My morning started out badly, because my wallet was missing. Fiona and I tossed the entire hotel room, but couldn’t find it anywhere. I started to panic a bit, thinking of all the things in there I’d have to replace if it didn’t turn up. My Von’s card! My National Parks Pass! All those frequent flier cards! Oh, the horror!! Oh, the aggravation!! Oh, what the fuck!?!

Let’s just say I didn’t win the Mr. Sunshine award when I showed up for breakfast.

The waitress, sensing something was wrong, asked what was going on. I told her I must have left my wallet in the restaurant we ate dinner in the night before. I’d checked, and that restaurant didn’t open until eleven, pushing our departure back a few precious hours. She walked away without saying a word.

In the meantime, Abi asked me how I was going to pick up the tab.

The waitress returned a few minutes later. “I called the owner of the restaurant at home, sorry to say but they didn’t find a wallet last night. But, hun, leave me your address. If they do find it, I’ll make sure and mail it to you.”

The kindness of the people of Rhode Scotia is truly astounding.

Of course, my wallet eventually turned up. It was stuck in the magnetic flap of my tankbag, exactly like my keys were in Death Valley last year.

I wasn’t the only one missing something that morning. Abi apparently lost his mind during the night, showing up to breakfast that morning sporting his odd new ‘BMW Rider Loyalty Mustache,’ a not-so-subtle jab at a BMW rider we’d met a few days prior. That rider’s only interest in us was to point at the stickers on Abi’s bags and say, “Oh, I’ve been there. And I’ve been there. Yup, I’ve been there, too.” The rest of us, riding ‘inferior’ motorcycles may as well have not existed. That man loved himself, and loved talking about himself. For whatever reason, either boredom or temporary insanity, Dark Meat Snack decided he needed to ingratiate himself further with this very annoying breed of BMW rider.

At least he still rode with us ‘inferior’ riders. Mother Nature was back on the warpath, as we loaded up for the last time, the thunder rumbled, the lightning put on a spectacular show, and the rains came.

Naturally.

With one full day left of the Expedition, what else could be expected? Rain Cloud Follows and Stormbringer, as always, lived up to their names.

Fortunately, Fireball didn’t live up to its flammable monicker, though even still, this day wouldn’t fare well for the BWM.

A few hours later, just outside Halifax, on the way to the Peggy’s Cove and the Lighthouse Trail, Mr. BMW Mustachio, DMS One flew past me, and I could see and hear that something was very wrong.

Oh yeah. That’s flat. Really flat. In over 25,000 miles of riding, this flat tire was our first. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Dark Meat Snack put a nail in his own tire just to avoid seeing any more lighthouses. Now what?

In a twist too bizarre to make up, we limped to… a tire store!

What luck! But wait, what’s that sign in the window?

Did I say luck? That’s our luck. The tire store had been closed for months due to the owner’s bad health. Of course.

So, it was time to find out if tire patch kits really work.

After some head scratching and wild guessing, we managed to stick a plug in the tire and get the wounded bike to a gas station to fully inflate it. The patch seemed to work, though the repair cost us about an hour. Now it was getting late, and we were not in a heavily populated area. Finding a room became our main concern. We followed the foggy road towards Peggy’s Cove, and stumbled into a miracle, a restaurant open past 8 PM! I asked the owner if there was a motel or cabins nearby that we might be able to rent. He picked up his phone and called someone. “Hello, Martha? I’ve got four people looking to rent cabins for tonight. Do you have any available? Yes? Ok. They’ll be down after they eat. Thanks.”

The kindness of strangers on this trip was the most amazing part of all.

After a huge meal, we limped through the thick fog over to Martha’s cabins. Martha herself appeared like an apparition walking through the fog. Though it was very late by this time, she’d been waiting for us to show up, cabin keys in hand. Thanks to the late hour, she let us in, saying, “Don’t worry. We can just settle up in the morning. I also brought you some rags to clean your seats off in the morning. Nothing worse than starting the day with a wet bum now, is there? Have a good night now.” Though it could’ve been worse, this day turned out well. To close out our last night of the Expedition, we half-heartedly toasted the ‘Sorta-But-Not-Really Best Day Ever’, and quickly were fast asleep.

The next morning was our last full day of the Expedition, and we had a problem. Though Abi’s tire held air overnight, we had misgivings about riding any further than we needed to. I’ve heard stories about riders, most likely the BMW Loyalty type, that plug their tire five or six times then ride all the way from Prudhoe Bay at the top of Alaska to Tierra del Fuego at the end of South America and back, but that’s them. Abi, a poser with his mustache but not the attitude that it represents, decided to split off from the group once the ferry reached Portland, and get a new rear tire the next morning.

While the Expedition was fast coming to a close, our spirits remained high.We compromised on the Lighthouse Trail, stopping only at the very picturesque Peggy’s Cove for a quick peek, and skipping the rest of the trail in favor of staying on the highway so we could all make it to the ferry safely.

The Expedition was quickly winding down. Ten days had sped by in a flash. Once we were back in the good old US of A, the trip would essentially be over. Our little group of ten days would unceremoniously separate; Abi to get a new tire, Unleaded, Sleeping Beauty and Frenchy all with early flights the next morning, would speed through the night back to the Kingdom of Rhode Island.

The rest of our time on Rhode Scotia was spent hammering down the highway to the CAT ferry. Abi’s tire plug held, and we made it to the CAT ferry dock with time to spare. We waited in a line with about seven other motorcycles. On the CAT, motorcycles load up last, and come off last too.

We met Dave, riding his immaculately clean, bright yellow BMW R1150 GS. Dave didn’t sport a BMW Loyalty mustache, he had the full on beard going instead. And he wasn’t one of ‘those’ guys at all, because he was interested in our story, and would only tell his after some coaxing. And what a story it was. Dave had ridden solo from South Carolina to Nova Scotia, without a GPS, iPod or cell phone, and was heading a considerable distance – from Portland to Ohio- the very next day. There’s always someone to make your massive feats feel puny in comparison, but Dave was still a very cool guy.

As the CAT fired up its massive engines to propel us back home, we gave a hearty one finger salute to celebrate the end of what was – to this point – the Best Expedition Ever!

Final Post of the G.U.N.S.E. is here.