Atlanticade: It’s Nice to Feel Wanted

“Moncton hosts a number of high profile events and it seems that Atlanticade, perhaps because it’s a local organization, sometimes gets lost in the shuffle. People in city hall never seemed to grasp the concept of this event even though there was a 3.7 million-dollar spin-off last year.
Last year [2009] the city booked the Bon Jovi concert on the same weekend as Atlanticade. Now while this sounds like a great opportunity the reality is that hotel room rates throughout the city get increased for these big concerts and this affects the wallets of those coming to Moncton for the rally. Furthermore, the powers-that-be in city hall never notified Atlanticade organizers and the news of this concert was learned through the grapevine and too late to make scheduling changes for the rally. Every year there seemed to be some municipal issue, but the Bon Jovi concert essentially was the straw that broke the camel’s back." – interview with Dan Hicks, founder and promoter of Atlanticade.

Divorce is an ugly word, but sometimes a relationship has such irreconcilable differences that there’s no other choice but separation. So the city of Moncton and the Atlanticade rally parted ways last year. But there were other suitors for this motorcycle event and the pretty little city of Saint-Andrews-by-the-Sea was hosting the 4th Annual Atlanticade Rally for the very first time.
Make no mistake about it: it’s nice to feel wanted. John Craig, the mayor of Saint Andrews wanted it. Tim Henderson, the city’s chief administrative officer wanted it. Just as importantly, Karen Young of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel wanted it. The only question was whether riders would travel almost to the border of Maine to attend it.

The Algonquin is a five-star resort hotel that smells of old money, but when I arrived it was all about motorcycles. The blue and white striped Bud Beer tent was set up in one area while bikers lounged in polychrome Adirondack chairs on the front lawn by a makeshift bar. Bikes were parked everywhere and this is where I met Dan Hicks, the promoter of this event.
Atlanticade was taking places from July 1st to 5th. I’d already heard about the Canada Day fireworks extravaganza of the night before from folks encountered along the road earlier today. That certainly was a success, but the vast influx of residents from towns as much as an hour away from Saint Andrews prevented any count estimates of the number of motorcyclist on hand. Today I’d encountered hundreds of bikes on roads along the Fundy coast. It was often hard to distinguish between groups of riders and large numbers of individual riders who happened to be in the same place at the same time and that were going in the same direction. How many of these were simply passing through via Route 1 and how many were attending the rally was impossible to determine.
Dinner was sitting around with the mayor, Heather Ireland and the Biker TV crew, Tim Henderson, and Dan Hicks eating sausages and drinking beer in the gorgeous Kingsbrae Gardens. There were other events going on downtown, but by the time I wandered back to the hotel it was dark and time for bed. However, not for those folks in the blue and white striped tent – with live music they rocked on to who knows when.
Seven AM on Saturday downtown Saint Andrews was practically deserted and I was searching for that first cup of coffee. The morning light was perfect for photography and Water Street with its attractive facades was cordoned off for motorcycle-only parking, but you could count the number of bikes on one hand. However, by high noon both sides of the street were lined by a several thousand scoots parked cheek to jowl for several blocks. Scooters, dirt bikes, chopped Harleys, baggers, Brit bikes, Beemers, crotch rockets, dual sports, and trikes were mixed together in an eclectic jumble that is distinctly Canadian. Up here it’s not important what you ride, only that you do ride.

This tiny city can honestly lay claim to being the prettiest one to be found on the Fundy Coast and possibly even in the entire province. I can’t believe I missed it in the past: probably too much in a hurry to drop down and check it out. There’s a blockhouse at one end of Water Street and a large campground on the other at Indian Point. The National Historic District is composed of street after street of beautiful homes and the Kingsbrae Gardens are gorgeous. Katy’s Cove has a beach; Brandy Cove has the Huntsman Marine Sceince Centre and Aquarium. Minsters Island is accessible during low tide via a tidal road that crosses the ocean floor. This island was where Sir William Van Horne, the builder of the Canadian Pacific Railway, constructed his 50-room summer cottage from local sandstone as well as other outbuildings and a unique tidal swimming pool. In other words, there’s plenty to see and do in Saint Andrews.

