Canada; Nova Scotia; Baddeck: The Telegraph House

Day 22
Miles so far= 1728

The Telegraph House, Baddeck.

 

The RCMP Trooper was telling me to lay back, the ambulance was on its way. I didn't understand. What on earth was happening? I looked around, I seemed to be laying in the middle of the road. A little way off a neatly dressed lady was standing by the open door of her car and between her and me my 'bike lay on its side with both panniers off! One was on the road, the other on the grass verge. Had she rear ended me? I couldn't remember. The Trooper enlightened me.

“From the look of things your chain snapped, wrapped itself around the rear cog and threw you off. The lady says you went quite high.” he grinned, “ but you don't seem too badly hurt, get you to the hospital though for a check.”

I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was in the back off an ambulance with a paramedic shining a torch in my eyes.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked holding up three fingers.

“Three.” I replied.

“You took quite a fall there buddy,” he said, “we're taking you to Baddeck Hospital to make sure nothing is ruptured or broken, or that you don't have concussion.”

“My 'bike?” I enquired with a feeling of dread.

“Canco Ford will pick it up I expect, there's always an emergency tow truck on duty somewhere, and Canco are the biggest garage around here. It didn't look too bad to me from what I saw.”

I relaxed a little and let the siren waft me back into a light trance, God but did my shoulder hurt though!

Baddeck Hospital

 

Compared to St Anthony's Hospital, Baddecks is relatively small. The 'out patience' surgery doubles as the Emergency Room. There were several Native Americans sitting there and it became clear that this 'idiot English 'biker'' was well down on the list for attention. I don't blame them for that, too often Native Americans get the raw end of the deal I found out. The duty nurse was nice enough though and fetched me a drink of water and did the paperwork. The doctor gave me a once over, cutting through the sleeve and shoulder seam of my favorite tee shirt in the process I might add, and sent me for an x-ray on my right shoulder. Ironically I had almost complete mobility in my left arm now. After a while the RCMP Sergeant appeared and took my details, and yes my insurance would cover the bill for the ambulance and hospital treatment, and since no one else was involved he closed his notebook and wishing me luck, left. Phew, another narrow escape, I must try and get some 'bike insurance, but where?

The day wore on and morning became afternoon, and afternoon evening. The Doctor reappeared looking tired and clipped my x-ray on the wall mounted lightbox. Apparently I now had a broken right shoulder. He and the nurse removed my tattered tee shirt to strap me up with what became known to me as my 'brassier'. This pulled my shoulder back so the bone could knit together, as this is all they can do for broken shoulders.

“You must keep this on for six weeks, and no motorcycling during that time. Understand?”

I said that I did and he left. The duty nurse, now an attractive blond in her middle years asked me if I had anywhere to stay. I told her that I didn't as I was just riding through, and she said she would ring around, although chances were slim as there was a regatta on. A short while later she returned and said that only one hotel had a room, The Telegraph House, and the owner was on his way to pick me up. That's when I met one of the nicest men you could ever wish to meet, Shawn Dunlop, a real gentleman. We went to his car together and he asked me if I had any toiletries with me, I answered that all my stuff was with the bike at Canco Ford, for the RCMP Sergeant had confirmed that they had indeed picked my 'bike up from the highway.

It was dark outside now, which surprised me a bit, but the local pharmacy was open and he waited while I went inside and bought toothbrush, toothpaste and a razor. Anything else would wait until morning.

“The cabin I have for you was closed for redecoration, but we did a quick tidy up and laid the bed, so I hope it will be OK for you.”

I told him I was just grateful that he could put me up at all otherwise I'd be sleeping rough.

“I'm afraid the TV is not very good, the original one has been moved to another cabin and the one there was due to be thrown out.”

Again I told him that the TV was the least of my worries. We reached the Telegraph House and he escorted me to the furthest cabin and let me in. The room was cosy, about 15 foot square, and sported a big double bed, chest of draws, wardrobe, two bedside cabinets and a bathroom/toilet off in the far corner. A TV stood on the chest of draws along side an electric kettle and coffee making stuff, and there were also a couple of armchairs with a coffee table and an upright chair in the far corner. Shawn asked me if I had eaten and I suddenly remembered that my last meal was a couple of maple syrup pancakes I had made for breakfast that morning outside my tent at Whycocomagh Provincial Park. Although the kitchen was closed, he said he would see what he could rustle up and soon a waitress returned with a plateful of salmon sandwiches.

I sat on the bed, clumsily took off my boots, ran my fingers through my hair and though, “Now look what you've done you silly bastard,” and polished off the sandwiches before turning in for the night, carefully positioning the pillows around me so as not to roll onto my broken shoulder during the night.

Miles so far= 1733

Next:Grounded in Baddeck.

Canada; Nova Scotia; Murray and Angel.

Day 20 cont.
Miles so far= 1661

Murray and Angel.

As I stood back on my heels, admiring this mobile mountain in front of me, the little black dog came to my feet and stood on his hind legs with his front paws on my motorcycle boots, tongue out, tail wagging. Well, what can you do? I just had to bend down and make a fuss of him.

“She likes you,” said her leather jacketed owner, “and she doesn't just like anyone.”

“I get on well with dogs,” I replied holding out my hand, “I'm Derek and much admire that mountain of stuff you've managed to pile on your bike.”

“I'm Murray and that's Angel, yeah I do seem to have overdone the camping stuff.” he grinned. “I've been visiting friends in St. Johns, now I'm heading back home to Vancouver. I've been on the road all day, so now I need a toilet and a cup of coffee.” He grinned and scooping up angel walked off into the Ferry Terminal Building. I went off to find a bench to sit on and wondered how long I would be stuck here.

