Ontario, Québec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia

- 146650 km on the bike

This Monday the alarm goes off at 5.30 am. Martin has volunteered to drive me to Newbury railway station, where the train for Reading leaves at 6.40 am. It is a grey and drizzling day, and those tired faces I see on the train on this grim Monday morning are not really looking forward to the start of another working week.
That makes me feel even better, as none of my fellow travellers knows that I am off to the far side of the Atlantic Ocean to enjoy three month of blissfully biking in North America.
At Reading I catch the 7.34 am train to Gatwick Airport. It is on time and by 9.10 am I am at the airport. That is somewhat later than the three hours before takeoff stipulated in the ticket details, but I am doing this kind of travelling long enough to know that two hours are usually more than enough to check in.
The ticket details also stipulated that I was supposed to print out the ticket mailed to me from Canada. Of course I did no such thing (it is a waste of paper) and the check-in clerk has no problems with that - alas, my name is on the passenger list, that is all it needs.
The security guys have come up with a new idea; now all passengers are required to take off their shoes and have them sent through the X-ray machine separately - I wonder if these guys will ever realize the futility of this expensive nonsense?
They confirm to me that it is OK that I left one pipe lighter in my baggage together with my pipe bag. That Kitty will be on board, complete with a lead-acid battery, one gallon of petrol and enough highly flammable brake fluid to burn an extra window into the aircraft is something the other passengers are blissfully unaware of.
The plane leaves on time. The ancient Airbus A310 is no match in comfort or in-flight entertainment if compared to the planes used by Air New Zealand on my flights to and from NZ, but Air Transat is the only airline that ships uncrated motorbikes.
After an uneventful seven hours flight we touch down at the Lester B. Pearson airport in Toronto, 30 minutes ahead of schedule.
Passport control and baggage reclaim are handled very smooth and efficiently by the Canadians. I call the motel I have booked in advance, and they send out their van within 20 minutes and pick me up. I have chosen that motel for its proximity to the air-cargo facilities on Silver Dart Drive here in Mississauga.
After checking in I walk over to the cargo building; Kitty is already unloaded and is waiting for me in the bonded warehouse of the cargo center. All is well, except that they broke off the already pretty knackered right mirror.

It is 4.15 pm local time and the customs office closes at 4.30 pm, so I talk to the freight handlers and we agree to leave the bike where it is until tomorrow.
The next morning I am back at 8 am. First I have to collect the paperwork from the warehouse. Other than in Gatwick I have to pay 70 Canadian dollars for handling and navigation charges.
Next I walk over to the customs office and have it cleared. This costs another 45 dollars. That custom office is hidden in a corner of the endless corridors that make up this massive cargo building.

They call in the officers from the environment and food safety agency to check Kitty for any bugs or beetles that she may have imported from Europe. That takes about an hour, so I return to the motel and check the weather forecast; there is a severe weather warning in place for Toronto: heavy thunderstorms, local flooding, hail and the danger of tornados. I decide that I will not leave the motel today. By the time the bike is cleared the weather will probably have turned sour already.
By 10.30 am I am back. The bike has passed the "bug-test" - just as I anticipated. One last hurdle is the fact that they do not have a ramp to drive the bike from the warehouse onto the forecourt. Instead they rig a narrow aluminium plank at 45 degrees down the ramp. I get down that 6 ft. ramp onto the tarmac in one piece, though it is something of an unwanted extra adrenalin kick...
The next port of call is a filling station, as the tank is pretty empty - that was one of the conditions of shipping it. In fact, I did an excellent job to ride the tank near empty; after two miles the engine dies on me, just 200 yards before reaching the petrol station. They have a jerrycan at the station which they borrow me (after handing them 25 dollars as a deposit, welcome to the American way of life) and within minutes the bike is back on the road.
In the afternoon it looks like the world is drowning in a monstrous storm; hail and rain are turning the usual rush hour into a nightmare.

