Road Worthy

The new bike arrived on Wednesday after dinner. After the usual inspection and explanations from the salesperson, I swung my leg over the bike saddle, feeling the grips, various levers, and simply the girth of it. It was much bigger than the Honda 125 I had trained on. The sheer size and weight made me both apprehensive and excited at the same time. The delivery person had left, leaving me sitting on the bike, thinking about taking a maiden voyage. By then it was dark out, but like a kid on Christmas morning, I had to try this new toy. As I went back in the house to put on my gear, Sheila said, “you can’t be thinking about riding now, it’s dark and you’ve never ridden such a big bike!” I replied that I would be careful, but that I had to do this now. I can only imagine that I looked somewhat unstoppable, determined to do this, and Sheila let me go. With my new armoured jacket and pants on, I felt just like my childhood self pulling on an oversized, hand me down, snow suit. I flashed back to my Regina home, and me as a five-year-old. It was hard to move and I felt heavy and clumsy. I pushed my new bike, carefully, out of the garage, and climbed on. Familiarizing myself again with the controls, I started the engine. I looked back at the house and saw Sheila at the front door. She called out “Be careful!” I gave her a wave, took a deep breath, pulled in the clutch, and pushed the left foot gear lever into first gear. I then rotated the right hand throttle grip toward me, and let out the clutch. Til then, the largest bike I had ever ridden (and only for two days on my course), was a Honda with a very small 125cc displacement engine. I was now on a bike with about ten times the displacement. I had no idea of the power packed in that big engine, nor any experience manouevering such a large bike. The bike shot forward like a rocket, I was propelled from my driveway across the street and up on the neighbour’s front lawn in what seemed like a second. Too scared to slow down or stop, I just kept going, turning in a broad arc to find the street again. I was free and moving, it felt wonderful, like swinging open the windows in a musty home. That evening I drove up and down the street, in first gear, for at least two hours. I was so excited just to be out on my own machine. I may have shifted to second gear once or twice, but that didn’t matter. It was a new and liberating experience, and I was hooked. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The ride north and west through Gros Morne was spectacular. I quickly passed through Lobster Cove, Bakers Brook, Green Point, and Sally’s Cove. The Gulf of St. Lawrence was to my left, which for all intents and purposes is the Atlantic ocean. The sun was just rising over the escarpment a few kilometres from my right. I stopped by the side of the road and got off my bike. I was only a few feet from the water, and I could both smell and feel it. The wind was blowing insistently, cooling me with the salty smell off the water. All my senses were firing. There was no traffic at all, and I felt alone and one with the landscape. I watched the sun crest the horizon, and the first rays of day rush towards me and the water. This was a beautiful moment, another natural coming together of time and space, topped with a sweet layer of light, wind, and aloneness. I paused for several minutes and drank in this moment, knowing that it would never come again, and that I should feel every bit of it. I work hard for the chance to do these rides. I knew I would think back on this time when I was sitting in my office back in Ottawa, in the middle of winter, both going to work and coming home in the dark. I took a few pictures of the sunrise, hoping to capture the moment. The pressing reality of a low fuel situation ebbed into my thoughts as I slowly pressed on that morning, meandering up the coastline at a leisurely pace. My main gas tank was now empty, so I stopped and unpacked my spare 5 liter fuel can, and carefully poured it into the thirsty main reservoir. This would give me, if I was careful, another 100 kilometers or so, easily within reach of the Irving station at Hawkes Bay. To be careful, I kept my rpms low, and my speed reasonable. When I did arrive at that small station at Hawkes Bay, it looked like an oasis in the desert, at least to me and my almost dry bike. I knew that this fillup would take me the full distance north up the peninsula, to the two gas stations in St. Anthony. A little further north and I could see Labrador across the Straight of Belle Isle. I turned off the road at the St. Barbe turnoff, and drove into town. St. Barbe is where the ferry crosses to Blanc-Sablon, which is on the border between Quebec and Labrador. By coincidence, I arrived at the terminal about 45 minutes before the ferry departure. I went into the terminal office, where the tickets are sold, and toyed with the idea of crossing to Labrador. If I crossed, however, I wouldn’t be able to get back until the next day, and because of time constraints I would be obliged to head south immediately towards Deer Lake where Sheila would be arriving. The thought of visiting Labrador interested me, but the attraction of Lanse aux Meadows won over. Further north it would be. The coastal ride north of St. Barbe was breathtaking, and I stopped several times to drink in the wind and water. There were a number of small outports along the way, each ranging from about five to a maximum of a dozen small homes. The homes were made of wood, were all bungalows or small two story boxes, and were painted a variety of bright colours, in the traditional Newfoundland way. Nameless Cove, Savage Cove, Sandy Cove, Shoal Cove, Green Island Cove, the names and places rolled on. Most of these tiny places were fishing villages, established centuries ago by hardy adventurers from the old world. It would have taken a true pioneering sensibility, and toughness, to settle this rugged land. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ One of my last significant trips of the 2005 season was a morning ride to Deep River. The October air was fresh and invigorating, the golden sun illuminating the fall leaves seemingly from within with honey coloured warm light. My vest was on, keeping me cosy, my nostrils occasionally twitching from the cool air riding up underneath the front of my helmet. I stopped for a coffee at ‘my’ Tim’s, the Deep River trans-Canada stop I had been to so many times before, both coming from and going on long distance rides to places like Salt Lake City and Golden British Columbia. The trees in Deep River filtered the sun to a shimmery timbre, like ripples. A loop had been closed, a big loop in my life, taking me across many miles and memories. Most people think of resistance as an undesirable or negative attribute. At the office, for example, resistance from others creates conflict. We tend to think of it as something which must be overcome forcefully, which in of itself simply creates more resistance. The same can be said of the power struggles in relationships. Resistance and friction, generally not considered to begood things. Without resistance, however, my bike wouldn’t stay on the road as I negotiate a corner. I wouldn’t stay on the seat, but would go flying off. In fact, my bike wouldn’t even move without resistance. Resistance is necessary to ride and enjoy the bike. The wind in my face is resistance. As a good friend once told me, wind clarifies. That is one of the best parts of riding. Thankfully, there is resistance, and it keeps me on the bike, on the road, and in the moment. Balance too. Turning a corner requires a balancing act, between the outward force of inertia, and the gravity pulling the leaning bike towards the ground. Just as in life, balance is a part of negotiating.............