My Fiancee: Biker Babe

It was with some sadness that we departed Quebec City. After three days of perfect weather, once again the sky was looking grey. I decided not to push my luck with my presumed diplomatic immunity, so we skirted around the Old City, in an effort to rejoin the main road out of town. The customary compliment of wrong turns began our trip, and after a few false starts we were on our way. We planned to use highways the entire return trip to save time, especially since it looked like we would be getting wet once again. There were few periods of hard rain, but a chilling drizzle joined us for the entire 200 miles out of Canada.

The US Customs agent was less impressed with us than his Canadian counterpart, and after some brief questioning we were back in our native land. We stopped once again in Newport, VT., to see if the mysterious Jews had migrated on, and the town appeared dead. We had a leisurely lunch at Wendy?s, and waited out the worst of the rain. The skies cleared, and we pushed forward to the town of White River Junction, VT.

White River Junction, as the name implies, was built around the junction of two major railroad lines. The hotel we stayed at was immediately across from the train station, and looked to have once been quite a grand affair. A plaque told of the hotel?s plight. It was built to serve railroad customers, and then burned down after only a few years of operation. The hotel was rebuilt, only to catch fire once again. After a few years, the hotel was once again rebuilt, although at this point the automobile was outstripping the train as Americans preferred mode of transportation, and the hotel was abandoned. In a more recent attempt to attract yuppies and ?leaf peepers,? it was reopened and had plenty of rooms available.

Its latest incarnation offered a parking lot, bed and bath, and all the pleasures, or lack thereof, of the sleepy town of White River Junction. We walked the streets for a little while, trying to choose among the pizza joint, diner or Italian restaurant. We went with the Italians, and then adjourned to our room, bidding goodnight to the village drunk, who appeared to be cursing out the closed train station.

The next day marked the completion of our journey, after we rode the last 200 or so miles back to Connecticut. With sore rear ends and a couple of backpacks of laundry, we dismounted our trusty Burgman. Meghan, having been an incredibly good sport about the whole affair, suggested that ?maybe? we should look for a shorter trip next time. As the weather grows colder, I?m not sure when that next time will be, but I?m looking forward to embarking on another journey with my biker babe, and I promise I?ll keep the suggestion for a shorter route in mind!