Flying: The Antithesis of Riding a Motorcycle

No Moncton Airport, you can't cheer me up with a rainbow.

I'm in the middle of a five hour wait at Moncton Airport, for a flight back to Toronto, and then a shuttle up to Centre Wellington.  All told, it'll be a 2pm to midnight commute, all on public transit.  Ten hours of tedium, uncomfortable seats and no leg room... and constantly being reminded that you're much bigger than most people.

To fend of the insanity of canned air, lousy, overpriced food and being herded like cattle at an abattoir, I'm dreaming of the best possible way to get home.

Riding from Moncton would offer a geographical opportunity as the Appalachian Mountains are in the way.  The best route I can manage on Google maps takes me through Maine, Vermont and New York to Niagara Falls, before a quick blast up the QEW home.

Anything out in the wind on two wheels would be better than this synthetic hell I find myself in.  At the moment I'd opt for a Honda VFR800 Interceptor and a good set of leathers, and nothing else.  My only goal:  to wind my way across some mountains to home.

If I left at 2pm from Moncton, I'd have gotten to Augusta, Maine by about 8pm in the evening.  A good sleep on a real bed and I'd chew up the remaining eleven hundred kilometres home the next day, wind blown, engaged and full of feeling, instead of slowly dying inside in a darkening airport terminal waiting to be herded on a plane.