The rain fell steady and the fog horns on and around Deer Island kept me awake all night. For a couple of hours in the morning it stopped, allowing me to pack. I raced around the misty isle, losing my bike cover in the process, trying to catch the ferry to mainland New Brunswick.
Just like the one coming to Deer Is. this one had to come back for me. They actually reversed engines and re-docked so that I could get on and not have to wait another hour sitting in the rain.
I didn’t mind that I couldn’t see anything beyond 5 ft. out, I was just so happy that they came back for me.
The rain picked up again after we arrived on land and stayed with me for the next 8 hours – soaking and chilling me to the bone. I had not yet done 1000 miles and was on the road for less than a week. Packing was still a process of discovery, as was the best way to stay dry and warm (something I would master by simply not riding in the rain, but only after nearly dying because of it).
I was still a few hours out of Montréal, somewhere between the White Mountains and Northern Woods in New Hampshire, when I simply had to get off the bike. It was hard to see anything, I was freezing, the road was curvy and slick, and I was wet. This was not a warm summer rain wet. This was a suck the heat straight from your heart wet. So I pulled into a gas station across from which was a diner, and made my way, if not to warmth, than at least to food and a precipitation free environment. It was already the middle of the day so I couldn’t afford to stay too long, lest I would have to ride to Montreal in the dark.
I left the steed at the gas station and walked across “Main St.” to the diner.
To complement the weather perfectly, I was “greeted” by a waitress who stole no less warmth from the room than the rain from my bones. When you need some patience and understanding most, it seems life throws in your path a gauntlet of rudeness and curt backtalk to test the little faith you have left in life. So I sat there, miserable, eating my mediocre burger and drinking my mediocre coffee, and feeling no less mediocre myself. And then a fine example of conversations I would have across the continent began with a jolly faced, goateed young man who sat down a couple of stools down.
“Where ya from?”
It is usually pretty obvious that I am not from wherever I happen to be.
“Well”, I said, “I started in New York. But since I no longer have a home or job there, I’m not sure I will return”.
“Ha, ha!”
He had a most peculiar laugh, a “ha, ha” with an emphatic stress on the second “ha”, such that it rang throughout the diner.
“Where ya headed?”, a couple of older guys joined in, Harley riders on days better than this.
“Tonight, I’m just trying to make it to Montreal”.
In a moment when New Englanders drop their typically laconic façade, one is able to see a hospitable wholesomeness that has been passed down to them over the course of 400 years. Though steeds of flesh have been replaced by those of steel, and stockings with jeans, for a moment I could tell no difference between the vision of our founder’s New England and the one in which I now found myself. It helps that whitewashed colonial houses are still the predominant structures lining the tiny Main streets and mountain roads of the great nor’easter land.
Though still cold, I was beginning to warm up as we continued chatting about the curse of the rain and the joy of riding – I even forgot about the waitress and the shivers she helped the cold send down my spine.
“What did you do before you left?”
“I was a teacher… English.”
“Oh, I used to love my English teacher!”
Another phrase I would hear so often on this trip. It’s funny because I hated my high school English teachers.
“Yeah, I love my kids too. I was very lucky. We had such a good relationship that discipline didn’t really get in the way of our discussions and discoveries – not something that can often be said about an NYC classroom… I miss them very much…”
In turn we started talking about books and the joy of holding one and smelling it and being able to turn the pages. Mark, the young man, mentioned that he had found a history book from the 1870’s, and noticing my obvious and immediate excitement invited me over to take a look. I was eager to make it to Montréal, but dreading continuing to ride in the rain, so I accepted his offer. We finished our burgers and drove a mile down the road to a beautiful estate.
The farm was built many generations ago and the family who owned it have been a permanent fixture in the county ever since. It consisted of an ancient barn that held treasures from centuries past; a tea house; a cottage that was used as a billiard room for the gentlemen; the beautiful colonial mansion; and 400 acres of woods, streams, farms and lawns.
Mark was living in the cottage, which had no shower or bath, as part of his agreement with the late owners in which his lodging was payment for his keeping the grounds. The two sisters who were the last of the family line had both recently died and the property sold to a neighboring lawyer who owned a herd of cattle. Mark was allowed to stay in the cottage as a sort of superintendent for the time being.
We entered the cottage and turned on the heat. I sat, still wearing my rain gear and sweaters, in an ancient rocking chair holding in my hand a red, leather bound, history book that still referred to natives as savages and blacks as Negroes.
There was little more than two beds, two chairs, two side tables, and a bathroom; but Mark managed to make me feel so at home, so at ease, that even without the necessary hot shower (the only true restorative from damp cold) I began to feel truly warm. Still, Mark saw that I was cold and wet and dreading getting back on the road, so he offered for me to stay the night. He had a spare bed and said he would appreciate the company – he almost made it seem as though I would be doing him a kindness by staying!
That is true kindness and altruism: making the recipient feel not as though they are a burden and should be humbled by the granted favors, rather as a fellow Man being treated as one should.
I have an easy time giving and take pleasure in doing so, but being on the receiving end has always been difficult for me. Never the less, I decided to trade the cold and wet of the road, for Marks pleasant company and the warmth of his cottage.
I have rarely been so comfortable or slept as soundly as I did that night.
