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 more
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 special
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
Six hours of exploring every crack in this concrete slab and I’m running out of games. ‘Come along,’ I tell the ants; and nudge their marching line to bend at my command. I reward their hard work with crumbs and watch them weightlift their way toward better tomorrows. On
Blowing exhaust to rouse the winter air and shaking under restrain of its orange tie down, my R75/6 is alive on the first try. Backed by a cacophony of neighborhood dogs yipping to my success, the garage door remains cracked. Slowly the dust settles as the engine is shut
Under the cover of snow, familiar bike routes remain frozen and lie in wait for Spring. Further reassurance that tearing apart my motorbike for maintenance this winter is the proper thing. Forced into neutral, future trips take form based on past runs and wish lists. 2023 was the year I
It is Fall. The chipmunks are working overtime hording food. Our first attempt at supper has been thwarted by their thieving bravado. Campsite inventory is now minus one baguette. The salad remains. Since it's too late in the season to set up tent, we've booked an