Just in case local attractions weren’t enough, three guided tours were offered on a daily basis: the Charlotte County Coastal, McAdam Train Station, and International Island. Directions for these were posted for those who wished to travel on their own. Eldridge’s H-D/Honda threw a BBQ on Saturday at their Saint John showroom and some took off on that jaunt. There also was the Charlotte County Treasure Hunt and other touring activities that kept riders on the road day after day in perfect summer weather. There are several operators based in Saint Andrews who offer whale-watching tours and many took to the boats and headed out into the Bay of Fundy. The day was too perfect, so I got on the Street Glide and headed out of town.
In the narrow channel between Eastport, Maine and Deer Island, New Brunswick there is The Old Sow. This is the second-largest whirlpool in the world, a phenomenon that takes place twice a day as the incoming Fundy tide battles against the outflow of the St. Croix River. It’s something I’ve always wanted to see. Arriving at the site, imagine my surprise to find scuba divers suiting up, families on the beach, and the ferry making passage to the U.S. shore! I did get to witness the gyre and numerous “piglet” whirlpools, but it was fairly anti-climatic. However, the roads of Deer Island proved to be a delight to ride and I even had a whitetail dash across my path—how apropos.

There are two ferry routes into New Brunswick from Maine: one from Campobello Island and the other from Eastport. Actually Campobello Island is reached via the International Bridge at Lubec, Maine and Eastport on Moose Island is connected to the mainland by a causeway, but both are linked to Deer Island by ferry. From Deer Island another ferry weaves through the islands to reach the tip of a peninsula at Letete, so this route requires a bit of island hopping. Saint Andrews actually lies directly north and slightly west of Eastport and Lubec, but one has to ride counter-clockwise around Passamaquoddy Bay to reach it. Most people simply make the international crossing at Calais, Maine and go east around the head of the bay on Route 1 and then south on Route 127 to reach Saint Andrews at the very tip of this peninsula. It’s quite scenic regardless of which is chosen.

There were vendors and hundreds of bikes parked at the Arena when I returned to town. More in the parking lot at the Algonquin, and still a couple thousand downtown. Not everyone registered for Atlanticade so it’s difficult to determine how many showed up. I asked the local sheriff and he was of the opinion that 5-6,000 motorcycles were in town. No matter what the “official” count is deemed to be, the 4th Annual Atlanticade turned out to be more successful than any that had been held in Moncton. It seems that everyone had a good time and there were no problems so I expect word-of-mouth will increase attendance next year [2011]. Oh by the way, it will be held in Saint-Andrews-by-the-Sea. It’s nice to feel wanted.

Cristal Mines

Cristal Mines

Keys

Keys. There’s a porcelain bowl sitting on the table by the front door and it’s filled with keys. There are keys to the car, spare keys for the condo, and those for various properties I have access to. Then there are keys for the bikes. Even these are not straightforward but are on rings of various types and hold an array for disk locks, cable locks, U-shaped locks, and heavy padlocks. They are even a few for luggage. It’s really not so bad. At least it wasn’t until I decided to repair a broken one.

The plastic bow on one of my Kryptonite keys had broken and left me with just the steel blade. I knew that I had other Kryptonite keys and could, with a little modification, fit the blade into a new bow. Opening up the wooden box containing my collection of unused keys I came face-to-face with my past. I think the key on a chain with a fob depicting a favorite restaurant in Italy fits the lock on my former father-in-law’s apartmentinno in Venice. The circular one with the neon yellow bow was used for a long-lost disk lock on the since-sold Sportster. This one has a green plastic insert that was an important indicator code for something, but I’ve forgotten what. There are quite a few sets of identical keys connected together in pairs and triplets on cheap split rings. They must be important. I have those that slide into locks with makers like The Chicago Lock Company, Taylor, Master, and American U.S.A. – although I suspect I know what this last one fits. There are those that are vaguely familiar and obviously fit some piece of gear that I’ve reviewed in the past and might still have stored. If I throw them away I’ll regret it later. The Craftsman key obviously goes to a tool chest, or at least a lock once used before I switched them so my stacked cabinets would be keyed alike. This one is obviously for a bicycle lock. I’m now left me with a small pile that could be anything. Except this one: this is the key to the Ducati ST4 that was stolen in Modena. It was a factory bike that was loaned to me and I keep it as a reminder of a time and place, that not all journeys have a fairytale ending, and that simply locking a front fork is not sufficient to secure a motorcycle from theft. Keys—and locks—have a purpose.

