I've recently exchanged emails with my NFalcone comrade, Nick, regarding his book, Beyond the Coffee Table. I recounted my first trip to Newfoundland for him since he had visited some of the same places that I visited.
Nick thinks some of you guys would like to read it even though there is no real Guzzi content. So, here it is. If you get bored, you can always click out of it.
Some of you will probably relate to these experiences shared by the likes of Nick and me.
April 28, 2016
Nick, I really liked reading your accounts of the trans-Labrador excursion to Newfoundland and other tales. I’ve been to Newfoundland several times and I’ve covered some of the same places you mentioned. Reading your account was a nostalgic experience.
Quite vivid in my mind is the first trip I made there in mid-October years ago. I was riding my then-aging Harley Shovelhead Low Rider that I still own and ride.
I crossed into Newfoundland at Argentia on the east end of the island and meandered across to the west coast visiting many of the beautiful villages along the northern shore. It was a fantastic journey that remains seared in my memory.
At Deer Lake, I spent the night at a sprawling motel/truck stop and then headed north. I made several stops along the way including the beautiful Gros Morne Park. I eventually encountered very strong winds coming off the St. Lawrence Seaway – much like those you mentioned on your journey up the northern shore of the same. The wind was so strong that I was riding with the bike noticeably heeled over at a lean into the wind in order to maintain a straight course. Even then, I had difficulty staying on the roadway.
At one point I stopped on the side of the road. The wind was so strong that I had to forcefully brace the bike with my leg outstretched to the ground on the right side to prevent the bike from blowing over!
I eventually made my way to St. Barbe and noticed the ferry sign nearby. The wind was so strong and the waters so rough that the boat was not running. The day was nearing an end and I was able to get a room in the motel there for the night.
The following morning, I caught the ferry to Blanc-Sablon in Quebec back on the mainland. I had an interesting breakfast there at one of the restaurants and was first given the opportunity to sample Fish N Brewis, stewed fish parts soaked in day-old bread. It didn’t appeal to my palate. Eggs worked much better.
I followed the beautiful Pinware River in Labrador all the way to Red Bay that you also mentioned. At Red Bay, I found only a meager store and the Viking Museum that was closed. I purchased some tee shirts from the lady who ran the store and she sent her son with me to open the museum and let me have a look around. It was all very interesting. I was surprised to learn that huge cruise ships were making calls to Red Bay and were a dominant source of income for the store and museum.
In those days, the road beyond Red Bay to Happy Valley and Labrador City was not paved and questionable as to whether it was even passable. I headed back south and continued as far as pavement would take me past the ferry at Blanc Sablon into Quebec. I remember terminating at a place with a high overlook. Beautiful scenery.
I made my way back to the ferry and crossed back to St. Barbe. From there, I headed up to St. Anthony where I spent the night and visited the L’Anse aux Meadows Viking site close by. Next day, I ran all the way down to Corner Brook.
As I headed towards Corner Book for the night, I kept looking for gas stations with no success. By the time I came upon Gros Morne Park, I was well into my fuel reserve and getting concerned. There was virtually no traffic from which I could solicit aid and I really was at a loss while I pondered what I would do.
Eventually, the gremlins found me and the big Harley stuttered to a stop, out of gas. I opened my right side tank and could see maybe a cup of fuel that had settled into a depression in the contour of the tank bottom. I pushed the bike into the grassy ditch and laid it almost on its side to allow that trapped fuel to spill into the sump around the fuel line to the carburetor.
I stood the bike up, fired it off and made a gallant run as far as I could go until the bike stuttered and stopped again. I opened the tank again to see about half the trapped fuel remaining. I did the lay-down maneuver again that primed the carb again. I made my last final sprint up to about 70MPH that got me over the tall hill I was approaching.
As I crested the top of the hill, the bike shut down again and I pulled the clutch lever and let it coast down the very long descent before me. By now, darkness had overtaken me. I reckoned that I would just camp on the roadside until a wayward vehicle came by, eventually, some day, maybe never?
The descent was so steep that the coasting bike actually gradually accelerated at one point. I rode the sled all the way down. I began to hear the singing of the tire tread on the tarmac slowing down and I knew that I was nearing whatever predicament that I was going to endure.
At the bottom of the descent, the road made a sharp left-hand turn. I rounded the curve and just beyond me I could see a very, very bright Ultramar gas station sign! I was jubilant.
The bike coasted all the way into the small station’s driveway and stopped on its own accord exactly lined up with the gas pump! LOL. I filled up. Whew.
That fill-up took me a few more miles down the road where I found one of those nice Irving stations with a restaurant inside. I stopped and had a large roast beef dinner with lots of gravy on mashed potatoes. The temps had already dipped into the 40’s F.
I spent the night in Corner Brook and headed on down to the ferry at Port aux Basques the next morning. Normally, for night crossings, I get a bunk in the bunk room of the ferryboat instead of one of the recliners you mentioned. This crossing was an early day crossing on a Sunday and I needed no sleeping accommodations.
After leaving the ferry at North Sidney, I stopped in the country to relieve myself of the amount of coffee I had consumed with the hearty breakfast on the ferryboat. I had nursed a niggling worry about my tires for a couple of days. This trip had extended much farther than I had planned.
