nestled along very narrow streets, were built before the 1800s. The waterfront appears in the 1994 movie The Scarlet Letter featuring Demi Moore and Robert Duvall that was based on Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel about Puritan New England. The town of Shelburne is also justly proud of its legendary wooden 19th century dories.
Also unique to Nova Scotia: its lighthouse route, etched along the shoreline. Bring plenty of film for the circuit because you will be quite busy searching for the perfect lighthouse as you relax while visiting small communities and farms along the route.
Lighthouses are interesting, but we found ourselves drawn more to the lure of Peggy’s Cove, named for its location in St. Margaret’s Bay. Huge granite boulders left by retreating glaciers over 10,000 years ago are randomly scattered about the cove. Many visitors excitedly vault, run and play upon the boulders close to the water’s edge despite posted warnings. Carefree curiosity has caused many a hapless visitor to be washed out into the ocean. Tempting fate, Ernie slipped on the rocks while taking pictures close to the edge. Fortunately he escaped with just minor scrapes and algae-stained clothing.
A short distance down the road, two granite boulders commemorate the end of Swiss Airlines’ Flight 111. A plaque is erected to honor the lost passengers and the valiant workers who assisted in the recovery efforts. We observed a somber moment and moved on.
In addition to enjoying the lighthouses, I was impressed by the number of churches, many with tall steeples. Most were Catholic, with Anglican and other denominations represented as well.
After settling into waterfront accommodations in Peggy’s Cove, we asked some residents for a recommendation of a restaurant for seafood; they recommended The Lobster Ranch. Newly opened, its food was great and the service was excellent. We both had seafood, and I had a healthy portion of the most delicious Greek salad I’ve ever eaten.
After returning to our room, we sponged out our laundry and settled in for a good night’s sleep. Rest was important because we wanted to be fresh and energetic for our next day’s agenda in the Cape Breton Highlands.
Rain and mist greeted us the next morning. It was our first bout with inclement weather since leaving home. As always, we suited up and rode. Our route took us through many villages and towns. One interesting town was Stewiacke where the residents celebrate their unique location halfway between the Equator and the North Pole.
As we continued into the upper regions of the peninsula, I noted many of the towns have Scottish names: Sydney, Truro, Whycocomagh. Some of these are familiar from English and Scottish works and ballads. The region was also beginning to take on the appearance of Scotland.
Also noticeable is the ethnic diversity of the regions. A group I found most historically interesting is the Acadians—French descendants who were treated like outcasts because of their political neutrality and refusal to join in revolution against England. In one memorable incident, the British separated husbands from their wives and children. The spouses and children were sent away on boats, the Acadians’ property was burned, and they were not allowed to return to the mainland.
Today, many of the Acadians proudly preserve their heritage in their fine crafts. One of these is matting. A young Acadian lady, attired in traditional garb, invited me to try my hand at the craft. She demonstrated the basic method of hooking, and I fashioned several loops as instructed. She applauded my effort and encouraged me to try more, dubbing me a “successful hooker.” I wear the moniker proudly, reflecting on the enjoyable dialogue we exchanged.
Weary from the day’s activities, as well as from the rain and dreary sky, Ernie and I found a motel to rest in for the following day. Since leaving Yarmouth, we hadn’t seen much sun, so it was exciting to finally awake to a bright, sunny day. Eagerly we began our ascent into the Cape Breton Highlands.
The Highlands is a large area, so we decided to limit our exploration to one key loop, a tourist favorite. In order to reach our chosen site, we endured rough highways en route. Along the way, we encountered several logging trucks shuttling timber to the pulp mills. The area is thickly forested.
Ernie noticed a roadside exhibition as we continued our trek into the mountains. Much to my amazement, it was a “drive-in theater of scarecrows” located in the small village of St. Joseph du Moine. What had begun in 1984 as an attempt to erect a couple of scarecrows to protect a patch of land is now a popular tourist attraction. Retired janitor Joe Delaney wanted to plant a garden on the site despite his neighbors’ caveat that animals would eat his crops. They suggested a scarecrow, so he erected three. Since then more have been added—there are about 80 scattered around the property. The characters include children in sandboxes, lumberjacks, service workers, etc., all bearing messages and names. There is no admission charge, though a small donation is requested. Since Delaney’s death, his son has continued the practice. After spending a few moments talking with members of the Delaney family, we departed.
As we continued navigating the Cabot trail, we made several more stops to take in the beautiful valleys and scenic natural venues along the route. It was a kaleidoscope of breathtaking natural vistas. An artist’s canvas would pale in an attempt to duplicate the scenic landscape.
At the visitors’ station, we sought information about scenic Cape Breton Highlands National Park drive. While there, Ernie inquired about points of interest along the park route. An attractive young ranger assisted us with our questions. As Ernie posed his final question, she informed us of the many nature trails and cautioned us about black bears. Ernie’s eyes bulged. Attempted to maintain her professional demeanor, first she broke into a broad smile that evolved into a snicker and finally a burst of laughter. Ernie’s expression, though born of fear, caused both of us to laugh. Once the ranger composed herself, she reassured us that they had experienced rare incidents. As we departed the ranger station, she couldn’t resist flashing a broad smile. “I hope you don’t run into any bears!” she joked. It was a great parting shot.
I tried to absorb as much pristine landscape and shoreline roadways as time allotted. The narrow highway offered panoramic seaside overlooks as well as deep lush forest-laden valleys. As we traversed each ascending road, I could savor what poet Robert Burns must have felt in reflecting on his native Scotland. These sloping vistas reflect admirably as emerald jewels in Canada’s crown. Up and down we meandered, looping around through narrow corridors etched along the Cabot trail. It was a circuitous excursion adventure along a ribbon of asphalt. Pleasant Bay, Dingwell, South Harbor, and Neil Harbor—all were sunny hamlets embraced during our leisurely roll.
