By Lucy

I felt pretty good when I woke up Saturday. This vacation was getting good and vacation-y, we’d had a good drive scenic drive the day before, and an excellent evening at the bar.

The Vagabond was in the shower, but when he got out he just grabbed an apple and went outside without saying anything to me.

What?

I laid in bed for a few minutes longer, thinking I must have just been confused since I just woke up. Finally I got up, dressed and packed up my bag. Half an hour later, I looked outside – he was just sitting on the bench.

I went out to sit with him. “What’s going on? You ok?”

“Just thinking about my future.”

What? What’s with the weird emphasis on his future? My brain scrambled to think of something, anything, that accounted for this sudden shift in mood, but I came up blank.

“We should pack up, it’s an hour to Marquette.”

“I still need to eat breakfast.” I pointed out.

“I’m hungry too, just get ready.” He snarled.

This goes beyond grumpy to cruel, and foolishly so. Nevermind how mean it is to deny my breakfast, he knows I have a chronic illness that requires me to eat in the morning. Admittedly, I fast better now that I am in ketosis, because the usual symptoms of low blood sugar need not apply, but that doesn’t mean I’m not at serious risk of passing out and falling off the bike. I debated just ignoring him and walking down the highway to the corner store to grab something. Surely he didn’t mean it?

Reluctantly I helped him pack up the back, turning words over in my mind, lost for what to do. We ended up leaving without breakfast. I texted a couple of friends my predicament, so at least if I did fall off the bike and get hurt, someone else would know to check up on me.

It was searingly hot, even with all the vents open on my jacket, one of the few days I was tempted to ride without a jacket. The sun beating down on us did not help my general wooziness and soon I was blinking black dots from my eyes. At least the road was mostly flat and straight.

Even once we got to Marquette, he did a couple laps of the waterfront before he would finally park the bike and let me get off. Delirious, it crossed my mind to just slump off the bike when it was stopped at a red light or a stop sign.

He asked me where I wanted to go for lunch, but I only had the strength to peel off my gear and put one foot in front of the other. It finally clicked for him what he had done to me, and he steered me to a restaurant. He ordered a chowder and an iced tea for me, which were good choices – soup is easy on a sick stomach. The iced tea was unsweetened, confusingly. Is that normal here? Do you have to order sugar with it? Not that I was arguing, I was grateful for a beverage that fit within Keto. I perked up quickly. He didn’t offer an apology.

The restaurant was nice. It had a lot of stained glasses around, that I suspected had been taken from a church.

He asked me what I wanted to do, and I just pressed my lips together. I’m not sure why he kept asking when it was clear that we were just going to go with his whims. We wandered around downtown Marquette a bit. He wanted to find a hotel that was walking distance to downtown and didn’t cost an arm and a leg, but had no luck. At one point, a random guy stopped us, asked if we were Canadian, and then offered the Vagabond a fist bump. “Fuckin’ love Canadians, you guys have always been nice to me!”

I held back a snicker. Isn’t being nice sort of the Canadian stereotype? Except me, obviously, bitterly sarcastic in the back of my mind. You do you, random American man.

A random woman convinced the Vagabond that the Pictured Rocks were worth seeing, so our next stop for the night would be Munising.

The next bit of the road was nice, back to being more of a coastal road than flat fields. We stopped in a town called “Christmas” to gas up.

Then we encountered one of the real problems with travelling this way – it was a long weekend with gorgeous weather. Every hotel in town was absolutely, completely booked. The internet told me a Quality Inn outside town had some free rooms, but he kept stopping at every random hotel to make me run inside and ask. One motel outside town told us she only had a cabin available. When we finally made the Quality Inn, the rooms were gone. We went back to the motel just as a woman was at the counter. My heart sank – why couldn’t he have just booked the Quality Inn? Or planned, even a little?

“You guys are in luck!” The clerk said, as the woman took her room key and left. “She changed her room booking to the cabin, so the room is yours!”

Oh. Cool.

After we unpacked in the room, I checked the times for the Pictured Rocks cruises. There was only one available, in a couple of hours, so we went to the store in town to grab dinner. I found some Keto yogurt, which I was highly pleased with! The store also had a selection of pre-mixed cocktails in a bottle, so I grabbed a bottle of Daquiri, which was definitely not Keto but I was also definitely tired of the day I was having.

I had a yogurt, then we changed for the tour and went down to the dock to wait.