In fact, nothing much about the trip had been planned. By now, I had covered thousands of miles and I knew my tires were showing wear. Since I had been riding in very remote areas, I dealt with that concern by trying to ignore any close inspection of the tires.
Walking back to the Harley from the weeds in which I relieved myself, I caught the glimpse of something white all over the surface of my rear tire. It looked like I had rolled over a big wad of chewing gum that someone had carelessly thrown onto the road. What a mess, I thought.
When I got to the bike, I discovered that the white strip was not gum. It was the cord structure of the rear tire that had been exposed by excessive wear! Oh dear.
There was nothing commercial in this part of Nova Scotia and, on top of that, this was a Sunday and, even if I found a store of some sort, it likely would be closed.
I gently rode along at very moderate speeds and I eventually came to a small gas station where I filled my tank. The young guy working there was really admiring the Harley. In those days they were not nearly as common to see as is the case today. He chatted on and on about a Yamaha that he had at home. He said he had tried to make it look like a Harley.
I told the attendant about my tire situation and he looked at the tire. I asked if there was any place around that might have any kind of tire or from which I could order a tire. I was thinking that maybe I could find a lawn mower shop or someplace to which I could have a tired shipped. I would wait around for a day or so to receive it and mount it.
The station attendant thought and thought and told me that, no, he knew of nothing anywhere close by. Then, he told me that there used to be a man down the road about 5 miles who owned a Harley. He gave me directions to the guy’s house and suggested I go see him.
I followed those directions to an old house in a remote area. I was astonished when I pulled up in the driveway. There on the front porch steps of the house were two tires with a homemade cardboard sign attached. I parked my bike and walked up. They were two fresh tires for a Harley Davidson just like mine. They were the correct size and type and the sign said “For Sale, $50.” LOL
I wondered for a split second who in the world would even see those tires from the road and who in the world, other than me, would be in that part of the country and need them! I let all of that wondering go and was just delighted at my extremely good fortune – to find the exact tire I needed and have it at less than half the cost of what I’d pay at home!
I knocked on the door and met a very nice gentleman. He was slightly older than me and we spoke as kindred spirits about Harleys. He loved his but had sold it because of some hardship. He was trying to unload all his leftover items like the tires.
I didn’t dwell much on the dire circumstances of my immediate need for a new rear tire. I was guarded by my initial caution of not wanting him to take advantage of the situation. I gladly would have paid several times his asking price for the tire. He was an honest man, though.
Since I needed only a rear tire, he halved the cost and said he would help me mount it for free. He had a very nice shop out back with tire changing equipment and, in no time, I had a new rear tire mounted.
By this time, my little service station attendant had taken off work and hurried home to don all sorts of black leather attire, grab his Yamaharley and ridden to this house to check on me. He wanted to take me to meet some of his riding friends.
His bike was an eye-full. It was an old Yamaha Virago. He had attached to the bike apparently anything chrome and shiny that he could find. I saw more than one kitchen pot shined to a luster with the handles removed and lashed to the side of the bike to look like chrome covers of some sort. Lamp parts, chrome sink plumbing pipe and a mish-mash of many things were laden upon that machine that he so much admired. I had him mount his bike and pose for a picture that I made of him in all his regalia.
He gave me a visual tour of the bike. He stopped intermittently to relent that it was no Harley but it was all he could do. I gushed on about it and complimented him on his customizing talents.
I profusely thanked my tire benefactor and invited him to go with us. He declined and I rode off with the service station attendant. How could I refuse such an enthusiastic beckoning to go with someone who had given me the tip that saved my bacon.
I spent most of the day going to several places with the attendant. I was embarrassed at his glee in taking me around. He acted and treated me like I was Elvis Presley!
We rode out to a big dirt pit where several guys were riding dirt bikes. They all swarmed over us and I tried to match my sponsor’s delighted introduction with great jocularity and grace. Especially remarkable to all of them was the obvious fact that I was on a genuine Harley Davidson and I was from Alabama. I was a celebrity in the rural environs of Nova Scotia that day.
The culmination of my public relations tour that afternoon was a visit to his modest mobile home where I was introduced to his wife. I was genuinely touched by all of this. My appreciation and respect for everybody I met was honest and profuse. Those warm feelings were, no doubt, kindled in part by the realization that I had great fortune that day and a new rear tire on my bike that would take me home.
The attendant begged me to spend the night but I declined. The day was ending and I wanted to make Truro for the night. We shook hands and bid farewell.
I made Truro that night, saw the famous Tidal Bore the next morning and then headed south to Alabama. Unexpected things happen on unplanned journeys and that trip was a feast of wonderful experiences.
When I got home, I had a poster-size print made of the service station attendant on his bike. I gathered up a collection of Harley paraphernalia, patches, stickers etc. and mailed it all to him. I soon received a touching hand-written letter thanking me for the package and telling of how my visit there had touched his life forever. Now, after so many years, I can truthfully say the same for my part.
The key to a happy life is to reap extraordinary pleasures from ordinary things.