A little while later I noticed Murray going to his bike, clipping Angel into her harness and riding off. “Must be going into town.” I though.

A few minutes later he appeared on the ferry road and parked his bike almost in front of me. There was only one way he could do that because I knew he didn't have a ticket when he arrived!

“Hey Murray, did you just buy a ticket for the ferry?”

“Yeah, they said next one will be about 5am tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I said turning towards the terminal entrance. There was a lot of confusion in the ticket area, people milling around and stuff, and an anxious looking supervisor talking on her mobile radio. I queued, bought a ticket and hurried off to the car park. A few minutes later I was parked next to Murray’s bike and wondering what to do with the next 9 hours.

I tried the lounge with its aircraft style recliners and found the giant TV so annoying, and the seats so uncomfortable that I went back outside. I found Murray and Angel sitting on a bench and we talked for a while. It seems Murray had quiet a sad tale to tell. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, with black curly hair and a square jawed face of the type that always has a dark '5 o'clock shadow'. He had been married and had a well paid job in a nuclear reprocessing plant just outside Vancouver. Then there had been a radioactive spill and he and the crew in his shift had received a dose of radiation. This had made him sick for nearly two years, but the company denied liability and with their multi-million legal budget just kept delaying the court hearing. In the meantime he couldn't work, so they fired him. He couldn't pay his mortgage so his wife left him and the bank repossessed his house. He became suicidal and alcohol dependent. His doctor referred him for counselling and he met a 'hippy-chick' who introduced him to her circle of friends and he began a long climb out of despair. She bought him Angel as a present to give him a life that needed looking after, and apart from a little arthritis in his joints was getting back to normal again. She lived a couple of blocks from him in 'social housing' (council estate), if I remember correctly, and introduced him to herbal medicine. Due to the high dose of radiation he often had skin complaints and the herbal ointments and potions had been remarkably successful in curing them. So much so that he was now an agent for them and beginning to make a reasonable living selling them. He also had a part time job as a cook. Always a motorcycle fan, he had bought a small Harley Davidson rather than a car when he had saved enough cash. He told me that the court case was for many millions of dollars, but the 'no win, no fee', lawyers would get most of that if it ever came to court. Meanwhile some of his co-workers had died from cancer. So now he had taken time off to see relatives and friends in St. John's having taken the 'pretty' way across Canada, but now he was due back to work soon and so would scorch along the 'Trans-Canadian' Highway to get back to Vancouver.

Now at nearly midnight I left them to doss down and found a quiet bench over near the lorry compound then stretched out to try and sleep. A group of back packers had the right idea, they had pitched their tents on the grass and were comfortably tucked up in their sleeping bags. Why didn't I think of that!

Day 21
Miles so far= 1662

Bikers waiting at Port aux Basques

 

Very early the next morning, after I bought myself a breakfast at the terminal café, we all joined our machines again and pulled into a queue on the terminal apron. As usual the motorbikes were in their own section at the front and we waited as the ferry docked and discharged its cargo of trailers, campers, cars and motorbikes. That done we were ushered to be the vanguard of our contingent returning to the mainland. By now I was beginning to get a little movement in my arm, just as the osteopath had said I would, but I still had to grit my teeth in order ride up the steel ramp and down into the steel bowels of the ferry. I just have this vision of sliding on the polished steel floor and ending up in a heap in the corner. Everyone knew the drill having used the ferry at sometime, and we all retrieved the deck straps and shackled our 'bikes to the cleats welded to the deck.

 

'Bikes strapped down on the ferry

 

Murray popped Angel into the front of his jacket and striding past the notice saying that all animals must be placed in the ships kennels, said “I did that once, she was terrified, now she stays with me.” Seeing some of the ships crew on the stairs ahead he zipped the jacket up and held his backpack in front of himself so the bulge wasn't obvious. We found a couple of seats at the back of the TV lounge where there were dozens of rows of those awful reclining aircraft style loungers, and made our way to the middle of a row where we were less likely to get into trouble. Soon the ship sailed from the dock and I went on deck for a last view of Newfoundland in the cold misty morning.

It didn't seem that long before we were called to rejoin our machines and Murray and I shook hands saying goodbye. I was going to make my lazy way to Quebec and he was burning across Canada in two twelve hour stints to get to Vancouver.

Taking the main road from North Sydney I started to look for camp-sites. It was still early in the day, but I hardly slept at all during the night and reckoned that a good camp ground where I could cook a descent meal and get a good nights sleep would be the best way forward. The road passes the large Bras d'Or Lake and then passes through the Indian reserve at Whycocomagh. There was a signpost to a camp-site, but I was almost past it when I noticed it, so kept on going. Whycocomagh is just a little village so I was through it in no time and suddenly recognised that the junction coming up, with its distinctive barn, was the one I had turned off at when I followed the wrong road from the roundabout at Canso Causeway. How many years ago was that? Oh, three weeks ago. So with a feeling of completeness about it I swung back to Whycocomagh and sought out the camp ground.

 

 

I think I've been here before?