The boat ride was nice. Since we’re both from the coast – me from Nova Scotia, and him from Venice – we’re both pretty comfortable on a boat. Actually, one of the nice things about this trip was the oddly New England vibe of the towns, the smell of the breeze off the water, and the abundance of fresh fish at restaurants. It was nice to know I didn’t need to make the three day drive to Nova Scotia to enjoy the feeling of home.

The boat ride takes about 2 hours and covers 12 miles. The Pictured Rocks are so named because people think they see pictures in the random lines of coloured sediment. Which are made by spring water weeping from the soft sandstone, so the pictures are changing constantly. There’s also a few interesting rock formations.

We got back to the hotel room around 9. He told me I was sleeping in the other bed.

You know, I prefer having my own bed anyway. But it still cut like a knife to be kicked out of bed and I don’t imagine I have to explain to anyone why that is. I was trying really hard not to let my dismay slip into regretting going on the trip. I sat up later than him, drinking the entire bottle of liquor and trying to parse what I should do the next day. At this point, we were only two hours drive from Sault Ste Marie, with not a lot between here and there, so we’d make the border tomorrow.

I woke up next morning actually feeling decently refreshed. We’d be home within a couple of days, I was confident of that. Plus, once we were back in Canada, I had more options for bailing on him if I decided that was necessary.

But I wasn’t giving up without a fight.

I adopted a neutral expression and promised myself not to fall for the bait – don’t get mad, don’t cry. I confronted him about his behavior the other day. He kept dodging it, trying to say he didn’t want to fight on vacation, except his behavior was so cold it honestly makes no difference. Like always, I had to read between the lines to find what he was really mad about, because he never just comes out and says it. Finally, however, just as we were about to get on the bike and head out, he let it slip.

“When you finally accomplish something, you’re going to get cocky and realize you don’t want an old man like me anymore, and you’ll leave.”

That’s what had set him off. When I was drunk Friday night, I had started babbling about all the things I wanted to do with my life. Instead of feeling good about it, he had slipped into despair.

I could have burst into incredulous laughter, except I knew that wouldn’t help. Does he really think I am that shallow? Or is that just the little world he lives in? I am already living in a world where our relationship was the crimson letter on my chest, the thing whispered behind my back on jobsites. As far as I was concerned, I was already cocky, and I had already accomplished a great deal. I’d been calling myself Queen since I was 14 years old, when I’d started crafting the Lucy persona that is now just who I am. I wanted to be up on a stage, accepting accolades, and say in my speech “I couldn’t do it without the support of my partner”. Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn what anyone has to say about my choice of partner – beyond this kind of behavior reflecting very badly on him.

Whatever.

The keto yogurt was good. Ate it, packed up, got on the bike. Away we go.

The highway to Sault Ste Marie is pretty flat, straight and boring. There is a slight detour up towards a town called Paradise that I’m not sure was worth it. He pulled into a park that offered a nice view of a waterfall, but he didn’t want to pay 12 bucks for a park pass – guess he was tired of the trip as well. We stopped in Paradise for gas, and the owner told him there was a nice restaurant up the road on the lake, but he didn’t pass the information along to me. So he missed it, and we kept driving until we rejoined the main highway.

He was hungry now, so I found a small town with a nice pub ten minutes back on the highway, Hubert. They also served me unsweetened iced tea.

An hour later, we were finally at the US border. It’s still called Sault Ste Marie on the American side, but it’s a much smaller town.

The bridge back to Canada costs 5 bucks on the American side, can you believe it? It’s a small amount but it’s such a shake-down, when the nearest border crossing is back to Duluth. 5 bucks to see your homeland again.

The bridge is breathtaking. On the route I usually take from Barrie to Thunder Bay, the bulk of the city is hidden behind a ridge. Going over the locks, you can see it all laid out before you.

This border guard barely glanced at our passports before sending us on our way. The Vagabond was expecting to be interrogated strongly because he was a biker, but it seemed like because the saddle bags are too small to smuggle anything, no one cares. Or maybe I look too gosh darn innocent.

The highway between Wawa and Sault Ste Marie is the most scenic and most dangerous portion. There is a stretch of 150 clicks with no grocery stores, gas stations, or cell service. Be prepared.

We pulled into the Voyageur’s resort for gas and a snack. There was a convoy of maybe 10 bikers with colours: Boozefighters.

