What's Not To Lose?
“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 with me after my solo trip around the Cabot. First to go missing were a pair of prescription glasses he had recently learned to love after twenty years of uncertainty. A beloved sheepskin was the second item to disappear, and now with no faith left in static forces he added another item to the list: one brown leather hatchet sheath. It seemed like a day for losing so I took personal inventory with a pat down and found myself on the side of fortune. Other than one sock unaccounted for in the tent, I’d been spared the curse.
Emptying our panniers we shake objects loose and lift them up and down multiple times in hopes the missing item will reveal itself like a magic ball and cup trick. Empty handed and out of hiding spots we begin to think Tom isn’t to blame for his recent loss. Our investigation turns to earlier activities, of him photographing a lady tossing scraps to a fox. Scanning his camera now, we compare our furry suspect to the grinning bandit on the wanted poster at the reception desk. It’s a match. As our campfire snaps and the sun goes down, we rest well knowing we found our culprit. In the morning light, beneath trampled grass we discover the button from his sheath. Chewed clear of its leather restraint it had been set free, and the remains carried off to a den adorned with other camper’s lost treasures.
Losing something can go a few ways. Either you feel lighter in the absence of it, or your thoughts continue to bear the weight. On a motorbike things go missing all the time. A bungee can snap, a pannier could fly open on the highway, parts rattle off even where they've held confidently just hours before. Frequent fuel ups lend a hand in the easy displacement of small items. While your head may be floating in the clouds over the discovery of a new town your wallet is left behind on the counter. Whether you’ve decided to leave something behind or it decides for you, what you choose to do about it can impact your trip. The bad news is that it’s gone, the good is that you have plenty of time to navigate how you feel about it while you continue on down the road.
Within the first few hours of riding solo I pull up to a service station and remove a chunk of my sunglasses. Shaking my helmet the arm piece falls and its tiny screw is lost in the dust below. In search of a replacement part I head inside and examine the shelves of leftover 80’s souvenirs and plastic beach accessories. With no solution in sight, I ask the cashiers if they recall MacGyver, a series about a special agent who could fix anything using common household items. They nod in understanding the assignment, and set off on a mission in search of a paperclip. Sometimes when we lose something we gain a new skill, such as the artistry of a budget roadside repair. In a community effort we tie the glasses together and I proudly press them back on my face.
Riding through open farmland and windy coastal roads I reach my campsite tucked away under a canopy of trees. The soft ground sends me on a hunt for a rock to prop the kickstand and I slowly unload my gear to pass time. My tent is framed over a bed of pine needles and I cook supper on the campfire hoping the smoke will choke the horsefiles. In slow bites I finish my meal as the fire grows strong enough to outshine the setting sun. For some, the biggest loss in travel is leaving all the comforts of home behind: for me it’s the best part of the adventure. A warm summer night settles as I nod off in my sleeping bag to the birds performing last call.
Firing the fuel stove for coffee in the morning I press the heat from the mug into my palms and wash down a fistful of almonds. It’s already sticky out and with my gear snug and secure I take to the road. A few hours pass and I have yet to lose anything but my sense of direction. I take the shoulder and recalibrate with my paper map. The traffic is so sparse that when I emerge from the secondary road and onto the packed main drag it feels as if I’ve opened the door to a surprise party. Approaching from across the lot at a service station, a man wants to show me an Airhead he used to own. He flips through pictures on his phone while someone else waits behind him to talk to me about my bike. I’m questioned about the placement of my instrument cluster and assure him that my model isn’t the year he’s certain it is. We take pictures together and extend the salutary, ‘ride safe’ motorcycle mantra.
Where the Cabot Trail gets twisty and the views become a distraction, there are plenty of lookouts provided to stare uninterrupted at the scenery. Stopping at one I meet two men from the States on a Canadian tour. They introduce themselves and the grins grow wide as they point simultaneously to the Back Road Riders logo on their shirts. The generous talker notices my sunglasses repair while the quiet one takes candid pictures. Invited to ride along I follow them until they pull over again, and it’s here I leave the pack behind. While they’re counting views I’m counting miles and still have a ways to go before I reach my goal. I pick up a Ducati along the way and we ride together until the next fuel stop where we part ways and become strangers again.
I continue alone through towns where the grass grows in the cracks of the road and lighthouses double as photographic backdrops. When I stop for the night it’s at a small cabin with a yard belonging to a cluster of chickens and slow moving cows on skinny legs. Dampness settles into the pages of my book so I sit on the porch watching the animals perform their bedtime routine. The chickens are the first to stagger into their coop, second are the grazing cows who fall asleep on their meal of hay; I’m last to go down and head back inside to tuck in for the night.
Morning arrives early at the farm and I’m on my bike before traffic wakes. I ride all day to meet Tom at a halfway point for one final campout before heading home, although there’s always the urge to keep biking until I run out of road.