 

I'm sure the lady at the site office thought she was doing me a favour when she assigned me a pitch 'with a good view of the lake', but it was up on the hillside, and apart from the small circle of grass designated for the tent, there wasn't anywhere to stand the .bike without the danger of it toppling over. I left the 'bike on the road and walked up the slope to the pitch. Beyond it was a wood and I went into it to search for stones with which to construct a small flat ledge that the 'bike side stand could rest on. There was nothing to be found since the soil was clay and I could see no stones among the leaf mulch. I went back to the 'bike thinking, 'there's more than one way to skin a cat,' and untied my hand axe from where it nestled out of view behind the panniers. With this I reshaped a six inch square of landscape and was able to park the bike leaning it into the slope. Just for luck I tied a piece of rope to the front and rear and pegged it down lest a gust of wind should catch it and topple it down the slope. That done I unshipped the tent and set up my tent. After my meal that evening I went and did some necessary maintenance on the 'bike. The chain was a little loose, probably stretched a little in the crash, so I lubricated it and re-adjusted the tension. That evening, sitting by my tent, watching the osprey circling above the lake that was spread in a beautiful panorama before me under clear blue skies, now turning red and purple, I felt a deep contentment despite the travails of the last week. My arm was gradually healing, I'd had my sacrificial accident to appease the gods, the weather was perfect, what could possibly go wrong now?

Carved Osprey at Whycocomagh PP

Day 21
Miles so far= 1728

Next: The Telegraph House, Baddeck.

 

Canada; Newfoundland; Back to Port aux Basques.

Day 19
Miles so far= 1232

Back to Port aux Basques.

I did a couple of laps around the camp-ground roads just to see how I managed, not well would be a fair assessment I think. However the tracks were bumpy and rough so if I could manage them then perhaps the roads would be easier. I packed and loaded up the 'bike and left my little 'dell' only to be faced by a grazing moose, I'm not sure who was most startled or surprised, but she turned and disappeared into the bushes. Riding gingerly along gravel tracks I made my way to the Ranger Station where once more I thanked them for their help. Without that help who knows what sort of mess I would have been in? Then out of the main gate and turn left, past the scene of my accident and the open road beckoned.

The roads in northern Newfoundland are virtually empty. I see another vehicle about once every ten minutes, and a lorry about once every half hour, if that. As a nursery back into the world of motorcycles it is ideal and it wasn't long before I became comfortable with my dead arm, although I wasn't looking forward to crossing the bridges with metal gratings for a road. I guessed that they allow the snow to fall through in the winter but in the summer the metal becomes polished and slippery, you can see the polished sheen glistening in the sunlight from way off. Some have steel sheets as an apron leading onto the gratings, you just grit your teeth and keep as straight and level as you can, I hate them more than gravel. I knew I was about a mile from one of these bridges when I saw two motorcycles coming towards me. As we approached I automatically raised my left hand slightly in brief salute. A small gesture, but a big mistake. The slipstream caught my hand and with no muscle control in my arm, it was left dangling and flapping at my side like a wet fish. Now this was a big, big problem. I needed that hand on the handlebars so I could pull in the clutch lever to change gear. The BMWf650 has almost linear gear ratios. This has many advantages but it also means that you have to be in the correct gear for the speed you are going. In top gear, which I was in, the engine kicks and bucks like fury at under 35mph, causing the 'bike to lurch and sway uncontrollably. So how was I going to stop? Switching off the engine was no good because it would still be connected to the gearbox and result in the same 'bucking bronco' scenario. And I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. Maybe I could do what the early racing 'bikers did before synchro' gearboxes were available on motorbikes, that is juggle the throttle so the engine was matching exactly the speed of the gearbox. Neither driving it nor slowing it down. In that 'sweet spot' where there is no pressure either way on the gear wheels in the gearbox, you can change gear without using the clutch, it works in cars too. I just needed to find that 'sweet spot', and I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. I slowed as much as I dared, about 40mph, and then decided on an alternative solution. I swung my whole torso round violently and as my arm dragged across the petrol tank I grabbed at my map case which was strapped onto it. Then, spider like I used my fingers to walk up the tank and across the handlebars. Negotiating the wing mirrors proved difficult and I lost my grip and was back where I started, and I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. I tried again, and with the bridge now in sight finally got my hand in place, pulled in the clutch and dropped down a couple of gears. Oh how I whooped as I crossed that bridge, elated with my success and not worrying at all about how slippery or not it was. This killed my ghost about this type of bridge; and ferry ramps too I might add; but I vowed that any approaching motorbikes would just have to put up with a quick double flash of the lights, or the continental greeting of sticking your leg out.

I passed by Flowers Cove where I had spent a night in the B&B a week before. I passed St Barbe where I originally planned to catch the ferry to Blanc Sablon in Quebec. Unfortunately the road south comes to a stop about 20miles along that shoreline, otherwise I would have crossed there, if the road was paved, which it probably would not have been even if there was one. At last I arrived at Green Bay where I had camped before in the 'perfect camp-ground'. Unfortunately that spot was taken this time so I camped a little further up. With my wounded arm I had no intention of going through the whole rigmarole of putting up my tent, and since the weather was fine, I just threw the fly-sheet across the picnic table like a giant table cloth, pegged the edges down and decided that I could sleep under the table just fine. After cooking my dinner on my little multi-fuel stove, I didn't fancy trawling the rocky beach for flotsam, I went to check the bike over to see how my repairs were standing up to the rigours of my days riding. Everything looked exactly how it was that morning before I set out, so I felt pleased with my one armed effort. As I stood to return to the table/tent, I noticed a man who, out for an evening constitutional, had noticed my 'bike parked on the little driveway leading to my tent site. I had not wanted to drive it all the way onto my plot as it would be more difficult to manage in a small, tight space on grass.

“It's a BMWf650”, I called out, “not imported into Canada as far as I know.”

“It looks like a fine 'bike,” he called back.

“From your side, yes,” I replied, but from my side it looks like Frankenstein 's monster, come and see.” I invited, always ready for a chat with people sympathetic to 'bikers.

