Brewster, MA
All too soon and it's time to go. After the morning preliminaries, shower, load the rest of the gear on the bike and I'm good to go. Good to go at 9:15 AM. What a slacker! The family gathers around and we say our goodbyes. It's been a wonderful week together, although it is unfortunate we live so far apart. To the next time we meet.
It's rather cool this morning so I opt for a fleece over my regular riding shirt. The traffic is light as I make my way along RTE. 6 to the Sagamore Bridge. Once over the bridge I point Buddy Black north to Boston. We're moving along at a brisk pace and soon I see the exit for Plymouth. I'm hungry and crave pancakes so I say to myself I wish there was an IHOP or similar close by. Well lo and behold not 200 meters later and there is a sign denoting what services are available at the next exit and wouldn't you know it there is an IHOP! I call this serendipity and peel off onto the exit ramp. Making a left hand turn and I notice my left signal light is acting strange. I haven't seen this before so I cancel the switch and try again. All appears OK and I think no more of it. After parking I do, however; take a moment to shift my gear around thinking that perhaps the load has pushed down onto the rear left signal and disturbed the wiring. Once in IHOP I order the short stack and a pot of tea.
I'm back on RTE. 3 and nearing Boston which I whizz through as there is next to nobody on the road. Going through Revere in the North-End, a woman in a car comes screaming through on my right, cuts across in front of me missing the front wheel by maybe 3 meters. Well my heart leaps and I lay on the horn which has all the attention getting power of a Fisher-Price toy. It is virtually useless and she continues on. I speed up, draw alongside and oh yeah, she's on the phone. Thanks for almost killing me!
New Hampshire comes and goes quite quickly and then I'm in Maine, the last state I will likely be in on this trip. While lane changing I'm noticing the signal light is acting up again; in fact both signals are going haywire. Sometimes they come on, sometimes they don't. I'm trouble-shooting this problem in my mind as I ride along. I look down and this time I have no gauges! No speedometer, no tachometer or temperature and worst of all no gas gauge. Doing some fast math in my head I worked back how far it was from the last fuel-up. This was still well within my travelling range so I know I'm not going to run out of gas. If worse comes to worse I can always track distances on my GPS and use hand signals so it is more of an annoyance than a show-stopping problem.
Knowing there is a service centre coming up, I'll pull in and start trouble shooting the problem. I figure it's likely a fuse and maybe they will have some at the service stop. To get to the fuse panel it means unloading a few things to get to the seat. The fuse box is conveniently(?) located under the seat and eventually I manage to wrestle if off and poke around. I check the manual for the fuse diagram, locate the one protecting the signals and instrument cluster. Well I was correct in my assumption because it is indeed blown. I walk over to the service booth and lucky for me they have fuses. I grab two 15A and also a 20A and still get change from a dollar. Yes I know replacing a blown fuse with a higher rating is not a good practice but I wanted to hedge my bets until I got this remedied. My mind also told me that fuses blow for a reason and this was only a symptom, not the problem. Once the fuse is popped in I fire Buddy Black up and presto, all is functioning, even the signals. While I'm doing this little procedure a guy on a BMW GS1200 is parked alongside and we're chatting as motorcyclists do. We yak about bikes and trips and routes and roads, the usual banter. Tom is heading to Bar Harbour and invites me to his place if I'm stuck for a place to stay. This is just another example of the camaraderie you encounter in the fraternity of motorcyclists. I make a note where to find him, at the Jack Russell Tavern in Bar Harbour should I be in that area.
The bike appears to be fixed so I saddle up and head North once more. About four or five kilometers up the road I signal for a lane change and there is no signal. I push the switch a few times and try again. No go and the instruments die. Pulling over I have to go through the whole procedure unloading the luggage, replacing the fuse and reloading the gear. This routine has grown very old very fast so I vow to use hand signals until such time as I can get this issue fixed. I turn my iPhone onto Data-Roaming, dreading the cost and search out Suzuki dealers in the vicinity. Bingo, there's one in Buxton, just a tad South-West of Portland and a mere 37 kilometers from here. I punch the address into the GPS and make a bee-line to the dealer. Once off the highway it is a rambling ride through rural Maine and I'm enjoying the sights and smells of the countryside. The dealer, Reynolds Motorsports is right where the GPS said it would be. I pull in and see where the service department door is and park. At the counter I'm greeted by Eric and tell him the problem and do they have time to take a look at it. A quick check of the log reveals yes, they do have time, so give I him the particulars and wheel it into the shop. I unload all the gear and dump it on a picnic table in a covered breezeway. I set up house with my book, and computer to which Eric provides the pass code for their wireless router. A while goes by and the tech comes out and tells me it is likely a relay that has failed. The next question is, "Do you have it in stock?" He replies, "No." and my face falls. He quickly informs me don't worry. This relay is common in several Suzuki models and they will cannibalize a new bike in the showroom and get me on my way. Well this is indeed great service so I happily return to my book.
