I figured selling and buying a house wasn’t enough punishment, so I coerced my dad into delaying our Nova Scotia trip until October, when it was cold as hell and rained almost the entire time. We started at Mount Greylock, rode the Cabot Trail where a moose the size of a minivan stepped out like it owned the road (I was ready to piss my pants and my Dad was ready to take his chances hopping the guardrail and rolling down a cliff), and then hopped a massive boat from Yarmouth to Portland that felt more like an ark for miserable bikers. We wrapped things up at Mount Washington, one of the few spots where the sun actually showed up, just long enough to rub it in. Armed with nothing but a wide-angle lens and sheer stubbornness, I barely used my camera because, well, rain and frozen fingers don’t mix.
Moto-Misel 