Being no stranger to Tim Hortons, I ordered my usual box of 10 TimBits and a large coffee, double cream, 1/2 Sugar Twin. The plan was to nurse these babies as I got at least another three hours of sleep in my chair. The chairs there aren’t particularly comfortable, but the armor in my jacket provided the support I needed for a cozy nap. Working in one-hour shifts, I ate a few TimBits, had a gulp of coffee and dozed off. Every time I awoke to repeat this action, it was interesting to see the change in clientele in the shop. The weirdest thing was waking up to a shift change as I had become accustomed to the previous gang working behind the counter.
Having reached my target amount of sleep, it was time to finish my coffee and move on. Before that could occur, a college student from San Francisco discovered that I was an American. He asked me if I could tell him how to get home. At first I thought this was a bizarre question, and my initial thought was, “Uh.... kinda like do the reverse of how you got here pal.” He then explained that he wanted to see some new territory and wanted my input on possible interesting routes. I pitch him a couple ideas, and before we could end our conversation, I had once again become a magnet for homeless people and oddballs. This old guy checks out my bike, walks into the shop and instantly corners the San Franciscan and me. He first tells me the obvious, like, “Gee, you’re a long way from home” and “Lousy weather for a ride.” Then, stupid me, I open my mouth and rant about how there’s no such things as bad weather... yada, yada, and how I’ve gone 56 months straight riding a bike in all conditions, including snow & ice with my studded tires. He follows with 20 minutes of stories about his ice racing days on motorcycles. There was nothing wrong with that in itself; the problem was that he spoke like the Cajun gardener from the Adam Sandler movie, “The Waterboy.” Being able to only understand every third mumbled word, I just had to sit there and nod a lot while smiling and giving up the occasional, “Uh huh.” After the old guy finished his story, he was pretty worn out, and so was I. The three of us then parted ways, me on my bike, the San Franciscan in his white Taurus wagon, and the old man with his shopping cart.
The previous night, my bike’s kill switch self-destructed as I was getting ready to move the bike from one bar to the next. The plastic toggle cracked in several places, and the two springs that reside underneath it launched the entire mechanism into the street. I frantically searched the dimly-lit pavement for the toggle, springs, and little ball bearings that make up the mechanism. A hockey player would have better luck finding his contact lenses on the ice and I was only able to recover most of the red toggle plastic. I was able to start the bike by jumping the exposed contacts inside the switch with the butt end of my 50-cent army surplus can opener that I keep on my key ring. This procedure got really old after the sixth time I started the bike. The plan was to go towards Joe T’s across the harbor in Dartmouth, hit the WalMart for a butane-powered soldering iron and solder in a jumper wire along the way. Unfortunately, the store didn’t have any butane-powered soldering irons, just the traditional 30w type. I thought about grabbing one of those and trying it with my bike’s 70w power inverter, but I wasn’t sure it would work and didn’t want to waste my money on that overpriced piece of junk. I keep forgetting about WalMart’s return policy and later realized that I should have tried it anyway, and returned the iron even if it worked for the repair.
The trip to WalMart wasn’t a total waste of time. I discovered these neat little speakers for $10 that fold up to the size of a cigarette pack. These would come in handy for listening to my MP3 player when I camp. Some group in the parking lot was also giving away free hotdogs for no apparent reason. Following my rule #1: never turn down free food, I gladly partook. Before inhaling my ‘dog, I dialed up Joe for directions to his house. He told me that he was in his car, just a few blocks from the WalMart, and that he’s swing by in 1 1/2 minutes to escort me to his place. While waiting for him, I enjoyed my hotdog by the front door of the store. It was then that I noticed the strong scent of reefer. This was the third time in the Halifax area that I smelled a joint ablaze in public. I jokingly asked someone, “So, when did they legalize marijuana in Canada?” He responded, “It’s still illegal, just nobody cares.”
As I take the last giant bite of my ‘dog, a guy and kid walk up to me and the guy starts talking. I quickly realize that it’s Joe and keep him waiting for my introduction whilst I chew. He looked different from what I envisioned. I expected an older guy with an older kid. I based this assumption from our phone calls and from knowing that he had a red KLR650. I don’t know if it’s just me, but my observation is that most people who own a late-model (red, ’04 or later) KLR650 are late-40-to-50-somethings who generally pile the bike with accessories, but only ride locally on the street. I’m now looking at an in-shape 41 year old, who’s telling me of his motocross racing experience, and I’m thinking, “So much for impressions.”
After our chat in the parking lot, I follow him and his son over to his house just a few kilometers away. By this time, it’s about 2:00PM. The weather has been intermittently ugly all day, and neither of us was in the mood for a ride, so we decided to do the soldering on my bike and just hang out & talk. When we exchanged emails prior to my trip departure, Joe explained that they just sold the house and are getting ready to move across town, so I had the understanding that I wouldn’t be hanging around for too long. However, when I met his wife, Joyce, she asked, “You’re staying for dinner, right? We have a bed made up for you too.” Sensing that she wasn’t just being polite, I was glad to accept the offer versus camping in the rain. Rule #2: never turn down free lodging. Basically, my first 10 rules homogenized into one are: never turn down free anything, as long as it’s legal, all parties consent, and there’s no pain involved.
The repair to the bike went quickly, so the next step was to try out these little speakers I bought. Joe and I were both impressed by the big, clean sound that came from the nickel-sized cones. Joe then showed me his bikes. Not only is he an accomplished motocrosser, he also has road racing experience, and is a skilled trials and trail rider. Everything was at
his disposal in his fleet, except for a road bike. He also had a Yamaha PW50 for his son, appropriately named “Rider”, to learn on this summer. Before we knew it, dinnertime was approaching. Joe grilled some boneless chicken breasts, and Joyce assembled a terrific meal. After dinner, the evening went by quickly and it was time to hit the rack. The next morning, my presence came in handy as they needed help moving some furniture that they sold. I was more than happy to help, and it hardly served as payment for their hospitality. The weather started to improve slightly, and as I got ready to take off, Joe offered to ride with me.
We were both pretty hungry, so we decided to start the ride with a fish & chips lunch and a place on the Dartmouth docks. The previous night, Joe raved about the quality and portion size of these platters. He didn’t embellish one bit. Sure enough, the “pieces” were like planks of fish. Joe got the one-piece platter, and I got the two-piece. Each platter came with an extra 1/2 piece, and the fish was served on a bed of hand-cut fries, enough to half fill a basketball. I picked up the tab as a token of thanks. It was a little pricey at $39.00 CAD with tax & tip, but DAMN, it was worth it and it was indeed the best fish & chips EVER. I couldn’t finish my platter, and had them wrap and entire fillet in foil for later.
Although I was now ready for a nap, we hit the road. Joe escorted me on a nice 100km ride on twisty pavement to Truro. There, we refueled and had our tearful goodbyes. Since we were right next to The Palliser Motel, I went into the gift shop for some trinkets. I had stayed at The Palliser on a previous trip. Its restaurant is right at the tidal bore in Truro. They have clean rooms, great rates, and it includes a free, full buffet breakfast. I was tempted to stay there again, but the day was young and I wanted to proceed to New Glasgow. My original plan was to head to Pictou, but Joe emailed a friend of his who lives in New Glasgow, and he might be willing/able to hook me up for a night’s stay. With the weather still on the dodgy side, a free stay in a dry home is always more attractive than a bridge abutment bivouac. Because it was still relatively early and it hadn’t rained for about an hour, I decided to do some off-pavement exploring on my way to my destination.
