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