Those of you that know me well know that at times I can have a bit of an addictive personality. I always seem to have some newfound obsession that I spend hours researching on the internet and even cause me to develop ridiculous schemes related to the object of my obsession. For example, last spring it was all about David Blaine. In the week that he was in the bubble, I went to see him three times (I even took my students to see him), read every article on the internet about him and took his advice seriously. Then there was the Trailer Park Boys, the best Canadian TV show ever. Pat and I watched the first six seasons in record time, and then even took a pilgrimage to Nova Scotia in search of Sunnyvale Trailer Park!

My current favorite thing in the world, besides my loving husband, is the Dog! I got hooked on watching Dog the Bounty Hunter (on A&E—I highly recommend you watch it) when I was on vacation in Florida. For the past few weeks our Friday evenings consist of watching Dog marathon thanks to our lovely TIVO-like machine. In the past eight weeks or so I must have seen over thirty episodes. Unlike my other obsessions though, I am learning a lot from this one and putting it to immediate use. Here’s a little story from the wonderful MS 391…

Friday morning when taking attendance I noticed that a group of four girls, who are the best of friends, all happened to be absent. I casually asked the class about it and just about all of the students admitted to seeing three of them this morning outside of school. As it turns out the dean of students also happened to see them and talk with them in the morning before school. (Something I wouldn’t recommend doing then proceeding to cut an entire day of school.) Once I put two and two together, I got my people on the clique of cutters! By 9:00 all of their houses had been called, their relatives alerted, and other friends questioned. Remembering the teachings of the Dog, on my free period I went on a hunt of my own! (No mace gun on this one though!) Unfortunately I didn’t have enough time to hit all of the houses, but I did get to one and made my presence known in the neighborhood. By noon I had been in contact with one mother, and one older sister. After school, I hit the other two houses, with the help of their little brothers. The hunt made me feel really energized and powerful, a lot like the Dog does after his hunts! Now I must wait until their punishments are dealt Monday morning.

(Cue theme song—to the tune of the Dog’s theme song!)

There’re books and knowledge all around you
The students are cutting school
No use in hiding behind the desk
I’ll hunt you down ’cause I’m the Teach!

I’m the Teach
The big bad Teach
The Bounty Teacher

Categories: Work
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If you want to get me riled up, one of the easiest ways to do it is ask about the “delights” of running a business in New York. There are multiple taxes and fees, each collected by a different agency, and each on a different schedule from each other and from the Federal government.

Upon returning from our Nova Scotia trip (the final chapter and pictures will be posted soon), I had no less than four “assessment” notices from my friends in Albany, all for fees not because I did not pay all my taxes, but because I had filed some at the wrong time, or not filed a form to indicate I had no taxes due!

I used to be quite the amateur politico, firing off letters on my opinions on various issues to my representatives. In my frustration over taxes, I dusted off my keyboard and rifled off a letter to Governor Pataki, as well as the Commissioner of Taxation, sharing my “thoughts and insights” into the tax environment in NY. This morning, I actually received a call from a very polite woman from Taxation regarding my letter. She offered to refund several of my fees, and put me in touch with one of the other departments that had assessed me. While this does not necessarily address the root problem, it is nice to know that some folks in government actually listen to their constituents, and will actually attempt to make things right.

Kudos to NY State, but I still am looking forward to moving to greener pastures.

Categories: General
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Since our last update, a long 300+ mile day has brought us to the highpoint of the trip, as well as our first rains while riding. After a restful night at the campsite on Digby Neck, described in the last update, we rode on the “highway” to make up some time and get to Cape Breton Island, the north eastern part of Nova Scotia that is separated from the rest of the province by a small channel. The highway was what I would imagine travel was like in the US before the superhighways. It alternated between a high-speed two lane road, and a one lane rural road that meandered through a town built with the road as its centerpiece. Interestingly, while many of the towns did not have gas stations or any other services, two buildings were nearly always present: a church and an ice cream stand.

The long day got us almost to Cape Breton where we camped overlooking the water. Threatening clouds had been following us all day, but we made it safely into the tent before any rain fell. The next morning the clouds were still with us, as threatening as ever. We made a record time packing and getting ready to leave with the promise of rain adding speed to our usual morning routine. Perhaps as a courtesy due to it being our one year anniversary, the clouds waited to unload until almost the second we had zipped our last zipper and fired up our engines.

The rest of the day a persistent cold, light rain was with us. Although it was raining all day, our new gear kept us dry, and watertight bags on the bikes kept our clothes and gear dry. Despite the rain, the country we were driving through is beautiful. Rugged coastline with few, if any houses gradually rose along climbing hills, where small farms and evergreen forests hid in the clouds and mist. Pictures unfortunately were not on the agenda due to the rain and our objective of getting somewhere warm and dry to spend our anniversary, rather than cold and wet. Around 2PM we arrived in the town of Cheticamp, an Acadian town on the northwest shore of Cape Breton. The Acadians were French residents of Nova Scotia, who were scattered to various parts of the province by the British, and forced to live in exile. French is prominently spoken, and Acadian flags, similar to the French flag with a small star in the corner are flown everywhere.