The above picture is a view from the motel entrance. It is definitely not something you want to get caught in on a bike.
Back in my room I log onto The Web and check the weather for tomorrow; it should be just about right for motorbiking.
I also find to my satisfaction that all my electronics (i. e. GPS, laptop, external harddrive for backup, digital camera charger, personal stereo etc.) are all working fine with the Canadian weak voltage system of just 115 volts at 60 Hertz.

- 146700 km on the bike

Next morning the sun is shining out of a perfect sky. I leave the motel at 9 am with a short route programmed into the GPS system that should get me to a motorbike supermarket 10 miles down the road. There I want to buy a new mirror to replace the one broken off during the shipping.
I had also prepared a return route to the motel (just in case). But for some reason I have uploaded only the return route into the GPS. That's no good, I'll never get to that place with the route being the wrong way round. I abort the mission and catch up with my second route which leads me out of town and towards Québec. As usual you can download the route and my tracklog here.
Once I am out of Toronto the ride turns out to be fantastic. Unlike in NZ the roads are real tarmac roads, maintained to good standards - and they are wide and empty.

The temperature is about 72 °F. - just ideal for motorbiking. My Cat is eating up the mileage fast. By 11.30 am I am approaching the village of Lindsay. A Pontiac overtakes me. Two miles onwards the driver stops, gets out of his car and waves me down. I stop and ask what is the problem. The chaps name is Len (junior), and he is just on his way to his dad (Len senior), who just has bought a Triumph Thruxton. His dad is from Aberdeen in Scotland and would apparently like to talk to a fellow Triumph biker, especially one from abroad. He has mistaken my Swiss Neuchâtel number plate for a New Zealand one. I correct that error, but the invitation is kept open. Apparently his dad's place is just 'around the corner'.
Of course I agree and Len leads the way - once again I think for myself that things like this only happen in America. It emerges that in this case 'around the corner' means 45 kilometres. It is obvious that Canadians have a different perception of distance than your humble narrator.
But I do not loose out here, as Len's route is nearly identical with mine. We reach their lovely house directly on the shore of Lake Pigeon in just 30 minutes.
Len senior is 75 years old but is as fit as a 75 years old Scottish oaktree. We have tea and biscuits, prepared by his equally agile wife, while we talk about bikes and biking today as compared to a long time ago.

I ask for a local motorcycle store to get a new mirror, but both Len's won't hear about it. Len senior gets into his extensive workshop and comes up with a spare mirror which he bolts to my bike. Perfect! And he won't allow me to pay for it. If Canadians are this friendly, then I suppose New Zealanders are in for some serious competition.
But it is time for me to go on. A maze of natural forests and lakes awaits me. This is a brilliant ride. At Bancroft I stop and buy some chain grease at a local hardware store. The town is a spitting image of one of the many supply towns I have come across in New Zealand; though it has only just over 3000 inhabitants they have every conceivable type of shop here - because they cater for such a wide area.
Riding on into the lonely wilderness I realize that I should have refueled in Bancroft.

A couple of miles on at Denbigh I stop at a motel and ask for the nearest 'gas' station. The place is called the "Swiss Inn", and is run by a guy who emigrated here a while ago from the canton of Bern. Luckily there is a petrol station just two miles down the road - it would have been hilarious if I'd run out of petrol for the second time in two days.
From Denbigh I head north towards Pembroke. That town is on the Ottawa river, which forms the border between English-speaking Ontario and French-speaking Québec.
By now I have done about 500 km today, so I call it a day at the first village on the far side of the river, called Mansfield-et-Pontefract. How Quèbec came into possession of a village with such a weird name I have yet to discover.

- 147200 km on the bike

It is drizzling the next morning, but that is what one has to expect on occasion this far north. The Franco-Canadians around here have adopted the best of both worlds. From the U.S. Americans they have adopted the use of oversized SUV's as well as the preference of giant US-style breakfasts. From their French heritage they stuck to delicious lunches and fine diners. The combination of all this however was not always favourable to everybody; the amount of fiercely obese people at this mornings breakfast table is staggering. One guy slides into an armchair, but the arms of the chair were made for somewhat less a man than he is; he needs the help of his two mates to extract his giant body from the confinement of that chair.
I think it might be a good idea to put on a wooly today, but looking for them I realize that both of them are still out to dry in Martins winter garden back in England. I can only imagine that it was the hectic of getting over the ocean that made me forgetting them.
By 9.30 am I am on the road. The towns and villages continue to have the weirdest Franglais names, like e.g. 'Leslie-Clapham-et-Huddersfield' or 'Otter Lake'.
But I soon forget about those weird names, due to the beauty of the unspoiled indigenous forests, swamps and lakes. Road signs warn me that I may collide with a deer, moose or black bear. This lets me wonder which of those animals would leave me with the best chance of survival?

