Photo Credit (not me): Nejat

2014 was an incredible year for riding Ducatis.  Over the course of the year, I rode from NYC to North Carolina, then up around the periphery of Nova Scotia and much, much more, racking up over 13,000 miles (about 10K on the ST3 and 3000 on my Monster).

  In February, I bought a 2004 Ducati ST3, and rode it down from Ringwood, NJ to Southern PA though, unfortunately, I needed to put a bunch of money into it almost immediately.  The ST3 is an awesome bike, but I spent the first several months of ownership undoing the mistakes made by the previous owner, who fashioned himself a "mechanic."
 In April, I joined a couple friends riding cross country on superbikes, and I tried to keep up on my Monster with my buddy Cam on his brand new Ducati 899 and my friend Jay on his Aprilia Tuono.
 I rode around quite a bit locally (think Delaware, central PA), and finally got my ST3 back on the road for a rather impromptu trip with a buddy to Nova Scotia. I planned out a 2600 mile loop, from NYC up to Canada, across the Digby ferry (below),
 and around the fabled Cabot Trail.
 At the apex of our trip, we took our sportbikes down miles of washed out road, up and down severely graded gravel switchbacks, on balding tires and with no cell service, till we reached the northerly-most part of our trip, where we camped out on the beach at place called Meat Cove.
 A few weeks later, I rode up to wedding in Boston,
 And there were always organized rides, like our DOCNYC Distinguished Gentleman's ride,
© 2015 Tigh Loughhead

The Somber Space between The Road and Home

Jay and I slept in late this morning.  The last few days have been filled with tension about our chains, tires and the inevitable deflation of realizing we're nearly home after to two weeks on the road (closer to three weeks for me, as I spent the previous week in Sea Isle City, NJ before we left).

We were on the road by noon, and stopped off to wash our bikes in Seabrook, New Hampshire one last time. Pushing on, I think Jay and I were both a little bleary, riding simultaneously ready to complete this epic trip, but not quite ready to get back to our respective lives.
The trip home took far longer than our four and a half hour zip up to Maine.  We eventually got back to the New York metropolis after 8pm, just in time to see the last bit of sun saunter below the horizon.
Jay was familiar with a beautiful beachfront club in Inwood called La Marina picturesquely overlooking the Hudson river and the island of Manhattan to the south.  Contemplating the sum experiences of our fantastic journey, dwelling in that weird space between traveling and returning home, Jay and I sat on the water drinking whiskey as the dying light illuminated dusky formations of geese and NYC socialites, all puttering up to the restaurant on their yachts and jetskis, only to ultimately fade into the shadow and quiet night of the city.

 © 2014 Tigh Loughhead

Au Revoir, Canada! Back in the USSA...

We woke up this morning to a blinding white fog enshrouding St. John..  A big riding day laid before us, and even after several dryer cycles, our clothes were still dank and musty from the day before.  Damp and sluggish, we pulled out of the motel and drove with our blinkers on down the Trans-Canada Highway, where we knifed through the cloud and drizzle, which restricted our visibility to less than 100ft (...hence no pictures).
The deluge the day before and the Brigadoon-like fog this morning, mixed with a tinge of personal ennui about embarking upon the final leg of our journey, made me feel like Canada wasn't ready to let us leave.  While Jay likes to ride in the rain, and he and I both agree that meteorological variability over the course of a trip causes travelers to appreciate the opposite extreme, waterlogged, blind motorcycling simply isn't fun. Yet within throwing distance of the US / Canada border, the clouds cracked and the rain stopped.  Customs was unexpectedly as easy as our outbound trip, and we were both through in two minutes.

A New Tire for Wet Weather

 My tread was completely shot.
 There were millimeters of surface area in the middle of the tread.
 The tech incredulously joked that I had gotten every last mile I could have out of the tires, as the rubber felt like the width of silk around the apex of the tire.
With a brand new rear tire on by 11:30am and rather ominous storm clouds gathering, Jay and I wanted to push on past Moncton, where I had originally planned on spending the night.  The last great point of interest on our trip was supposed to be the Bay of Fundy, but we were hit with sporadic thunderstorms several hours into today's ride.
 Wet but determined, we plotted a course along the scenic route towards Fundy National Park, an incredible geological phenomenon where the grade of the coast and watershed delta is so gradual that the tides flow back up into the rivers several times a day, causing most streams to look like canyons carved out of red clay.
 We took a few back roads when the skies briefly cleared, but a steady downpour set in by the time we reached the park.
 Finally, we made our way back to the entrance to the park, where we got a brief view of the tip of the Coast (outside Alma, NB) jutting out of the water, and the massive tidal shore revealing itself from bay.
 Continuing on inland, we stopped beside this sylvan mountain lake, contemplating taking a dip, as we could not possibly get any wetter than we were at that moment.
 We got back to St. John, NB by early evening, where the most affable innkeep named Kant, upon two drenched bikers re-entering the hotel office nearly a week after departing on the Digby Ferry, exclaimed, "Welcome home!!!."
 This happy man proceeded to get us restaurant reservations, lend us a hairdryer and find us the perfect room to eventually put down our bedraggled heads.  Before we did though, Jay and I went out in the rain for a quick pint on the waterfront, where the few pub-goers inside were slightly baffled by two curious, sopping-wet Yanks, drinking beers outside in the middle of a downpour as thunderstorms cascaded across the city.

Next Day: Nova Scotia: Mile 2167

© 2014 Tigh Loughhead

  The spectacular panoramic view from the mountain we climbed would probably the apex of our trip, both figuratively and literally. 
  Rolling mountains plunged into the sea, illuminated by a newborn sun, shining it’s first light on the crumbling rock faces, with our makeshift campsite on Meat Cove nestled in between.
 We took a less-traveled trail through the woods, which emerged at the top of a sweeping grassy hill, overlooking the coastline before it dropped off towards the ocean.

With no cell service and no hope of rescue (or hope to retrieve my bike) should a blowout take me over one of the multitudes of cliffs, Jay and I slowly rode on, white-knuckled and tense until we finally saw macadam again.
 Stopping several times to admire the eastern side of the Cabot Trail, we resolved to slowly and carefully make our way down to the closest motorcycle shop.  I would have changed my tire a few days ago, but we didn't pass any shops or large towns along the trail.
Within about an hour, I was clearly running on cords.  No shops were open today, but we talked to several people at service stations, who said our best bet would be Sydney (3 hours north in the wrong direction) or Moncton (5 hours ahead).