Another half hour goes by and Eric breaks me the bad news. The relay didn't solve the problem. They have traced it down to the switch on the handlebar. This time they don't have a replacement either in the parts department of on a similar bike in the showroom. Basically I'm hooped but at least I now know where the problem lies. The guys at Reynolds Motorsports bent over backwards to help me and to which I say thank you. Now I know what the issue is I'll use hand signals and arrange for a replacement unit in advance once I get back into Canada.
Back on the road I decide to run up to Augusta, the state capital and call it a night.
A few emails, a journal update and some Skyping with Lori and I hit the hay after a long tiring day.
Sunday, September, 11th
Augusta, ME.
I'm awake before 7:00 and look out onto another nice day. It dawns on me this is the 10th anniversary of 9/11 so I hold my own moment of silence in respect to all the poor souls who lost their lives on that tragic day.
It's a quick run up to Bangor all along singing "King Of The Road" with it's line, "Third boxcar, midnight train. Destination Bangor, Maine" at which point I veer off making my way to Hwy 9 which is a cross country highway straight to Calais, although they say Callass, and the New Brunswick border crossing. Hwy 9 is an absolutely wonderful ride and I'm very relaxed looking at the forested and almost mountainous landscape. It is about a ninety mile ride to Calais which passes in fairly short order. Once in Calais, I hit the Duty-Free shop and make my way over the border. Crossing from Calais, Maine to St. Stephen, New Brunswick was likely the easiest border crossing I've had in quite some time. The Custom's Officer, a young woman, was friendly and spent more time asking questions about my trip than anything I had to declare. When I pulled up I handed her my passport and an itemized list of my purchaces but she just glanced at it and talked about the ride; a far cry from the rude encounter I had in Sweet Grass Montana a month previous.
Highway 9 in North-Eastern Maine.
Once clear of the border it was smooth sailing along the shore of the Bay Of Fundy. What remarkable seashore scenery and the road was top notch. Now my understanding is the winters in New Brunswick are fierce with lots of snow right? Well how is it they can build a wonderful highway that withstands the winter elements yet in Britich Columbia, the banana belt of Canada, where the winters allow for golfing, the roads are disgraceful? Utter crap compared to New Brunswick and add to that Alberta where the winters are equally as ferocious yet the roads are far superior to B.C.'s. I'm at a loss.
Freighter in The Bay Of Fundy.
I skate through Saint John and soon I'm in Moncton and in need of a cup of tea. A quick look around and I spot a Tim Horton's just off the highway. My first meal back in Canada was a Tim's steeped tea and blueberry fritter! Welcome home! So I'm sitting or standing in the parking lot at Tim's and people keep coming up to me and chatting. They see the BC plate and their curiosity is provoked. This is not a problem by any stretch of the imagination as these kind folks are very friendly and genuinely interested in this guy on a laden down motorcycle who's come all the way across the country. Even a local RCMP officer, getting gas and a donut, go figure, stops by and says hello. Evidently he took some RCMP training in Comox and tells me how much he enjoyed it there. This is a great welcome home, where folks come up to you, extend a warm handshake, slap you on the back and call you 'bye. The Maritimes is famous for it's friendly people and my first encounter proved it all true. Once this trip is over I will provide an epilog to the blog where I intend to list the "Best Of" and the "Worst Of" everything and everybody. I ask you to stay tuned for what promises to be a riviting, in-depth analysis of the tour.
Crossing into Nova Scotia.
Losing an hour as I'm now in the Atlantic Time Zone, time is of the essence so it's throttle on and I'm heading for New Glasgow, Nova Scotia. Crossing the Provincial line I stop at the fancy Welcome Centre only to find it has closed for the day. Too bad as it looks like a good one, perhaps on the return leg? I'm running late tonight, much later than I usually do for it's soon dark and getting cold. The speed limit is 110 and I'm sitting on 120 with no problem at all. There is a marked increase in police presence and they are roping in many an offending customer. A couple of hours later the tank is getting low, really low, dangerously low. I've punched in "fuel" into the GPS and it has responded with several options. I start hunting them down and every one is closed. It's 9:00 PM on a Sunday night in rural Nova Scotia so it's understandable, however; not funny. My gauge is doing it's "Final Warning" routine and I have to make a quick decision. I can waste time and precious fuel chasing down a gas station or I can beetle it into New Glasgow, which is not that far away, find a motel and deal with the fuel crisis in the morning. I opt for door number two, set a course for the town and in what seems like no time at all I espy a Comfort Inn with a gas station, albeit a closed gas station across the street, Oh and there is a Timmy's right next door to the hotel. Now how good is that? About as good as it gets in my books considering the circumstances!
At check in the young woman gives me the "Motorcycle Rate". Now this is a new one on me but I'm not going to argue with her. She explains it's late and the hotel wants to draw from the large quantities of bikes that pass through the area. I tell her it's a great idea and she slaps a whopping discount on the room. She hands me the pass key and soon I'm unloading and dragging my gear inside.
It's late. I'm cold and tired. I have a hot shower and a warm refreshing beverage so it's not long before it's light's out and I go to sleep thinking about tomorrow's ride with Cape Breton waiting just around the corner.
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