Prince Edward Island: Riding the Red Roads
Fantastic scenery and very little traffic along Route 20 on the Island’s north shore.
Point the bike west from Antigonish, gas up and deal with the first question: ferry or bridge? When it comes to making decisions, I have trouble deciding which cereal to eat for breakfast, so the brain cramps at logistical quagmires like this. I’ll wait until I approach Exit 22 to Pictou and Caribou. Then it’s fish or cut bait.
Summer traffic is fast on the TransCanada; I’m being passed constantly. Speedometer reads 115km/h, plenty fast enough for me. On a Saturday in August, can we really be in that of a hurry? To go where?
Two huge logging trucks, fully loaded, pass me. Glad the bike is 800+ pounds, and cuts through the buffeting, breath-sucking blasts of wind like it’s not even there. Monster trucks make me nervous. And truckers would rather bikers give them a wide berth. They can’t see us half the time. Dumb bikers who dart behind and in front of the big rigs are trying to cash cheques their bodies can’t cash. I like to keep the shiny side up, so I don’t mess with trucks.
Onto the Cobequid Pass. At the toll booth the woman with a snarl on her face says “Do you have a pass, where’s your pass?” No, I have a five though. “This is the pass lane only. You’re supposed to be over there.” She snapped the five out of my leather glove and handed me a loonie. I love the Pass, with its long sweeping curves, New Brunswick dead ahead, PEI over to the right. On a clear day, as you crest the highest hill, if your eyes are good, you can see the Confederation Bridge off in the distance.
Quick gas stop in Amherst, then the short ride to the bridge. Gear down, speed limit is 80 km/h. I’ve been busted here before. Mountie pulled over our little Dodge Neon on our first day of vacation years back. Even pulled a U-ball on the bridge to get me. Not this time, as I join a steady stream of cars, 5th wheels and motorhomes heading to the Island.
The Strait is shimmering blue. A few fishing boats chugging along and Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir pumps out of the speakers:
‘Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream. I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been. To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen. They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed.’
Life is good. Riding now past potato blossoms on one side of the highway as far as the eye can see. Hay on the other side. The mammoth McCains french fry plant is shuttered, up for sale. Yard sale signs abound. I can smell the warm Island breeze. My lower legs are starting to feel very warm from the heat of the engine. Still, no regrets about wearing leather chaps. Safety first.
Into Kensington, where locals and tourists set out chairs for the annual parade. Buy six mouth-watering cinnamon buns at Mary’s Bakery, guzzle a cold bottle of water. Find motorcycle-only parking spots next to the old train station (in the shade – bonus!) and order a Sir John A draft from the Island Stone Pub. Feeling sorry for the PEI couple that ended up as listening posts for two wealthy Americans who want anyone in hearing range to hear how lovely their retirement has been since selling their own multi-million dollar farm in Arkansas. “I keep tellin’ Merle, really honey, do y’all still need to be buyin’ another combine?” The young bartender rolls her eyes.
Heading north now on the Irishtown Road, just in time to pull up behind a long line of tractors that were in the parade. They’re clearly in no hurry. The first one I pass is vintage 1940. The old guy at the wheel is dressed up as…can it be…yes, like Anna from Frozen. That warrants a blast from my horn.
Grandson Emmett geared up for the road.
In Seaview I find son Adam and the Pickering family on the beach on one of those days that make you want to move here for good.Grandson Emmett looks pretty good on two wheels.
A quick dip in the ocean and on to surprise my sister who is staying with a lifelong friend at the Twin Shores campground. My mother’s Uncle Lloyd sold this land in the early 1960s. It’s a goldmine now. There are so many families with kids here, that they celebrate Christmas in July, and tonight it’s Halloween. Kids know that trailers showing off balloons offer treats.
Impromptu camping at Twin Shores with sister Charlene
Our agenda for the evening is simple: laugh, drink coolers, switch to Bud Light when the coolers run out, laugh some more, eat fried wieners and potatoes, more Bud, campfire with fart jokes until midnight and then into the tent with my sister. Sister Charlene and I prepare to bunk for the night. Or was this the morning after? The sun sets over Twin Shores.
Morning brings toast, farewell hugs with our hosts Paul and Noella Richard, and a splendid ride home. The Goldwing has found her sweet spot – 105 km/h at 3,200 rpm and the wheels are floating on air.
The big touring bike purrs as we turn into the driveway. Odometer reads 805.2 kilometres since yesterday. Ignition off, I tap one of the hot cylinder heads as a gesture of thanks. When can we do this again, I wonder? September is just around the corner.