A warm lunch, followed by some Nova Scotia wine and scotch (yes, they actually distill scotch here, representing the province’s Scottish heritage) had us warmed up, and we were safely housed in a local bed and breakfast to celebrate our first year of marriage, rather than a tent.

The next morning brought us more rain. We left the small B&B we were staying at to questionable skies, although a brief lapse in the rain allowed us to load the bikes in the relative dry. Soon after firing up the motors however, it began to rain again. The rain was joined by rather strong winds, according to a weather report, gusting up to over 50 km/h, which is around 30 mph. When riding a motorcycle, especially for someone with limited experience, a strong wind can be a bit disconcerting, and since the day’s agenda called for riding into the highlands of Cape Breton, Meghan was uncomfortable to say the least. After a quick conference we decided to turn around and head back the way we came, skipping the highlands.

Several miles into that trip, along a road that ran right along the coast, the strong winds continued, along with the rain, and after at least making an effort, Meghan decided she could not continue. We turned around again, and checked into a motel down the street from our previous lodging, perhaps for a change of scenery, or perhaps to avoid admitting defeat to the two Acadian women who ran the place that we left with a cavalier attitude scant hours before.

The aforementioned highlands were supposed to be a highpoint of the trip. The northern tip of Cape Breton, effectively the northern tip of the entire province is nearly all national park, and supposedly resembles the highlands of Scotland. A winding road runs through the park, climbing along the coast into the highlands, making a steep descent, and then climbing and descending again. Knowing how much I had looked forward to this portion of the trip, Meghan encouraged me to suit up and head out on an unloaded bike.

As I neared the entrance to the park, the strong, bitingly cold wind began to give me second thoughts. I stopped in the information center, remembering the insulated layer to my motorcycle jacket, still loaded in the trunk of my bike. I went in to pay the admission fee, and zipped in the insulated layer under the waterproof layer, ready to do battle with the elements. As if in a bad movie, after paying the admission fee and turning for the exit, it began to pour, in what can best be described as a Florida rain. After fielding several astonished questions from other tourists, and saying yes, I was going to ride in this weather, the only thing I could do was pull out the bravado, don my helmet and walk out the door into the rain, with my best swagger and look of a motorcycle bad ass.

My three layers were keeping me dry, and despite the rain, wind and cold, the beautiful road along the coast was worthwhile. The park is the closest intersection between sea, earth and sky I have ever experienced, with the main road winding along the coast while climbing into the highlands. Having come this far, I put my faith in Canon’s engineering and made several photo stops in the pouring rain, not to be left without some recorded evidence of my ride.

As I climbed the first pass into the highlands, I entered the clouds that were creating the storm, and visibility dropped to around 30 feet. As I contemplated turning around for about the fifth time, a looming mass appeared in the fog ahead, and a large bull moose, complete with a massive set of antlers ambled out into the road ahead of me. He either regarded the motorcycle as some form of kin, or at least a beast he could best in a fight, and other than a passing glance at me, barely increased his gait as we passed in the fog.

Taking this as some kind of omen, I continued on, riding along alpine tundra and scrub pine reminiscent of the above tree line hikes I’ve taken with my father in New Hampshire. The scrub was occasionally broken with a small lake, and other than a few other cars, motorcycles and even a couple of cyclists, I was alone with the fog and my thoughts, somewhere between earth and sky.

As I descended on the other side of the park, the fog lifted but the rains increased. My goal was Meat Cove, a strange name for the northernmost point on the island, reachable only by riding about 10 miles of dirt road. Each time I contemplated turning around, I ‘d see an interesting bird or vista, and would push on, until I had gone so far as to make turning back an impossibility.

The road to Meat Cove was equally amazing. A dirt and gravel path, barely wide enough for a car was cut into the side of the island, with a sheer 500 foot drop to the ocean on one side, and windswept land on the other. My speed was limited as much by the condition of the road as by the amazing vistas. The cove itself was a jumbled mass of rock and land, with only a few houses dotting the otherwise raw coast. A campground and ice cream shop are the few notable features of Meat Cove, save for an handful of houses. The campground juts out into the water, and has several test sites for the brave that have a 270 degree vista of the rugged ocean, almost sticking out as if to bridge land and sea, with neither neighbor being particularly hospitable towards the other.

Snapping one last photo, again hoping my camera would live to tell the tales of the trip, I turned around thinking “I’m coming back here someday and staying at that very spot.”

