Home at the Cross.

New Ross, NS – The day awoke to ghosts of conifers bristling against the morning chill as we prepared for the long day of riding ahead.

Yesterday’s rain lingered and the temperature dipped as we climbed north in Québec – an average of 11 degrees is particularly cold on a motorcycle, especially when it’s wet. Set into a valley outside Lévi, an Ultramar refinery was lit up like a Christmas tree, with large balls of light covering each surface. It was incongruous with the natural setting surrounding it.

Even the mountains were wrapped in scarves of fog, but we started to become moderately warmer as we descended from Rivière-du-Loup, which was the northernmost point on our trip.

My highway peg fell off immediately after crossing into New Brunswick and I had to hike back down the highway to retrieve it. Naturally, an 18-wheeler had run over it. As I reattached my crippled peg in the visitors’ centre parking lot, a young couple from Ontario came up and asked if we needed some tools. “Mechanic?” my father asked. “Tire guy,” came the reply, accompanied by the right-sized ratchet. By this point, I had discovered the importance of being able to shift sitting positions while riding long distances.

Even New Brunswick refused to welcome us with blue sky, except for a 10-minute stretch lined by moose fences in the Appalachian mountains. In fact, it rained all the way to Fredericton before simply shrouding us in grey. Still, the scenery was like a Bob Ross painting on PBS. Only real.

I was nearly run over by a pickup truck pulling a trailer whose driver decided the left lane at a toll booth would be faster. It would have been, except I was there and had to remind him so with an angry blast of my horn. All in all, the drivers haven’t been bad, though.

As my gas gauge started blinking, chiding me for letting it get too low on a stretch of road that did not have much around, we took an impromptu side trip into Florenceville. On the plus side, we got to ride through a covered bridge – four times. Turns out the roads we were on were remote enough the GPS could not pick them up.

All day long, the road unfurled before me like film: each scene similar, but altered slightly and saved in memory for posterity. A girl took our photo as she passed, people gave us thumbs-up and other bikers waved from across the highway. It was pretty cool.

We had started to disbelieve in the existence of the sun, yet it was beginning to set beautifully as we crossed into Nova Scotia. We had expected to be hit by the remains of tropical storm Danny as we arrived, but, while 1,000 mm had fallen earlier in the day, it was clear this evening.

The end of the ride was particularly tough as we wove through the trees, knackered and so close to our destination. This area is the Balsam fir Christmas tree capital of the world and the winding and hilly roads were as dark as I wanted my eyes to be. It was my first legitimate 1,000-kilometre ride day.

At 7:30, we finally pulled up to Cottage at the Cross, which is managed by my aunt and uncle and is next to their house – and my father’s childhood home.

“Welcome home, boys,” my aunt said. Considering my dad grew up here in a house his father built, it was particularly fitting.

Vitals:

• Time: 13 hours, 41 minutes
• Distance: 1,094.9 kilometres
• Weather: Cold, Rain, Cloudy, Sun
• Provinces: Québec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia
  
• Wildlife: None (Where, oh where are you, moose?)