It seems that we live in a society where theft is common and security a necessity. Less than a week ago my communal garage was pillaged and several sets of automotive tires stolen. The bikes were not touched, but now they’re cable locked together and disk locks have been fitted. Which is what prompted me to sort through my keys in the first place.

I’ve found some old keys and fitted my blade to a fancy bow with an integrated LED light. It’s now on one of my primary key chains. This wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t realize that sitting on a shelf in my storage locker is a large peanutbutter jar that’s three-quarter full of keys. I only ask that you don’t suggest that I switch to combination locks: I’m having enough trouble remembering all my computer passwords.

On The Rocks

         Deeley’s big Harley trike seems to roll down the highway of its own volition. Which is a good thing. In the gray light that lies between dawn and sunrise I'm still half asleep and racing against the tide. It takes something special to get me out of bed at first light. However, the means justifies the end: I am heading to "The Rocks."
         The Bay of Fundy has the highest tides on the planet. Twice a day, a volume of seawater that’s equal to all the fresh water rivers and streams in the world rushes into this cul-de-sac. Twice a day the vast orange mudflats disappear forty feet beneath the ocean waves, and twice a day the rusty red cliffs of the Fundy shore are exposed. "The Rocks" is how locals refer to them, but to the rest of the world these natural wonders are known as Hopewell Rocks.
        This site attracts millions of visitors a year, but I’ve arrived on a Sunday well before park service employees have open the gates and begun their daily routines. I’m alone except for a crying gull and a stationary heron so I watch my step. This is not the time nor the place to twist an ankle on seaweed covered rock.

       Academics called them "sea stacks," while the trees that grow on the tops of these towering columns of red sandstone have caused them to be colloquially known as "flower pots." Sculpted by tidal waves they form a garden of awesome beauty. Undercut and unstable they eventually succumb and fall, mere token sentinels against the relentless erosion of time. I can feel it as I walk along the seafloor among their towering forms.
       Once upon an time, when the world was young and the concept of life merely an iffy possibility, there existed a mountain range older than the Appalachians and far greater than the Rockies. Torn by wind and water the fragments of these majestic peaks tumbled down ancient rivers to create a vast beaches on an elemental sea. Layer after countless layer, eon after eon, until by sheer weight they became fused into stone. Now the sheer force of the great Fundy tides tear at this sandstone releasing ancient pebbles that have survived in suspended animation for hundreds of millions of years. This is a new beach on a new sea, part of a natural cycle almost too immense for the mind to grasp, but I feel it in my gut.

      Printed photos in the glossy magazines don’t do them justice. These standing pillars of stone and sand that have been sculpted by the relentless movement of water are what I’ve come to see. But great art, whether formed by the hand of man or God, evokes something deep inside and I am not immune.
       One could follow my footsteps imprinted in the orange mud and gravel beach as they round the cape, but only briefly. They will be washed away when the great ocean waters return a couple hours hence. My footprints, like so much else, are infinitesimal against the backdrop of time.

       I’m on a tight schedule, so mounting up I point the Harley north. I have appointments to keep, a constant race against time.

Perce: Erosion Tourism

     I’m touring before tourist season. Salmon fishing doesn’t begin until the first week in June; most information kiosks and interpretation centers are closed until the beginning of next month. As with most things in life, this provides both advantages and disadvantages. The disadvantages are obvious: if something is closed it can’t be viewed or used. The advantage was brought forth yesterday when I became stuck behind a RV camper with a train of six cars behind it. In another week or two they will become an epidemic on winding roads where one’s attention is in constant conflict between the rough pavement and gorgeous views.

