The first day of any long-awaited vacation is typically accompanied by feelings of excitement, inspiration and even joy. On this particular morning, however, I was filled with nausea, apprehension and a deep desire to remain in bed. My traveling partner Matt had already been up for an hour, cheerfully prepping our bikes, when I finally summoned the will to rise and begin our two-week motorcycle journey to Nova Scotia. Heavy drinking late into the evening seemed a prerequisite for my summer job as a wedding chef. Now I was paying the price.
Considering my condition, I was happy I finished packing the previous day. Aside from practically passing out over my oatmeal, the day started smoothly. As our pair of Yamahas-my late-model FZ-1 and Matt's classic FJ1200-rolled away from Vermont and through New Hampshire's Dixville Notch, I really began to feel alive. Moving rapidly, we made good time, arriving at the Belle Isle Motel in Bar Harbor, Maine, in the early afternoon.
Gliding out of Bar Harbor the next morning on the Cat Ferry, a high-speed catamaran that crosses the Bay of Fundy, we were rewarded with a magnificent view of the rounded granite domes forming Acadia National Park, with Cadillac Mountain-the highest point on the eastern seaboard at 1532 feet-looming in the distance. The ferry is an impressive piece of engineering, cruising across the bay at 40 knots, but the passage was disappointing-apparently, the $250 ticket price doesn't warrant decent food. As we approached the port city of Yarmouth, however, we forgot all grievances with the boat. We were entering Canada.
Clearing customs was a breeze, and once through, we took off like bullets from a gun. An hour at triple-digit speeds moved us quickly toward our destination: Grand Pre. There we explored the Minas Basin tidal flats-a coarse, deep-crimson plain that stretched miles out into the bay during low tide. Dinner at Paddy's Pub in nearby Wolfville was our introduction to what would become our daily routine: fresh mussels every night, do or die. Also at Paddy's we discovered another maritime ritual: sea shanties, sung at top volume by kilted locals. Nova Scotia is French for "New Scotland," after all.
The next day we set off in search of Atlantic Motorsports Park, a Canadian Superbike Series venue. We finally found the racetrack outside of Shubenacadie, locked up and deserted. The only sign of life was a woodchuck hot-lapping pit lane. I was praying we'd find an open gate or a cooperative maintenance man-any way to get out for a lap of "Canada's Rollercoaster"-but it wasn't to be. Instead we forged onward into Nova Scotia's interior, a boggy, coniferous forest pock-marked with glacial lakes. We reached Sherbrooke just before nightfall, where a too-good-for-us Bed & Breakfast called Saint Mary's River Lodge awaited. The proprietor, Andy-a chunky, wild-eyed, afro'ed, modern Beethoven with a dozen keyboards and an in-house recording studio that would make any audio engineer jealous-entertained us all night long.
We hit the road the next day with spirits high, knowing we would soon ride the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island. But first we paused for a quick pass through Gaelic College in St. Anns, where we discover the cultural heart of Nova Scotia. The Hall of the Clans transported us across the ocean to the misty moors and rugged highlands of northern Scotland. While lost deep in a mural celebrating one of Rob Roy's bloodiest battles, Matt shook me from my reverie and reminded me that my trusty steed was waiting outside for its afternoon flogging.
Off we went, then, strafing the coastal roads lining St. Anns Bay, then finding heaven in the form of Cape Smokey, where we encountered the smoothest and most serpentine asphalt this side of the Alps. Unfortunately, we also encountered rain, forcing a more relaxed pace. We agreed to come back the next day to scratch up these roads properly-sans baggage, with dry roads and full visibility.