Lockston Path Provincial Park, NL >> St. John’s, NL 205 miles ridden/4 hours
I’m in St. John’s for a few days waiting for the ferry back to the mainland, but I almost didn’t make it on two counts!
First, while for once driving the speed limit around an off-ramp cloverleaf, I encountered an inches-deep pile of flour-like sand covering most of the sweep, so I had to stand the bike upright and clamp down on the brakes to avoid dropping it and/or running into the guardrail. This is happening a bit too often for my liking… Is Canada out to get me?
Later, while filling up my tank, I noticed that the tread on my rear tire had worn through to the steel belting. Thank god I chose not to take the scenic route today!
Nonetheless, throwing caution to the wind, I refused to call a tow truck on principle and instead prayed to any deity that would listen to defy physics and keep my tire intact until I could get it replaced. The ride to my downtown lodgings was full of anxiety and fear, as I was expecting the tire to pop at any moment. Driving as slow as possible without being a road hazard, my prayers were answered, proving that there is indeed a patron saint of motorcyclists.
Once I’d secured a room for the week, I went to confirm George Street’s claim that it has the most bars per capita than anywhere else on earth. (Off the top of my head, Boston could make that boast and I have a vague memory that Sixth Street in Austin, TX, does as well.) At the first bar, I asked to be “screeched in,” a local initiation ritual that bestows upon the participant honorary “Newfie” status. But because the pub didn’t have the requisite cod for me to kiss following my shot of rum, I had to put my lips on the behind of a puffin doll instead, which seemed like the much less odious option.
An oilman from Louisiana was one of the handful of people in the bar to witness the ceremony, and we got to talking about Cajun cuisine. This led to a wager that I wouldn’t drink a shot glass full of Tabasco sauce, which I did without a wince and came out $5 richer for it.
There, I also met a retired Canadian special forces sniper-turned-diamond merchant whose biceps were bigger than my thighs (really not saying much, but still…) and who rode a tricked-out Yamaha R1. He shared stories of basic training exercises but not much else. I didn’t bother to press him (or my luck) for more details.
Back at the hostel, I talked with a woman who had just taken the overland route from Baie-Comeau, Quebec, across Labrador in a car and was waiting for the same ferry to the mainland. While the roads weren’t bad, she said the interior of “The Big Land” was not very scenic. However, I hear the whole road will be paved in a few years. Putting a return trip on the books!
Highlights from my stay in St. John’s include: pub trivia night with Will (a comedian), his girlfriend Tammy, and our hostel mates (as suspected, my knowledge of things Canadian is nothing to boast about… I can barely remember which one is Bob and which one is Doug McKenzie, you hoser!); a trip to the nearby Quidi Vidi Brewery and sampling its famous “iceberg beer,” made with water snatched from the icebergs that float offshore by an iceberg-wrangler, I suppose; visiting Cape Speare, the easternmost point in North America; sitting atop Signal Hill, which overlooks St. John’s and soaking up spectacular views of downtown and the harbor; and, of course, getting a new rear tire.
While Canadians up to and including this point of the trip were nothing but friendly and polite, I was shocked at one cab company’s our-phone-number-is-unforgettable slogan: “Even a drunk girl can remember seven ‘7’s”
I imagine there’d be riots in the streets of America over that one…
Email:
SUBJECT: If good things come in threes, this rear tire should be magical!
Hey everyone –
Mission accomplished! After a final ferry ride to Labrador, I’ve now been to all 50 states and every Canadian province, and am finally in St. John’s waiting for the ferry back to the mainland. It’s been quite a trip.
To backtrack a bit, the first night I was in Newfoundland, the dryer at the campground I washed my clothes at didn’t work, so after an hour and a half, they were still as wet as if I’d just pulled them out of a lake, despite the insistence of the guy running the place that they should be dry after the spin cycle. (Drying clothes is apparently optional in Canada. Who knew, eh?) The next day I put on a sopping wet outfit, intent on finding a working washing machine in Labrador; that was my new mission.
This happened to be the day a hurricane hit the west coast of Newfoundland, bringing with it the most torrential rains I could ever imagine riding in. Keep in mind that for the first half of the trip, it rained more than every other day, so I thought I was used to this sort of thing. But this was a new level of precipitation… Forget standing in the shower, imagine fire hoses aimed at you from every direction going full blast.
There was epic equipment failure on every level, thankfully, save the bike. It seems over the course of the last 14,000 miles or so, my pipes had burned a small hole in my right boot, so I know how water got in there, but I still haven’t figured out the source of the leak in the left one. My gauntlets weren’t long enough to fully cover a breach between my jacket sleeves and my gloves, and my undergarments soaked up water like a sponge. After a few hours, the fly of my riding pants couldn’t keep the water out, and there was a sliver of space between my helmet and the jacket’s neck gaiter that water also managed to find its way into. None of this really mattered at first because it was warm outside, but when the temperature dropped and I still had no idea how far away the ferry was – Maritime Canadians are quite frugal with their signage allocation versus their west coast counterparts – I started to get concerned. Fortunately, it was about this time a mileage sign appeared roadside indicating I had only an hour left to go.
Soaked but relieved to have made the trip in time to catch the day’s final ferry, I was shocked to bump into Glen in the parking lot. I’d shared a table with him at breakfast in British Columbia more than a month ago, and he said he recognized my bike while driving through town. We caught up and he chastised me a bit for not taking the haul road into Labrador (as I had originally intended), then wished me well on the rest of my trip.
For my Labrador lodgings, I chose a Bed & Breakfast (really just a room in someone’s house) based on the fact that it advertised laundry services. I arrived to discover the proprietor was at church (from the woman working the register at the supermarket directly across the street), so I stood around in soggy boots for a while, and when she arrived, re-washed all my clothes. I learned the next morning that her dryer didn’t work all that well either, but I wanted to catch the early ferry back so I didn’t bother mentioning it. My kingdom for dry clothes!
I outfitted my wet boots with plastic grocery bags to keep my feet dry and was off. If you’ve never ridden with your feet in plastic bags for an entire day, I should point out that this will make them smell like roses. Mind you, roses that have been rotting in a compost heap for a few weeks, but roses nonetheless.
Luck was with me yet again! Although I missed my original ferry, due to the holiday weekend there was an amended schedule and I caught the 10.45am back to Newfoundland. Granted, while in queue I met another person who told me I should have ridden the haul road up, but things were going well enough even though I had not; I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be on a dirt road in that downpour!
After two days of cruising along the Newfoundland coast in a clockwise direction toward St. John’s in non-stop gale force winds, yesterday I decided to bolt across the Trans-Canada Highway to take some shelter before it started raining again (tomorrow). I noticed my tire tread was a bit thin in the morning, but based on my Sturgis experience, figured I had another 1,000 miles to go before I had to replace it. However, when I pulled into a gas station in St. John’s only a couple hundred miles later and saw a 10” strip of steel belting where the rubber had worn clear through, I thanked my lucky starts it had held and took surface streets into town, praying it wouldn’t pop.
This morning, the Honda shop told me they couldn’t fit me in for more than a week(!), but then managed to put on the new rubber at lunch time. I held my breath the entire ride over there from the hostel, waiting for the tire to burst and the bike to bottom out. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. With the bike fit to ride again, I visited Cape Speare, the most easterly point in North America (where I ran into some of my hostel-mates), and then back into town.
It’s been a bit stressful these last few days, so now I intend to verify the claim that St. John’s has more bars per person than anywhere else. To me, that sounds like a claim Allston or Southie could contest.
Stay tuned,
-GK