The rain is lashing down continuously for the first two hours. Then the weather changes to showers, which douse me most of the time. It is also fairly cool, about 65 ° F., so wearing my raingear is not overly uncomfortable.
Near Grand-Remus route 105 ends and I join route 117, a part of the Trans-Canada-Highway. Sally, the nickname I gave to that female voice of my GPS unit, tells me with her usual bored-sounding style: "Drive twohundredandtwentythree kilometres, then keep right". I can assure you all, that she did not really ever gave me any such kind of driving directions anywhere in Europe - ever.
So on I ride, along countless lakes, forests, forests in swamps, swamps without forests, areas that have been burned down by forest fires long ago and now recovering from it - all in all the most amazing natural spectacle.
Sizeable towns are now really 200 kilometres apart - fuel management becomes quite important and biking here with some crotch rocket with a 12 litre tank is out of the question.
The rain continues, sometimes light, but mostly heavy. I can now safely vouch for the water-tightness of my new English wetgear.
At a convenience store I take a break. It is run by native American. The owner is Mohawk, which is rather unusual as they are usually found further south. His employees are all from the predominant Algonquin tribe. I have a hot chocolate and the boss tells me, that apparently the Five Nations are currently negotiating with the Mi'kmaq tribe, to enlarge the lot to six nations. Follow the Wikipedia links if you are interested in that kind of stuff.
But soon the miles are melting down again while Kitty claws up the (wet) road. Soon those 223 kilometres are done I and turn north-east onto route 113. The lonely, great wilderness however continues on.
A few miles later I reach Senneterre. Once I am past this village, Sally tells me calmly: "Drive twohundredandfortyseven kilometres, then turn right". My tank is still half full, but that comment has me turning around right away and fill up my tank to the brim in the town.
However, 30 miles onwards I reach the village of Lebel-sur-Quévillon. Past it there is a sign announcing that there is utter desolation for the next 80 kilometres. Having done my 500 kilometres for today I decide to stay here. My GPS shows the Motel Iris in town and guides me there.
The patron is very friendly but unfortunately he is fully booked. But being a typical Québecois he calls the competition at the Motel du Lac for me, and yes, they have a spare room for me. But before I leave I am invited to have a look at the two bikes belonging to the patron and his wife.

They are two identical limited edition Yamaha cruisers. We talk some petrol for a while, but then the prospect of a hot bath lures me away to the comfy motel room.

- 147700 km on the bike

The following morning it is not raining. This is already an achievement in soggy Québec, but once I set out at 10 am I get actually the odd glimpse of the sun. This is really nice - though the temperature is only 48° F. this morning. I am wearing my wetgear just as an extra piece of protection against the cold.
The entire day (and yesterday, and tomorrow, and the day after and so on) can best be summarized in these two pictures:

