Our lunch had been slow, like the town we had landed in, and we sat at an uneven picnic table shifting gravel under our boots. Thrill-seeking insects dropped by to test our off-road reflexes, and we chugged back coffee to wash down the exclamations of our ride this
Along Route 105 in Western New Brunswick, there is a gravel road which will remain anonymous unless you’re searching for a place to rest. A discrete sign with humble black lettering against a white background identifies the entrance. As your wheels pop over the crushed stone, water sits reverently
*This post lacks photos because there was a no photo policy at the convention. May the words provide sufficient visuals. Jim was forced to lean in so I could hear him above the roar of heckling at the closing ceremonies. “Yeesh. These guys are so loud, you’d think they’
With the power to win a fight or signal a new one, the middle finger is a worthy accomplice. Reserved for traffic altercations, it can dispatch a jumble of helmet swears to the rest of the world in one swift gesture. The simple act takes quiet command of an uneasy
Drop by if you’re in the neighbourhood, and I’ll extol the virtues of a gas station parking lot. To fully appreciate my rating system, you must have some experience with a motorcycle, specifically breaking down on one. I’ve seen you push your bike along the road that
For ten dollars a head you can park your innocence outside the doors of the Cascapédia River Museum and enlighten yourself with enough fish facts to amaze your friends. Trophies and tributes to the river are enclosed in the building on Route 299, flanked by wooden fish cutouts bearing names
“I swear I left it on the picnic table,” said Tom. It was right here before we went to get wood.” “Of course,” I said, wondering if he’d been cursed. He had left a trail of breadcrumbs along Route 2 through Nova Scotia, on his way to meet up
The first motorbikes to jump-start the season take on more risk. These agents on two wheels show up early, announcing to everyone that we’re back to play in traffic. They roll their dormant wrists to satisfy the itch as throttled fanfare fills the streets. The early birds catch
Blue jeans and ball caps assemble, leaning against their dusted rides at the unofficial hangout of any small town, the parking lot. Its neutral ground sets the stage for showing off, settling scores, leaving things behind, or collecting nerves before heading inside. We linger long enough to run out of
Our house stood at the bottom of the hill, catching the spring run off from terraces that lined the road sloping down to the river. Between the fields were patches of forest, to shade coyotes in their evening game and lend cover by day as we worked. There on the
It’s Mother’s Day, and I’ve left my family to be with strangers in the former parking lot of a flight school. A sea can is emptied, leaving a line-up of motorcycles outside to choose from. Although they’re mostly identical, we race to stand beside the
Never buy one of anything,” says Jim. Sage advice as we tow an empty trailer behind us. It’s autumn: yellow, rust, and red leaves cling to the trees like a loose tooth. Backlit by sun they flood the landscape; lanterns warning of winter before dropping their leaves to the