“I’m surprised and kind of disappointed we didn’t end up riding with anyone else.” I commented, watching them. He’d had a few stories about riding with other bikers last year. I was looking forward to making riding buddies!

He shrugged. “It’s not common. And I like to do my own thing.”

I noticed.

The weather was colder and windier on this side of the lake. I had my sweater and jacket on and was still shivering on the bike.

Around 6 PM we got to Wawa.

We check into the same hotel me and Adrianne crashed at last year, on the madcap dash back to Barrie after we’d been laid off. Highway 17 hotel in Wawa. It’s a nicer hotel than the price would suggest; clean, soft beds, and fireplaces. Me and Adrianne had run our bags in because it was pouring ran, and then turned on the fireplace and sat in front of it to warm up.

Then we encountered the problem that it was a stat holiday in Canada this weekend, and everything was closed. The only place we could find open was Subway. At least we’d stopped for liquor in Sault Ste Marie.

I curled up in bed, debating drinking myself into a stupor, hidden away in the sheets of the second bed. But then Hanuman’s voice drifted into my thoughts.
Be sweet. Talk to him.

I crawled out of bed and sat on the edge, next to his chair. He poured me a drink and I drank it.

“It’s been a year since I came to visit you in Barrie.” He pointed out, staring into the depths of his glass.

Yes it has. The change had started in Dryden in May, but it really solidified when he chased me down to Barrie. When I couldn’t keep lying to myself anymore. My first ride on a motorcycle. Calling him in tears after he left to admit that I had fallen in love with him, despite how little sense that made.

And as we talked, I remembered how far we’d come.

He knew I used to sugar date/ escort or whatever you want to call it. He’d known ever since we first met, I wasn’t shy about it. This trip didn’t need to be emotional, it could have been entirely transactional; I’m a pretty girl, he’s got money. In fact, that would be easier. This whole relationship could be like that.

But it wasn’t. I know he doesn’t just like my pretty face. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man and has no problem picking up women. He chased me because he wanted me. He brought me on the trip because he wanted me. And now his heart was breaking, because he couldn’t bear the thought that at some point in the distant future, I might leave him.

“Haven’t I always come back? After everything?” I asked gently.

Tears leak from his eyes, so subtle I almost didn’t notice.

You could break my heart in two

But when it heals, it beats for you.

What happened next was so darkly hilarious.

We stayed up drinking late into the night. When we finally went to crawl into bed, I was so drunk and tired I misjudged where the edge of the bed was, and faceplanted on the laminate floor. He was so drunk that despite the fact he had helped me up off the floor, he forgot by morning. He shook me awake.

“Are you ok? Your face is covered in blood!”

I staggered to the bathroom. I had split my lip open. Apparently I had gone to the bathroom to look at it last night, because my hand was coated in dried blood, there were bloody hand prints on the wall, and blood dripped on the floor. I was sort of amused by it – alcohol makes you bleed more, and head wounds bleed a lot, not to mention the lip being a high-traffic area. Plus, I was still sort of tipsy and it didn’t hurt yet.

The problems really started later. After we’d packed up, we went next door to the gas station. We both just wanted to hit the road. I grabbed a pack of low-sugar jerky, but after I popped the first piece in my mouth, two things happened.

The first is that my stomach twisted and I realized I was intensely nauseous. The second was that I couldn’t feel my teeth, and when I tried to bite down it hurt.

I forced myself to dry-swallow a couple pieces of jerky. I told him my stomach hurt and he told me I had the wrong helmet for throwing up in.

I could be hungover, but as I felt over my face to determine which parts were numb, I realized I might have given myself a concussion. I checked my teeth with my cell phone’s camera, but it all looked fine. I was lucky, really, being that drunk with a concussion was a good way to develop a severe brain bleed and die in my sleep. If I had survived the night, I was probably fine.

Our next stop was White River. We went to Subway for lunch. The alcohol and hangover had worn off and the fogginess I was left with could only be my potential concussion. Fortunately, I did not vomit in the helmet, and I actually felt a little better with the fresh air. I could barely eat half my six inch sub before my stomach turned again. I noticed that I had a goose egg on the right side of my head, so apparently my head bounced and hit the wall as well.

I was shocked that not even 20 minutes south of White River, there were large swathes of burned forest right next to the highway.

We ended up stopping about every hour as we worked our way north around the lake. Both of us were sore and feeling the riding. It was even windier and colder than the day before.

We got back to Thunder Bay shortly after 6PM.