Left, Cabot Trail. Below, the lookout over Pleasant Bay
overnight voyage to Yarmouth, on the west- ern edge of Nova Scotia.. All went as planned, but when they
strapped the bike into the hold of our home for the night, I couldn't help but take a quick look at those tires. Big mistake. I'd swear in the three miles from our friend’s house to the ferry the groove in my tires went from Mr. Lincoln's chin to his beard, to his nose. But alas, this was no time for panic, it was now clear to me that any bur- den of stress I was carrying would have to be my burden and my burden alone; any revelation of my concerns would set off a chain reaction of acute marital disharmony. The now irrational concern about those
tires lingered in the back of my mind as we settled into our cabin where I was of course required to prepare for dinner by shedding my very comfortable riding clothes in exchange for much less comfortable attire because, according to my partner in life, "we look nicer." This would also be the beginning of a regular routine of helmet head warfare. I suppose that understanding her irrational fear of bad hair caused by wearing an important safety device was never going to come to me. Still puzzled as to why, I left my perfectly-
worn-to-fit riding boots in the room and found myself nattily dressed in pants with no rivets, a collar around my neck, and
74 BMW OWNERS NEWS March 2016
dress shoes that matched my belt. We left our cabin and wandered around the ship, carefully surveying every menu in every restaurant until we finally found the perfect green salad. Now, finally, we were prepared to sit in casual repose. A waiter in a white jacket with a towel elegantly draped over his arm poured wine into the proper glass for my red and the proper glass for her white, just like I always do at my campsite when I am having a peanut butter and bread supper. Later we retired to our cabin and slept
like babies under our properly washed and fitted, clean and cool white sheets, the com- forting sweet scent of my well broken-in sleeping blanket and old T-shirt pillow case gone completely from my mind. As the ship came to a halt and they slowly
lowered the giant steel ramp that connected us to the dock, a bright morning sun descended just as slowly onto the line of cars and motorcycles eager to disembark. We emerged from the bottom of the boat into a postcard-picture wonderland bathed in crystal clear light. Nova Scotia is not only scenic; the already picturesque landscape is enhanced by an incredibly clear light that grabs your attention by surprise. On a clear day, especially at dusk, there is a perception of detail in all things your eyes can see that, when traveling alone, I would have found really awesome. However, walking on the
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