An endless line of road stretching from one horizon to the other. I ride through a beautiful maze of forests, lakes and swamps. I have about 200 km to go on route 113. Near the Lac au Dores I turn south-east onto route 167. Sally's sole words after the turn are "Drive twohundredandtwentyone kilometres south-east, then turn left" - I am in a biker paradise! I have to get used to Sally talking only three times to me in an full days ride.
Just a few miles down the road I see my first two moofeses; they walk majestically across the highway, completely ignoring the sparse traffic. In real life these 1600 pound animals look much larger than on television. Unfortunately I have no time to brake my bike to a complete standstill, fumble out my camera and take a shot. The animals are just too fast across the road.
Three glorious hours later I reach the Lac St. Jean and have to ride around its northern shore. Finally there is a black wall of clouds ahead. Having done my 500 km for today I decide to stop at Dolbeau-Mistassini. You can download the entire route here.
My cash is running low, so take a ride into town and try at two different banks to draw some cash with my VISA card. No luck at all. This type of card is apparently hardly used in Canada, and a VISA card from abroad is in Canada about as useful as a snooze button on a smoke alarm.
Luckily I also have a Maestro card which works fine here.
Just out of curiosity I try my VISA again when checking into the motel later on - no luck there either. This is quite surprising, considering that the card works in even the remotest banana republic elsewhere.
I decide to buy a bottle of wine and ask the receptionist how that works here. You, dear reader, if you live in Europe then you might be surprised by that. You'd probably thought I'd just pop out to the next supermarket and that's it. Oh no, not in Canada. In Ontario you have to find an LCBO in order to get alcoholic drinks.
The receptionist advises me that here in Québec I have to go to the SAQ, and in New Brunswick it is the NB, which are more or less the same than the LCBO. Needless to say that restricted access to alcoholic drinks and the high taxes levied on it have the predictable result of Canada having a major issue with underage drinking.
Later at the motel I find that I can park the bike under cover, which is great as it just starts to drizzle when I arrive, If I can have another 500 km like today tomorrow again, then I will be most happy.

- 148200 km on the bike

Next day I feed the second half of my trip to Nova Scotia into Sally - a stretch of more than 1500 kilometres.
I could take route 170 to St. Simeon and then take the ferry across the St. Lawrence river to Riviere-Du-Loup, but I prefer to take the longer route 175 south and cross the river at its northernmost bridge at Québec City. This route is already busier and instead of continuous forests a lot of agriculture is present here. But it also passes through the Laurentian hills, and at times my road climbs to over 2000 feet AMSL. At about 1500 feet I hit the cloudbase, and it is also pretty cold up here. But a coffee stop gets me over the worst of it.

I am amazed to see that many of the roads here have a bicycle lane attached. Even more surprising is to see the occasional pushbiker actually using them.
100 miles before Québec I see a dark cloud ahead. I first think that there must be rain ahead, but soon it dawns on me that I am approaching the forest fires I heard about on the news last night. I am not driving through the actual burning forest, but the wind drives the smoke my way. Car drivers just switch their air conditioning to "re-circulate", but I have no option other than to live with that biting, acrid smoke, watering eyes and breathing this filthy air. I feel really sorry for the firefighters having to be in this stuff all day long.
When I reach Quèbec City with its jams, pollution and noise it is like landing on an alien planet after all that emptiness up north. I push as quickly as possible through the town and soon find myself on highway 20 heading north-east, always on the eastern shore of the mighty St. Lawrence river, which at this point is already 10 miles wide, even though it still has over 300 miles to go until it pours into the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
There are lots of holiday makers on the road out here. These holiday makers come in three variants; variant one drives one of these U.S. made pick ups, specially designed for fuel inefficiency. It tows a monstrous caravan, the designer of which must have had a brick wall in mind as a model for its aerodynamics.
Variant two is the same as variant one, but instead of a pick up they drive one of these U.S. made monster-mobile-homes, especially designed to not to make more than 12 miles to the U.S. gallon (which is about 0.75 real gallons) of petrol. As that is still too fuel efficient, they usually hook up a large SUV vehicle behind the mobile home, which usually brings the fuel economy down to under 10 miles per gallon.
Variant three is like variant two, but instead of the SUV he is pulling a trailer with a large boat, usually featuring two massive outboard engines. Kitty doing her usual 55 miles per (US-) gallon is the rare exception out here.
I ride on for a few hours and call it a day at Riviere-Du-Loup ("Wolf River" in English). Even though there is a large debutante ball of the local college at the hall opposite the motel and even though tomorrow is a bank holiday in Québec I have no problems finding a nice motel room. Motels cost between 45 and 70 Canadian dollars per night and I find them ideal for bikers. They are much less hassle than hotels or guest houses in Europe, where you often have no parking space and frequently must drag your kit up seven floors to your room.

