Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson Partners in Grime
Invitation
"People who accumulate lots of road rash over a lifetime have spent their lives happy."
~ Tim ParkerRoger arrived home at noon. After lunch, we prepared to hit the road, our panniers stuffed with leftover chicken and apple pie. Saying goodbye, we learned our new friends had one more surprise in store for us. "We're planning on visiting our daughter, Sonia, in France at Christmas," Roger said. "We have two suites booked for a month on the French Riviera. We're inviting you to come and stay with us." Sharon and I stood in flabbergasted silence. I'm sure my mouth dropped open.
"There'll be plenty of room," Suzanne added. "We probably won't even be there much of the time," she said. "We want to explore the area and go to Paris for a week."
Still in shock, we assured them that if we were anywhere near the French Riviera at Christmas, we'd be there.
"If you decide to, just give us a call and we'll give you the details," Roger grinned.
We hugged them, and pedalled off, waving until we were out of sight, excited about the possibility of meeting up with them in two months.
The bright sun skipped its way across a cloudless denim blue sky. And, for the first time in days: no wind! Highway 17, lined by thick stands of evergreens, whisked us toward the New Brunswick - Maine border. Our plans had been slightly revised. Instead of meandering casually through Nova Scotia to Halifax we were now hustling in the opposite direction. We hoped to catch warmer temperatures and glorious hardwood autumn leaves by dipping south into Maine, heading west through New Hampshire, Vermont, and then north, back into Québec to catch our flight from Montréal's Mirabel airport.
With the great weather, it should have been a tranquil forest ride. But it wasn't. The narrow road, combined with weighty logging trucks, made for a tense journey. The trucks boomed past in both directions. In ten short kilometres, we were twice forced to ditch onto the shoulder or eat spruce.
"No matter how much ketchup I put on those wood chips, I'm sure they're going to taste lousy," I grumped. "Good thing I put on that knobby front tire," I said. "Sure handles better than skinny touring tires. More rolling resistance, but it beats picking gravel out of my palms."
Logging traffic diminished as the forest changed from conifers to groves of poplars. Branches barren, leaves already departed, skeletal trees waved long bony fingers in the slight breeze. With a ghost-like glide, we swept up a long hill into Robinsonville. (Hey, we did it! Roger had warned us we'd never pedal all the way up Robinsonville Hill. But, it was no problem. Pyrenees, here we come!)
Robinsonville townsfolk displayed a raunchy sense of Halloween gallows humour. Headless men, clad in red and blue plaid lumberjack shirts, sat on veranda rockers. Giant pumpkins, along with sinister depictions of black cats, witches, and ghosts, infested front yards. Tombstones leaned at crazy angles like a hag's crooked teeth. One headstone, bearing the current date, read: Jason rip (did it stand for 'Rest In Pieces'?). A hand groped out of the still fresh grave. "I guess it's true," I said. "There is no rest for the wicked."
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