He came over and viewed the damage and the repairs that I had made while I told him the tale of my misadventure. He held out his hand to shake mine, but unusually used his left hand.

“Take it and squeeze it as hard as you can,” he instructed.

I did so thinking that maybe he had suffered a similar injury.

“Can you do this?” he said, touching each fingertip to the tip of his thumb.

“Yes,” I replied showing him, “my arm is dead from shoulder to wrist, my fingers work fine but I need to put them in place with my right hand first.”

“Almost certainly you will get most if not all the movement back, maybe a small stiffness at the full extensions, I'm a chiropractor and so should know. What you are suffering from is temporary compression damage to the nerve fibres when they probably got trapped between your neck vertebrae as you hit the rocks. How you didn’t break your neck is a miracle.”

I grinned and said “You are not the first doctor to tell me that I'm lucky not to have broken my neck, but the others didn't seem to know about the mechanics of it.”

“That doesn't surprise me, after all they would not be specialists at St. Anthony's, but I've seen a similar condition before.' he grinned reassuringly. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder as he left me wondering how long it would take me to get back to normal following this woodland consultation. What a brilliant coincidence he was passing by. One of many coincidences on my trip, or was it 'synchronicity' at work?

Day 19
Miles so far= 1367

 

I was up at first light, being keen to get started and back to civilisation following last nights good news about my injury. Before long I was again heading south towards the ferry port of Port aux Basques. I passed both Deer Lake and Stephenville without stopping as I wanted to catch the evening ferry. Twenty miles further on and I had to switch over to 'reserve' and wished I had at least stopped for petrol. I knew there were various small ports dotted along the coast to my right, and coming upon a road that went in that direction and was paved, I turned off in the hope of finding a garage. About half a mile on and the tarmac ended so I faced gravel. “Forward or back?” I mused, “Oh well now I'll see how I can manage the gravel.” I thought as I moved off towards Robinsons. There were houses dotted about here and there beyond the hedgerows and I reached a tee junction. Left didn't look promising for some reason, and right had a signpost pointing that way for the school. Maybe that was where the centre of the community was, it was too spread out to be called a village. Yes! A small garage with two pumps. Unusually it was 'serve yourself', everywhere else, even the most remote places, either the owner or a college kid would be there to serve you. I put the bike on the stand and began filling. Like I said it was very hot, but while you are moving you don't notice. While I was stopped the sweat started pouring off me. Along the gravel road I saw a young man on his motorbike wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Riding pillion was a girl in a bikini. I shuddered at the thought of them falling off on the gravel and the painful abrasions they would suffer as a consequence. No helmets or shoes even, must be locals then, and done it a thousand times. My thoughts were interrupted when a blue sports car drew up with a pretty young lady at the wheel. At her side was a ruddy faced man in his mid to late twenties sporting a thick thatch of shoulder length blond hair, who leapt out and began to fill the car with petrol.

“Nice 'bike,” he called over the clattering whir of the pumps. “Would you like a cold beer or juice? We're just in the next house along.”

I said that I would and followed them about 100yds up the road where we sat on the porch drinking, me with my orange juice, him, his younger brother and two cousins clutching their cans of cold beer. The young lady disappeared into the dark interior of the house. We were next to a small warehouse and wharf, alongside which an ore ship lay berthed.

“What do they ship from here?” I asked.

“No one knows,” he replied, “the truck drivers don't talk to you either. Curious thing is that they dump the piles of ore, it's like a dark brownish purple sand, in the warehouses while it is waiting to be loaded on the ships, because it mustn’t get wet. We think the Newfoundland government has sold a whole mountain somewhere, but no ones talking. I'm only back for 'homecoming week', otherwise I'd maybe try and find out.”

Time was getting on so I had to make a move if I was going to catch the evening ferry. I said my farewells and left to search for Highway 1 and the route to the ferry port.

Approaching the ferry port gates I reflected on my time in Newfoundland, on the one hand I did have that bone jarring accident that left my 'bike scarred and me with the full use of only one arm, but on the other hand I had met some smashing people and seen some lovely places. Although I was now on a different route to that which I planned, all told I think I came out the better for my visit here, if my arm was going to go back to normal that is.

It was about 4pm when I stopped at the gates and told the lady at the booth that, no I didn't have a ticket but intended to buy one. She told me that the ticket office was closed and there would be no more sailings today because the port was closed due to industrial action. That floored me. I knew there was a terminal building there and asked if I could go there to get a meal, she pointed out a road running parallel to the dock road told me to follow it to just beyond the trees where I would find the terminal building. I did as she directed and after parking the bike walked into the chaos that awaited there. After getting a coffee and a bun, I walked around the building, on the grass that surrounded it and found a seat to sit on and enjoy them in the late afternoon sun. A lorry drivers mate joined me and gave me the whole picture. Apparently some of the men at North Sydney in Nova Scotia were on strike for better pay. Someone over there then said a bomb had been planted in the dockyard. This meant that the ferry in port there couldn't sail, and the one on it's way over from Newfoundland was not allowed to dock until the 'all clear' was given. Even so, that meant both boats were in Nova Scotia and it would be a while before they could sail. He and his driver had been waiting since that morning for their trailer with its container. He told me that in order to save money the goods vehicles sent only the trailers over, to be met by a tractor unit this side, and a Provincial Statute required all vehicles over a certain length to have both a driver and an assistant. He was pretty sure it was just a ploy to get the employment rate up, and as a retired driver had plenty of contacts to land such jobs. He told me he usually hooked up the trailers at the port while the drivers went for a coffee, meal and pee. He ate while they drove and then slept most of the way back to St. Johns, Newfoundland’s capital city, Newfoundland’s only city. Today was different though and he reckoned that it would be tomorrow morning before we would see a ship. After finishing his coffee and cigarette he strolled off toward the lorry park, and I wandered back to my bike. As I reached the car park I saw one of the smaller Harley Davidson motorcycles emerge from the terminus road, as I had done. The rider had his feet stuck out in the laid back 'Easy Rider' position that those style of 'bikes have, but behind him was a huge mountain of luggage that made my mouth drop open. Up until that moment I had never seen such a load carried on a motorbike in the flesh. It has a completely different effect on you than that of seeing it in a picture. I don't often use this word, but it was awesome.