The ride back was more of the same: rain, wind and fog you could smell, feel and almost taste. As I slowly made my way across the final section of highlands, a female moose again ambled across my path, in almost the same place. Unsure whether this was a coincidence or a sign of some sort, the thought had barely left my head when I began my descent, broke through the clouds and entered an absolutely beautiful day.

I gave the throttle a twist, rain flying off the windshield and my waterlogged gloves finally hitting dry air. I joyously flicked the bike down the mountains at just-below-unsafe speeds, happy to be alive and riding in a place and time few others will get to experience. I nearly giggled each time I stopped at a turnout, taking the same photos I had snapped through rain and fog in the clear sunny weather, smiling as I passed a minivan of tourists that were still in the visitors center when I had departed over three hours ago.

My bike and I bounded down the pass, stopping for a quick photo between sessions leaning into corners and doing my best super motoard impression. As I rode back into town towards our motel, I looked out on the water, in awe at the visible barrier between clear sky and storm front, hanging just at the base of the mountains. Looking out towards the sea, the sun slipped behind a cloud, creating what photographs call “god light,” the near-magical rays of light that stream out of a cloud like a laser beam. I snapped a couple more photos, and pulled into our motel with a huge grin.

“It cleared up right after you left, must have been a great ride!” said Meghan as I pulled in, and I rolled my eyes, beginning my tales of fog and rain. We spent the rest of the day walking around town, and had a supposedly traditional Acadian dinner, followed by an early bedtime.

This morning we were once again greeted with rain, although it let up as we packed, and we spent the day riding along the “no man’s land” between the clear weather and the storm front, eventually breaking out into a full blown blue sky as we left Cape Breton. We spent the rest of the day riding down the Marine Trail, a sparsely populated road hugging the southern portion of the island, just south of Cape Breton. While the road was occasionally rough, we were treated with views of the sea, small seaside villages and forests ranging from scrub pine to larger hardwoods.

We did not cover the distance we had planned, and a consensus among two sore butts decided on camping earlier than planned. We found a small campsite right on a lovely lake, and when I say right on the lake, as I am typing this I can see water about fifteen feet from where I am sitting. We’ve covered 1500 miles thus far, and while each day brings an adventure, it was a little sad waking up this morning and knowing that each mile is one step closer to the end of this tale rather than the start of some new adventure.

We’re hoping to cover some distance in the coming days, and if things go according to plan, spend a night or two with my parents in New Hampshire. We’re hoping she won’t be too scared by the dirty motorcycle-adventure bums that come through the door!

Pictures are here:

Categories: Travel
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Meghan and I just returned from Troy, NY where our friends Jeff and Sara were married last night. It was quite a party and a good time was had by all. We’re glad that Jeff and Sara are now “official” so we have more married friends to hang out with!

Pictures are here:

Categories: Wedding
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We left our campsite in Bar Harbor and took “the Cat,” a high-speed ferry over to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Motorcycles were assembled together in the parking lot while waiting to load the boat, so a small “biker gang” was formed and we all chatted about bikes, where we came from and where we were going. This continued aboard the ship as we all congregated in one section of the boat, joking about the new biker hangout and the corresponding drop in the value of real estate. A few shared beers with two brothers from Ireland, and a woman from Ontario forged some new friendships, and our “gang” stayed at the same hotel and partook in some entertainment at the local pub. The bar had an open mic night of sorts, and anyone could play as long as they were playing a blues or “jam” style. The talent was actually very impressive, and we heard some great harmonica from a man with one tooth.

After a few too many “refreshments,” Meghan and I were a bit late getting out of our bed at the Best Western, the first time we had slept with a roof over our heads rather than nylon on the trip. We rode about 40 miles along the beautiful Nova Scotia shoreline, stopping to have some scheduled service done on Meghan’s bike. The mechanic was an interesting person, and explained the history of the French, Scottish and English influences on the area. After the service was completed, we headed north to the town of Digby, and out onto a long peninsula called Digby Neck. It seemed like we were the only people on the road, and the road ran along the ocean, making for a beautiful ride, the fresh salty air and scenery repairing our somewhat aching heads.

We picked a campground with no real method to our decision, and it turned out to be nearly perfect. Our tentsite is on top of a hill, with a view of the surrounding forest and ocean. This being our fourth night camping, our routine is becoming fairly efficient, and within about 10 minutes of our arrival the tent is up and the stove simmering. Less than a mile down the road from our campground is a small cove where we are heading to watch the sun set. Supposedly you can see whales from the shore, and with the exception of a couple of small houses, the cove is almost completely undisturbed.

The next installment will bring us to Cape Breton Island, the northernmost part of Nova Scotia, and an area famous for its riding.

The second set of pictures is also posted:

Categories: Travel
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