The Road Trip to Maine

When the officer returned with a ticket in his hand, he politely handed it to Bob saying “the fine is $250 and three points off your license.” Dumbfounded, Bob announced “I’m 77 years old and I’ve been driving since I was 16; this is the first ticket I’ve ever had.” With a wide and friendly smile, the officer put his hand to his heart and said “I’d like to say I’m honoured to be the one to give you your fist ticket, but I’m not sure you’d be happy about that.” Then he wished us a good day, returned to his motorcycle and drove away.

In total silence, we drove on. It was 10 am but it felt like we’d been on the road all day. We hadn’t seen a service centre since entering Quebec, I’d finished my coffee and needed a restroom break. When we finally reached the end of A30, we couldn’t find the Navigation System’s earlier route. The dashboard screen said only that we were “off route.” After several panicked minutes of trying to locate the established route, we gave up. I opened our road atlas and plotted our way to Sherbrooke and from there to the closest town on the Maine/Quebec border. Things between Bob and me got a bit tense, but to his credit, he didn’t make a single remark about my morning comments encouraging us to have an adventure.

We picked up Highway 212, a two lane highway which took us past agricultural and dairy farms, forests, and tiny villages off in the distance featuring white spired churches. We screeched to a halt at a picnic area sign and pulled in at exactly 12 noon. It was a small grassy area containing 3 picnic tables, an outhouse and rose bushes blooming all around the periphery. Bob ate his sandwich, I had several crackers and a bottle of water, and in desperation, we each used the outhouse.