- 148700 km on the bike

Today my route heads south-east into the heartland of the Iroquois Indians (did you ever read Cooper?) Just after leaving Riviere-Du-Loup Sally tells me: "drive sixhundredandtwentyeight kilometres south-east, then turn right". I just love Canada!
This is the Trans Canada highway number 2, often passing within a few hundred yards of the border to the United States. At some stage I realize that I am leaving the plotted route. The Canadians have built a brand new four-lane highway. Out of curiosity I leave it and ride over to the "old" highway. Have a look at this picture to see what that is like at rush hour:

My bike eats up the miles fast, but once I enter New Brunswick I loose one hour due to the time offset. The statistics about New Brunswick say that a third of its population are French speakers. The reality is that practically all of those "Frenchies" live in the part which borders Québec. Soon the road signs are still bi-lingual, but the people only speak English.
The weather is slowly warming up and it is about ideal for motorbiking. At the Grand Lake I stop at the brilliantly positioned McCready's Motel - very cozy and quiet, though only a few yards away from the highway.
A thunderstorm is brewing in the west - look at this beautiful picture with a rainbow at sundown:

- 149200 km on the bike

This morning the weather is perfect. I set out east towards Moncton and Sackville, the latter marking the narrow border between New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. To my right I can see the Bay of Fundy. I stop at the border and switch off my engine. Seconds later a puddle of green coloured coolant drools out from the rear of the engine.

This would be a matter of grave concern for any biker, but I know the source of that problem; the radiator filler cap has given up the ghost - this has happened several times before in Kitty's life. Whenever the engine gets really hot and is then switched off, the hot engine will have the coolant around the cylinders boil. This boiling produces extra pressure on the system (one square inch of coolant will produce 1600 square inches of steam). When the radiator cap has been exposed to many times to such extra pressure, the spring coil inside the cap begins to weaken. As a result one day it has weakened enough to yield to that extra pressure. Coolant can bypass the cap and will splutter out from the overflow pipe below the rear swing arm.
I need a replacement cap. Luckily there is a visitor information centre at the border. They always offer free Internet access. I find that the only Triumph dealership in Nova Scotia is located in the town of Windsor - and that town is exactly on my planned route, just about 200 km ahead.
I have to ride around the Minas Basin, a wide inlet in the Bay of Fundy cutting its way east all the way to Truro. But that is no problem and by 4 pm I arrive in Windsor and at the dealership. Amazingly the place is closed on Monday - they must enjoy a very sedate life out here in the sticks.
So I find a nearby motel and call it a day. I have now covered 3000 kilometres since leaving Toronto. Just to give you an idea of how small a distance that is compared to the giant size of Canada, here is a picture showing the entire 3000 km journey from Toronto to Nova Scotia as seen on my laptop:

- 149600 km on the bike

Next morning I see to my surprise that we had a lot of rain last night, but it is dry and sunny this morning. At 8.30 am I am at the dealership, called Bro's Cycles. The guys there are aware of the limited life expectancy of the radiator filler cap (about 30000 km apiece) and have spare ones in stock. As my bike also has done another 10000 km since the last service in Switzerland, I ask them if they can carry out a change of oil and oil filter as well. This is also no problem for them.
I am quite pleased by the competent service they offer. By 11 am I am back on the road.

[Postscript: If I had know then that these people were the last competent motorcycle mechanics that I would find between here and the Pacific Ocean, then I'd given them much more appraisal for their competent work.]

The bike runs fine again, so there is no excuse for not tackling the next part of Nova Scotia on this beautiful day. The chaps at the dealership told me, that this are the very first fine days up here this year - apparently spring was a total non-event and winter has turned right into summer just this week.
From Windsor I ride a few miles further west to Kentville. There I turn south on route 12 towards Mahone Bay on the south coast. That is only a 30 mile ride, so in Canadian dimensions this is a piece of cake.
I stop at the memorial for the 229 victims of Swissair flight 111 which crashed off these shore in 1998 - it is a good reminder that we are all mortal - and especially so when riding a bike or flying in aeroplanes.