Day 20
Miles so far= 1661

Next; Murray and Angel.

Sorry no pictures, my laptop is playing up

 

 

Canada: Newfoundland: Gaffa Tape, Ty-wraps, Sealing Wax & String.

Day 18
Miles so far= 1232

Newfoundland

The trepidation I felt increased as we approached Rayleigh and the Pistolet Bay Camp-ground. What would I find? Would the 'bike start? Were there any broken parts that were un-salvageable with the tools I carried? Was there a motorcycle dealer in Newfoundland even? I thanked and paid the old rustic taxi driver and walked to the Ranger Station with more confidence than I was feeling on the inside. Having thanked him and his colleagues profusely, we walked around to the back of the shed, and there was Christine all battered and sorry looking. I did a quick scan of her, the wind-shield was broken, one hand guard almost totally missing, the right side of the fairing badly broken and the orange indicator lens missing. Not too bad then! The engine crash bars had kept most of the damage away from the power plant, and the wheels looked OK but I'd need to check those later. I swung my leg over the saddle, lifted my left hand onto the hand grip, and with my right hand turned the key. The binnacle ignition light came on, that was a relief. The green neutral light was showing so I pushed the starter button with a silent prayer and she burst into life. Thank God! The Ranger seemed as pleased as I was, although he really couldn't have been. Anyway, we went back to the office leaving Christine ticking over. I thought I'd better book a couple of nights, that would give the rest of this day and all of the next to make good and check all was well beyond the cosmetic damage. The Park Ranger said they had struck my tent and collected up all my gear which was now in a walk-in cupboard at the back of the office. He suggested that it might be easier for me to let them bring it over to me in the 4x4 and for that I was grateful as I was unsure how I could handle the bike with no feeling or strength in my left arm. Getting astride the 'bike again I noticed that the foot gear change lever was bent inwards and difficult to operate, something else to fix then. The ride to my plot along the loose gravel road was very nerve racking, I kept thinking, 'Don't be a sissy, just do it! And don't fall off!' But I made it OK, and sat looking at the damage while awaiting the park 4x4 to arrive with my stuff. They kindly helped me erect the tent and I went about sorting out my housekeeping, (tent keeping?), all the time with one eye on the bike longing to get stuck in to repairing it, but aware that until I had a secure base it would be silly to start.

Now my bedding, clothes and cooking gear were all accounted for and laid out I laid out my tool kit and went to work. First I removed the broken shards of the right hand guard, then the left one which was cracked, I thought they would have stood up to the smack they got, but I guess they were only there to protect my hands from off road branches and twigs. Surprisingly my hands were not injured in any way, but I was wearing heavy motorcycle gloves with carbon fibre knuckle protectors and inserts. The same goes for my motorcycle jacket, trousers, helmet and boots, all were high specification and protected me well. I believe the damage to my spinal cord was done as I hit the rocks and my head was twisted violently to the side. So on with the repairs, the foot leaver for the gear shift was next off and, using a boulder as an anvil, I hammered it square again. The Rangers had picked up the three main parts of the shattered fairing and only a couple of very small chips were missing. Now I knew it was made from thermal plastic and almost impossible to glue or even take a fibre-glass bandage. So what I did was take my small screwdriver and heated it over my cooking stove, then pushed it into the plastic about 1cm from the edge of the break line, and melted a small hole through the plastic. I offered up the mating part and melted another hole on that, directly opposite to the first one. Then I threaded a small Ty-wrap though the holes and cinched it up. Not easy with one lifeless arm. Another couple of cm up I did the same and 'stitched' the parts together. Then I got my crosshead screwdriver and heated that up and melted small Xs along the seams. Finally I got out my gaffa tape and taped along over the seams, all in all it was a sturdy job, even if I do say so myself, and went far better than I had any right to expect. This procedure had taken all that afternoon and most of the next day, so I was pleased to see it completed, I even managed to glue the turn indicator lens back together which I had found amongst the bits of plastic the Rangers had picked up off the road.

Now I just needed to pore over my maps and figure out what to do next. With the news last week about the loose gravel and road grading going on in Labrador, was it really only a week ago; how things can change; I knew I could never manage a thousand miles of gravel road that traversed the wilderness of the northern tundra that was Labrador, and it would be stupid to try. Heck, I wasn't even certain I could keep in a straight line on a paved highway!

I decided to travel back to Nova Scotia and then through New Brunswick to cross the St. Lawrence Seaway and that would bring me just about where I would have come out anyway. Also I would regain the time I had lost and maybe I could find a motorcycle dealer to give the bike a once over to make sure nothing was twisted or stained. With all sorts of demons poking me with 'what ifs?' I went to sleep thinking that tomorrow would be a proving time for both me and the 'bike.

Next: Back to Port aux Basques.

 

Miles at end of day= 1232

(PS. I will add some pictures later but my photo editor is not working just at the moment.)