At Neil Harbor we stopped to refuel. Shortly thereafter, we began searching for a place to dine. If you’re a seafood lover, the Cape Breton Highlands offers great variety in maritime cuisine. Complementing the variety are the reasonable prices and the freshness of the catch. The small village of Ingonish served well in hosting two hungry bikers. In keeping with our earlier Canadian experiences, the food here was fresh and scrumptious.
As we prepared to mount up and continue our tour, we noticed a slight overcast and considerably cooler breezes. We donned heavier riding gear. There was more shoreline to appreciate and we were eager to experience it.
At various intervals, we left the road and scanned as far along the coastline as the eye could see. The sandy beach snaked along a mountainous baseline, vanishing in clusters of forestland and reemerging faint and remote miles beyond the foliage.
Departing the Highlands, we encountered one of the most memorable roller coaster descents I have ever experienced. Along strategic points of our route, we could see layers of highway etched into the fertile valleys below. Soon we were enmeshed in the landscape, swerving, braking, downshifting, and accelerating. We negotiated wide loops, serpentine stretches, hairpin curves and fleeting runs of straight asphalt before reaching the base of the mountain.
As we departed the Cabot Trail, we vowed one day to return. Next time, I hope to bring along my wife Gayle who loves quaint establishments and great seafood.
The cool, misty veil of night hastened our desire to seek lodging. Retracing our route, we revisited the inn we slept at the night before.
Next day, as we loaded our bikes for early morning travel, we decided to ride through a partial tank of fuel before settling in for breakfast. The morning air was fresh and sunny with a slight wind. Our route traversed Highway 104 west through the small villages and towns of Bayfield, Antigonish and New Glasgow. The highway was under major construction. Road crews monitored traffic often closing down the narrow lanes to allow competing traffic to pass. During one shutdown, we talked with a local couple during a 15-minute wait.
Ernie and I often disagree about downtime; he is patient while I am anxious. I noted to the couple that he is retired and doesn’t wear a watch. Simultaneously, the couple rolled up their sleeves, smiled and displayed bare wrists. Although too young to retire, like many of residents, they take a casual view about the passage of time.
Finally we were able to continue, so we pulled in and ate breakfast, refueled and continued along Highway 104. It stretched past Amherst where we picked up Highway 2 into New Brunswick. By now the winds had kicked up considerably and were significantly affecting our travel. Through Moncton and Sussex, our motorcycles listed into the wind as we rode. Finally, we pulled in at Saint John hoping to eat lunch. Ernie led us to a motorcycle shop where he asked about restaurants. I mentioned my preference for seafood. A salesman excitedly suggested an eatery about 100 miles west.
Once again we returned to the windswept roadway, hungry and in search of the popular, affordable eatery. Just outside St. George we saw the sign. Eagerly we pulled in, and then Ernie began laughing hysterically. “Here’s your seafood restaurant, Willie,” he said. We had been directed to a fish stand without inside dining. We settled down to lunch at the outside picnic tables. We felt duped but had a laugh with our cool, windy, and rather mediocre meal before saddling up again for the highway.
Soon we arrived at the customs booth and crossed over into Calais, Maine. Here we picked up narrow Highway 9 which wanders through farm settlements and logging sites, and finally into Bangor where we found our evening lodging.
Bright sun welcomed us the next morning. We departed Bangor along I-95. It would be a long day in the saddle. We could have reduced saddle time by returning via Quebec after departing Nova Scotia, but chose instead to return to stateside highways.
Travelling westward on I-90, the New York State Thruway, traffic was moving at a brisk pace. It was getting late into the evening, but we were making great time. Schenectady, Oneida, Palmyra—cities blurred by like distant memories as the balmy veil of night enveloped the landscape. Tired and anxious to find a motel, we lost track of the posted speeds. Suddenly our darkened roadway was brightly illuminated by blue and crimson flashers. Like a thief in the night he was upon us. At first I wasn’t sure who was being pulled over because the New York State patrol pulled past us to another vehicle. When I attempted to continue rolling, he slowed and flashed me over. It was a three-vehicle stop: two motorcycles and a car.
The trooper walked back to us and asked for our driving documents. We had been clocked over the limit, he said. We did not deny it. I sensed we were going to be cited; however, he just warned us to slow down to avoid becoming roadside debris. We took the warning and were vigilant of our speed for the duration of the tour. Soon afterward we found a place to sleep near Rochester.
As we awoke to our final day of travel, we felt rejuvenated, and as excited as when we first began our odyssey. It was a beautiful, sunny day as we completed the final leg of the Thruway and crossed back into Canada. We couldn’t resist stopping at Niagara Falls for a view of the Canadian Falls. It is a sight that still excites me: the eager throngs of visitors, the souvenir shops, arcades, etc.
After Niagara, we continued west along the Queen Elizabeth Way and on to London, Ontario, for lunch.
Our homeward route meandered along Canadian farmlands bordering Highway 402 and ending at the Bluewater Bridge connecting Sarnia, Ontario, to Port Huron, Michigan. As we cleared the customs gate, I-94 appeared to be a beautiful thoroughfare warmly welcoming us home. We ticked off the final 60 miles back to the Motor City. We’d had many adventures with anecdotes too many to tell. One day we’ll share them all with our many friends and readers.