Along For The Ride
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 outskirts of the nearest town boasting seven hundred strong my dad tended the soil, turning it in season and checking his watch only to remove it at bedtime.
The farm tied him to the land, so he escaped on a motorcycle. Creating distance from his chores, Sunday rides and weekend getaways pulled him through landscapes similar to those he tilled. These short trips granted small freedoms, a chance to shake off the dust and secure a comfortable return to the family business, racing the sunrise to work Monday morning.
I begged to go along, to leave behind the fields and boundaries of places I already knew, but as far as we rode my dad could never outrun his roots. Stopping to stretch our legs on one trip, we casually disembarked in the potato museum parking lot. As a means to justify the leisure of a day off, an educational pitstop of punishing fun awaited. Shuffling through empty rooms, we witnessed our life on display through carefully curated exhibits, while looping videos bounced down hollow corridors explaining to no one how changes in the soil would affect the humble potato. Trailing behind, I wondered how many more potato facts my dad could embrace, as he investigated and fact checked his way toward the exit.
Traveling with my dad laid bare our differences, and confirmed that our passions and expectations didn’t always align. We found that destinations don’t spark a common level of awe in everyone, and the more participants you add to the group the faster you face it. Down an open road, in an endless quest to anywhere, we eventually found something to agree upon. When the itch of a complaint would set in, the remedy could be found by jumping back on the bike. In the silence of the ride between home and away, we left the wind to our worries and continued on without them.
Many seasons have passed since I was a child, and memories of biking with my dad lends a warmth to the winter sun. The bikes that carried Tom and I away from home last season remain tucked in the garage, deep in hibernation. We dream now of springtime and plot our escape in the evenings after the kids have gone to bed. Creased maps sprawl across our kitchen table, highlighted in day-glo abundance to reveal favourite camping spots and familiar routes. If somehow our map falls into the wrong hands, and X does mark the spot, there will be mass confusion for any treasure hunters. Squeezed by a short bike season we engage the ‘tank half full’ approach and carefully tally our Time vs. Kilometers vs. Desire until we have a short list of ideas to ride us through the upcoming year. Our calculations prove that leaving home for an extended trip doesn’t match our current lifestyle, so we maintain our regular schedule of a two week holiday, and pair it with a generous heaping of sporadic road trips and weekends of camping.
In honor of the travels we grew up on, we’ve elected to stick to our roots and trek over familiar terrain of the Maritime Provinces. Our escape plan moves us along swooping coastal drives, bordering cliffs, and rocky outcrops. We intend to ride through clouds of hungry mosquitos in the Acadian forest and set up camp on the pine needle floor. When the moon pulls in our favour we’ll sleep on the shoreline under the stars, and make campfire meals infused with smoke and salty air. We have a variety of lighthouses to help set the mood and plenty of fog to offer a haunting of pastoral landscapes. Leaving the mainland, we aim to reach as many islands as possible and travel as far from home as it takes to feel lost.
As spring edges closer and days crawl forward I’m not convinced I’m ready for a roadtrip to return to the potato museum of my youth, one where a stretch of the legs can spawn an agricultural deep dive. For old times’ sake I might be persuaded to visit another lonely roadside attraction and arm myself with the facts of a tourist placard. After all, midway between my house and my dad’s stands the world’s largest axe, waiting to impart a history lesson to anyone with tired legs.