 

Canada:Newfoundland. 'You'll never ride a motorbike again!'

Episode 17
Miles so far = 1232

 

 

 

How long I was unconscious for I’m not sure, but the maximum would have been only a minute or so. I slowly came around hearing a young girls voice crying out;

‘Monsieur! Monsieur!’

Looking up over my shoulder, I saw a young girl, fourteen years old possibly, looking down at me from the rim of the ravine some 15ft above me.

‘I’m ok.’ I called back.

Frantically I looked around the jumble of boulders for my ‘bike, imagining all sorts of horrors. Then relief as I saw a handlebar was peeking above the edge, a few yards beyond the girl. It had not followed me down into the gully!

‘But,’ I mused, ‘it won’t have escaped scot free.’

Turning, I anxiously went to find out more, that’s when I found out my left arm wasn’t working.

‘Guess I’ve broken it,’ I thought. ‘ No doubt the excruciating agony will come shortly, but for now maybe natural endorphins are masking that, so ignore it and find out what the ‘bike is like’.

 

I thanked the young lady with a ‘Merci beaucoup mademoiselle’, and an ‘I’ll live, worse things have happened at sea’; which made her frown. Looking around I saw three or four large chunks of red plastic and lots of little bits. The little bits were from the hand-guards I had fitted, the big bits from the fairing. The wind-shield also appeared to be missing.

 

A small dark blue car turned out of the campground gate, followed by a Park Rangers Land Cruiser. The car was being driven by the young lady’s father, he looked very pale.

‘Are you alright?’ I asked concernedly. The absurdity of these few minutes only dawned on me later. He muttered a reply in French and drew his hand across his forehead.

Two Park Rangers jumped out of the Land Cruiser, one male, one female. Lots of fussing ensued and they managed to get my jacket off. Judicious feeling about along my arm produced no pain or signs of swelling or, my own nightmare, bones sticking out at odd angles. Then the ambulance arrived. The paramedics carried out the same tests on my limbs, held some fingers up for me to count and then ushered me into the back of the ambulance. The young female Park Ranger joined me and we drove off at speed towards St. Anthony’s Hospital, St. Anthony being the largest town in the area. The Ranger told me her colleague would pick up my ‘bike and its attendant bits, and store them until I came back from the hospital.  I sat quietly reflecting on what outcome this would have as we drove into the little seaport of St.Anthony.

 

St. Anthony's Hospital

The Intern in the A&E department checked me over, shined a light into my eyes and pronounced me fit apart from my useless left arm which dangled at my side like a wet fish. Asked to lift it I could only manage to raise it about 2” from my side, and I think most of that was from my chest muscles flexing. My fingers worked fine, and that seemed strange to me. He stuck pins into my arm in various places and asked if it hurt, it did! I went for an x-ray, and waited for the results. Some kind soul brought me some coffee along with a Trooper from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Now this was potentially awkward as I had no valid motor insurance, but I would act dumb and show him my accident insurance instead. The Trooper took the details off my passport and International Drivers License and asked if my insurance policy would cover the hospital bill. I told him that it was good for a hundred grand and he nodded, put away his book and said that as no one else was involved it was ‘case closed’ and grinned, shook my hand, wished me luck and left.

 

The Intern returned with my x-rays and we both looked at them on the light-box on the wall. No signs of breakage, foreign objects or twisted tendons. He said he wanted me to be admitted until the consultant could see me in the morning.

I was not allowed to walk anywhere and waited until a porter was free to take me to a ward. We chatted amiably as we ascended to the first floor and then to a small ward containing 8 beds. The Nursing Sister in charge put me in a bed next to the window because all my motorcycle clobber would be in the way anywhere else. A female nurse arrived seconds later and asked if I had eaten, it was now about 7.00pm. I said that I hadn’t and she said she would try and rustle something up for me.

 The ward had three other patients, and another was admitted the next day. Three I would get to know and like, the fourth left early the next morning before we had chance to get to know each other. But for now, Tyron, the fit looking alpha male opposite me had just returned from some treatment or other and was plainly in pain and wanted to sleep. Dan Griffin was in his late 60’s and had his back to me and the curtains were drawn around the bed diagonly opposite corner to me. The nurse returned with some hot food saying I was lucky because a patient in the surgical ward had his food kept warm while he had some procedure or other, but on returning to his ward found he was no longer hungry. Chasing peas around a plate one-handed is not easy but did create a diversion for me.

I saw the Consultant the next morning, a pleasant Scot who had emigrated 40 years or so before. He and my Intern examined both me and the x-rays and decided to send me for a scan. I was duly wheeled to the scanning room by the same genial orderly I had yesterday, scanned and returned to my bed. The young female Park Ranger visited me and said that the bike and bits thereof were safely locked in a store shed along with my tent and camping gear. I thanked her profusely and apologised that my clumsy riding had caused them a problem. It was no problem she assured me and wished me well.

 Later the Consultant and Intern arrived at my bedside. He told me that my scan was inconclusive and had been weighing up the options. It appears that the crack on my head had severely jolted my spine in my neck.

‘By rights you should have had a broken neck, as it is I think the nerve fibres that control your upper arm muscles have been severed. I could send you to Halifax for them to do a high definition scan, but that will cost you a lot of money. Or you could get your insurance company to fly you back to England from St. Johns and let the NHS look at you.’

‘If I fly back to England will they be able to fix it?’ I asked

‘No I’m afraid not, if the nerves are severed they will never grow back.’ He replied studying my face.

‘Not much point in going back then.’ I rejoined brightly.

