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.’