From there I turn east via Chester on route 329 along St. Margaret's Bay. I am approaching the large urban area around Halifax - and it is rush hour. But soon I am out of the area on route 2 heading north-east between Shubenacadie Grand Lake and Halifax International Airport towards Musquodoboit.
From there I continue south-east until I reach Sheet Harbour, where I arrive at 8 pm at the local motel. The owner is chatting to a policemen, officer Jackson who has no problems with posing for a souvenir picture - the first real Mountie I encounter in Canada. If they all look like him, then where can I enlist?

- 149950 km on the bike

Again we had quite some rain overnight, but like yesterday the sun is shining out of a blue sky this morning. My route today mainly follows the so-called "Marine Drive" along the south coast. As usual, you can download the journey and my track log here.
The ride along the coast of the Atlantic Ocean is great. At Country Harbour I take the cable ferry over the huge inlet that blocks my way.

They charge me five dollars for myself and my bike. Next comes a giant artic, 50 tons and 18 axles - and the charge for it is five dollars. One price fits all, is obviously the motto here.
Finally I reach the Strait of Canso, which separates mainland Nova Scotia from Cape Breton island. I have a look at the now abandoned ferry port of Mulgrave. When the causeway linking the island to the rest of Nova Scotia was completed in 1955, this once busy port was basically made redundant overnight.
A few miles on I cross the Strait on that very causeway. Then I ride on for another 50 km in glorious sunshine and end the day at Port Hood.

My room neighbour is another biker. His name is John and he is from Pennsylvania in the United States. In the evening we sit outside, enjoying the sundowner and talk bikes while I smoke my pipe.

- 150250 km on the bike

The rain this night comes rather late; at 7 am an infernal concert of thunder and flashes of lightning starts and it is raining cats and dogs. Surprisingly the flimsy American-style open-air overhead power cabling system survives the storm. By 9.30 am the rain stops and the strong wind has blown the tarmac dry one hour later. It is still overcast when I set out from Port Hood, but it stays dry in spite of the weather forecast having predicted mayhem for today. But I have to admit that it is rather cool - about 20 degrees less than yesterday.
I ride along the coast of the Gulf of St. Lawrence until I reach Pleasant Bay, deep in the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The Park is great biker country, but you have to take the word "Highlands" with a pinch; nowhere today do I reach any altitude above 1300 feet AMSL.
This route is known as the "Cabot Trail", named after the Italian explorer John Cabot. And this northern end of Nova Scotia has a strong Acadian tradition and most people here use French as their preferred language.
On my return south along the eastern coast I just turn off towards lake Bras d'Or prior to reaching the busy port of Sydney. It is here that one can board a ferry linking Nova Scotia with Port-aux-Basques in Newfoundland.
I end the day at St. Peter's on the south shore of the lake. It appears that this area was not so lucky with this mornings storm; the patron of the motel explains that everything is out since 10 am this morning; electricity, telephone, television. But the chaps from Nova Scotia Power have finally arrived. A flash of lightning has struck the transformer right outside the cabin I am given, so I can enjoy a pipe while watching these guys replacing the knackered unit.

The foreman tells me that he and his team are fixing busted wiring and transformers since six o'clock this morning, but he reckons that about 20 transformers bought it locally and he expects that his team will have to continue working right through the night. I mention that this can not happen in Europe, as we have most of our power cables under ground. He shrugs and just tells me that that kind of wiring opens another can of worms; if one digger operator gets it wrong he will kill gas, water, electricity, telephone and the sewer system all in one go. I suppose the man has a point here.
Their work is made even more inconvenient as today the mosquitoes are out in force. These bloodsuckers bite as mad and even I am bitten by them. Luckily my cabin has mosquito nets everywhere, so I am all right.

- 150650 km on the bike

Next morning I ride the few remaining miles to the causeway back to mainland Nova Scotia. The weather is improving with every mile and soon I am riding beneath a perfectly blue sky. By 4 pm I am in Moncton. At the local visitor information desk they get me a B & B room just south of town with a great view of Chignecto Bay. They have the highest tides on planet Earth here - the average difference between low and high tide is 55 feet.

- 151100 km on the bike

Below is the usual map with my GPS tracklog and some trip markers.