‘Let me make this plain to you,’ he said, unsure whether my casual grin was bravado or stupidity. It was neither, just my innate sense that everything turns out the way it is planned to be, and we have to roll with it. Then he said the words that should have turned me to stone.

‘You will never ride a motorcycle again!’

‘We’ll see about that,’ I thought, ‘if the ‘bike can be fixed I’ll damned well rig up some form of controls so I can manage it.’ But I said nothing, and they left, telling me I would be in for the weekend, as weekends were quiet and I would be no trouble to accommodate.

 

Tyron was feeling brighter this afternoon and told me a little about himself and the life he led. He did inshore fishing mainly from a small boat with an outboard motor. It was while lifting the outboard back into his boat after some repairs to it, that his back went. He now had some prolapsed discs that had virtually paralysed him, and caused spasms of intense pain, or ‘fucking agony man’ to use the technical terminology.

Besides fishing I learned that Jason was a licensed hunter and guide, and hired himself out to small groups of hunters during the hunting season.

‘Bears and moose mainly.’ He replied to my question about his quarries, ‘both get to be a nuisance if they are not controlled. The bears will come into the villages looking for food if there are too many for the land around to support; and then terrified amateurs taking pot-shots at them out of their kitchen windows will leave them injured to die of starvation as they can’t forage properly. Each year I get a quota depending on the estimated populations. My kills are clean and swift, I always cover the animal that I have authorised my client to go for, if he only wounds it, my shot finishes it a few seconds later. Not only is a wounded animal dangerous, but it’s not right to leave it in pain. During the first few weeks of the season I also hunt with bow and arrow. The guns are not allowed during the first couple of weeks. In truth though the government handouts are the only thing that makes it viable to live in the small villages since the lobster fishing went bad, but that’s slowly coming back since the government stopped the overfishing by the big boats.’

I found it fascinating talking to him about the austere life the Newfoundland folk led. And then Buddy burst in!

 

Buddy was in a wheelchair and always wore a huge grin.

‘The old farts in my ward are no fun at all,’ he said looking around, ‘I hope you folks here are better, ‘n I here you got an Englishman too.’

We all laughed and I introduced myself. Buddy became a regular visitor over the weekend and Tyron always greeted his appearance with, ‘Oh look, it’s Buddy, the carpenter who nailed himself!’

Apparently Buddy was finishing off a roof on a new house; they used planks covered with wooden shingles; when he slipped and nailed a 4ft plank to his thigh bone with a 4inch nail from a nail gun. ‘Yep! Had a hell of a job getting me off that roof, in the end they injected me with painkillers and waited ‘till my leg went numb. Used my own saw to shorten the plank so they could get me in the ambulance.’

We were in stitches of laughter at the way he told it.

Dan Griffin was from across the St Lawrence in Labrador, and St. Anthony was the nearest hospital from the little community he lived in. He did a little hunting, a little fishing and a few odd jobs here and there, but since he got ill the community welfare people had been helping him. He said that he had a sister nearby, but he wanted to live in his log cabin, untidy as it was, just him and his dog. He said he grieved over the fact that they wouldn’t let his dog come into hospital with him. This was his third or fourth stay here, the others were only for a day or two but this time was longer. He said that he expected to hear that he could go home soon. Buddy told me later that his chances of going home were slim, I was sad to hear that.

On Saturday morning the man who kept the curtains closed had visitors and he left with them among great to-ings and fro-ings along with huffings and puffings. They brought along two unruly kids who were there just to make things more awkward for everyone.

Lastly there was James. I honestly can’t remember what was wrong with him, some strain or dislocation obviously as this appeared to be an orthopaedic ward. He was older than Jason by about ten years but of a similar independent nature and annoyed about all the fuss and bother his ailment was causing.

I told them my story, we laughed at the fact that here I was, grounded, three weeks after setting off to do a solo motorcycle trip around the world.

‘However, I will not be beaten, help me figure out a way to do this thing’.

‘What thing?’ said my young Intern walking through the doors.

‘Get from here to Alberta and then to Argentina.’ I said. ‘I’ll put my ‘bike on the back of a truck if I have to, and drive it there. Where can I get a second hand truck?’

‘Alberta.’ He said with a grin. ‘They just started drilling for shale oil there again since the world price of oil hit $100 a barrel, and everyone’s buying new cars. I flew out and got a second hand one dirt cheap, then drove it back here.’

‘I’m not sure I can buy one though,’ I said, ‘because I don’t have a permanent address here in Canada and can’t register it.’

‘I got a truck you could ‘borrow’ if the price is right,’ said Tyron, ‘we could say you kinda hired it.’

‘What about a quad bike,’ I said, ‘I think I could handle one of those.’

‘Fine in Canada,’ the Intern said, 'but not street legal in many States in the USA.’

‘I started this trip by wanting to take the ‘Trans Siberian Express’ to Vladivostok. Then wondered about catching the ‘Bullet Train’ in Japan. Before long I had Australia figured out too when a mate said ‘do it on your motorbike.’ ‘Huh!’ I said, ‘who would do that?’ ‘Ewan McGregor and Charlie Borman’, he said; and lent me the video 'The Long Way Round.'. Now it looks like I will be back to my trains again.’

Monday morning arrived; the consultant checked me over and declared that there was nothing else they could do for me. Apart from my dead arm, I was fine. I packed my gear up, said goodbye to my room mates and Buddy, and headed for the front desk to fill in a dozen forms all about who would pay for my stay. I ordered a taxi and waited in one of the most fabulously hospital vestibules I had ever seen. The whole place was decorated with hand made tiles celebrating the Grenfell Mission which was dedicated to the physical and spiritual needs of the Inuit and Canadian people in this harsh island. While I had issues with the second objective, I certainly had reasons to be thankful for the first.