     In Percé a tourist town of the first order, vendors were already out of winter hibernation and attempting to sell parking even while the public lots (usually it costs to park in the public ones, but they’re not yet staffed) are half full. I parked at will when and where I wanted. These were the choice spots and my composing of photos was greatly simplified by not having to content with unwanted elements moving into the frame.
     The roads are great, but in places the pavement suffers from fiscal neglect, years of the thaw/freeze cycle, and even ground movement. Some roads, especially two that I wished to take in Port Daniel and one in Carleton, were closed due to erosion of cliffs due to wave action. Depending upon the location, the coastline loss has been 2 to 10 meters a year. Observing how the sea undercuts the red sandstone cliffs, some of this apparently happens in rather dramatic fashion. The famous hole in the rock for which Percé is named is not the original eye: that one has long since collapsed. Fortunately—at least for modern tourism—nature has been gracious enough to create a second hole in the same rock. How much longer will the majestic building that is the retreat for Laval University stand on promontory depends upon fate simply because there is no technology that will protect a cliff of that size from the effects of a natural process. Even certain sections of Route 132 are now much closer to the coastal precipice than when it was created. Asphalt shows telltale fracturing and sloping in numerous places due to ground movement. It’s not dangerous, but is hell for the road maintenance crews.
     This is Lands End. Today I'll explore the very extent of the last land-contiguous portion of the Appalachian mountain chain.

Catch and Release

      I’d just left Manitou Falls, a vast cataract filled with tea-colored water whipped to a creamy white froth amid thunder and ground tremors. The woodland path to the falls was through a boreal forest with a carpet of mosses as thick as any found in the temperate rainforest around Mount Rainier. The pink granite bedrock was flecked with white and black and splattered with lichens in day-glow colors of green, orange, and red.I’d never seen anything like it without chemical enhancement.

    Running late, I fitted my earplugs and pulled onto smooth pavement. Perhaps I was preoccupied with thoughts about what I had just seen or perhaps the earplugs deadened my sense of movement through space, but when I crested the hill the approaching driver spotted me at the same time I spied him. On came the blue and red strobes as I sneaked a quick peak at the speedometer.

     My license is clean and their radio phone – yes, with the big black handset (cell phones don’t work this far east on the Côte Nord)—was having problems with reception. So they decided to let me go. But first they brought out their camera and requested that I take a photo of them with the T-Rex. A trophy shot, like those of huge Atlantic salmon with men and women dressed in khaki and poles in hand that are posted in hotels and service stations along this coast.

     “Just keep it under 115 and you’ll be okay,” I was admonished.
     It was with the gratitude of a landed trout in a catch-and-release stream that I continued my way up the coastal highway with one eye on the speedometer.

Motorcycle Touring in The Charlevoix

     The number of motorcycles on the road today in The Charlevoix would make a rally organizer jealous. Hundreds of bikes crossed the thin slice of space-time that represents my travels today.How many passed through Baie-Saint-Paul in the course of the day is anyone’s guess, but this region still remains almost unknown to U.S. riders.
     Most of my day was spent eating. Like Italians, everyone here who is not eating seems to be talking about the highlights of their last meal or the anticipation of the next. My “light” breakfast included 12-grain bread, chocolate bread, and fresh croissants with three types of homemade preserves. Okay, it also included a couple of eggs over easy, orange juice, coffee, and assortment of fresh fruit and berries. My friends were concerned that I wasn’t eating enough! The Charlevoix is foodie heaven.
     Even the most boring of the three primary routes that cut across this ancient meteorite impact crater would be considered a premier touring road almost anywhere in the United States—the River Route is consider to be one of the top ten scenic highways in Canada.

     Most of my morning was spent with Guy Paquette, one of the finest contemporary painters in this country. I’d always admired his work – at least that which I had seen in galleries – but his more personal creations are on a totally different level than his very-much-in-demand (and very pricey) work. Just to add icing on the cake, I like this guy.
      So between eating and hanging out in an artist’s retreat I really didn’t have that much time to cruise the roads of the Charlevoix today, hence my reference to a thin slice of space-time and my surprise at the number of bikes on the road. Now this is hearsay, but it comes from Manon, who is President of the Saguenay H.O.G. chapter and one of only two women in Canada to hold such an office: almost 33% of Quebec motorcycle registrations are women riders (compared to a U.S. average of 12.9%). My observations are that more than a quarter of all bikes are carrying two people. This is May and snow is visible on most mountain peaks – just wait until summer starts!
       All good things must come to an end. So I finish my glass of Chilean wine, pack the T-Rex, and head east on Route 138 seeking the end of the road. It will take me three days to get there.


View Charlevoix Motorcycle Roads Quebec in a larger map