Thee photos of St. Anthony's Hospital's tiled entrance hall.

 

 

 

HONORING

ALL THOSE

WHO HAVE

DEDICATED

THEIR LIVES

TO THE

GRENFELL

MISSION

 

 

Miles at end of day = 1232

Next :'Gaffa Tape, Ty-wraps, Sealing Wax & String.’

 

 

Viking Trail; Newfoundland; Prelude to disaster

Episode 16
Miles so far = 1122

After a good nights sleep, I awoke and threw back the curtains to reveal a bright, new, clean and fresh day, as well as the sight of my motorbike on its side in the driveway. That must have been the crash I half heard as I was dropping off to sleep last night. Well it was now in a state of stable equilibrium and any damage was already done, so shower, dressed and breakfast; then I would sort it all out.

 

After I had gone to bed last night another family had arrived. They were expected, but delayed due to a fault with the ferry from Labrador. They had come from Goose Bay, where they lived, to visit with family in St. John’s. I told them I was planning to go to Goose Bay using the same route they had to get here. They advised me to take the ferry from St. Paul's all the way because the road was being graded. What this means is lorry loads of gravel are dumped on the road and it is levelled out and lightly compacted. The obvious reason they do this is to fill the pot holes and ruts, but it is not the main reason. Most of Labrador is tundra, fen and bogs. The only way they can keep the roads viable is if the land under them is frozen solid, the gravel acts like a thermal blanket and keeps the subsurface frozen. For me, they said, 400 miles of loose gravel was going to be one heck of a challenge. Add in the moose and bears and it could turn out to be an exciting trip. I swallowed hard, laughed and went to see what damage had happened to the ‘bike. Thinking to myself, 'Yeah, and that's only the first leg!'

 

The planned route through Labrador, three legs riding and two ferries.

 

When I had parked the bike I had put it quite close to the edge of the gravel driveway, during the night the rain had undermined the gravel and one of the motorcycle stand legs had sunk in to it enough so that a chance gust of wind had done the rest.

 

Once more on the road I was looking forward to seeing with my own eyes the remains of the Viking Settlement at Le Anse aux Meadows. A myth from the old Norse Legends, no one had really believed that the Norsemen had reached America 500 years before Christopher Columbus, until this settlement had been unearthed and hundreds of iron nails, tar, pitch and the remains of a ship repairing harbour complex had been found here. The road crossed  from the west coast to the east across bleak moorland before coming to forests with the odd meadow and field. There were several moose hinds with their calves at various points along the way, but the only bull moose I saw was about a hundred yards away, and there was a deep ravine running alongside the road between he and I. I expect that these ravines; too big, deep and rocky to be called ditches or culverts; were to take away the melt water from the snow drifts that were ploughed away from the road itself in the winter.

 

There was a Provincial Park and Campsite at Pistolet Bay and I soon saw a sign on the roadside that pointed the way up a long gravel track to a neat wooden hut that was the Ranger Station. The Ranger and I exchanged a few happy words and he picked out a camping site for me. I went of to find it along a track that had also recently been graded and found it hard going as the front wheel kept sinking in and then skidding out of the loose gravel.

 By early afternoon I was all set up and so decided that I would go and see the Viking site this afternoon. The driveway out of my camp area was shrouded by low bushes, and riding out onto the main track I surprised a young female moose who was browsing along the roads edge. I'm not sure who was more surprised! Anyway she turned and ambled quickly off in that loosed limbed way they have.

 

The Viking site at L'Anse aux Meadows, ('The Goat Field' in English.) is spread over several acres of rocky moorland that is adjacent to the sea. The visitor centre and museum is approached by a long road that gives you plenty of time to think about this inhospitable location.

 

The Visitor Centre is set low so as not to intrude on the landscape.

 

The inside of the building is lined with the warm hues of pine cladding with exhibits of the many finds from this site, and a fine reconstruction of one of the boats found here. Apparently this was a 'repair yard' for boats that had made the gruelling journey from Norway to Vinland, as the Vikings called America.

 

The modern visitor centre and Museum

 

Outside is a footpath trail to follow that passes many of the salient sites of archaeological interest.

These shallow depressions are all that are left of houses, workshops and forges

 Pride of place is the reconstruction of the turf longhouse that was here.



Inside the longhouse museum staff explain how the Norsemen lived and worked.

 

 

It was all very fascinating and I heard one American Visitor exclaim, 'I'm a teacher and for the last forty years I've been teaching my pupils the wrong thing!' Rather disingenuously I thought to myself 'You should read a little less conservatively sister, I knew about Eric the Red and Vineland when I was a teenager.'

 

 

All together an excellent afternoon, now I looked forward to cooking dinner over an open fire in the nearly deserted campsite at Pistolet Bay. The rains from last night looked as though they may have been a little heavier at this northern tip of Newfoundland, as stones and gravel had been washed to the edge of the road. Coming around the last bend to the campsite, and concentrating on not missing the entrance, I wandered too close to the verge, highsided once, corrected; and was just congratulating myself when I highsided a second time and flew over the handlebars. I remember seeing the boulders in the roadside ravine coming towards me, there was a violent bang as my helmet hit and then blackness...........

 

I'm not the only one to 'highside', this racing motorcyclist did the same as me, but for a different reason.

 

photos courtesy of misc. Internet sites, explanation to follow in later blog.

 



Miles at end of day = 1232
Tomorrow : 'You will never ride a motorcycle again.'