Troubles

Six hours of exploring every crack in this concrete slab and I’m running out of games. ‘Come along,’ I tell the ants; and nudge their marching line to bend at my command. I reward their hard work with crumbs and watch them weightlift their way toward better tomorrows. On the horizon, industrial garbage bins lounge in decay at the edge of the lot. A chorus of smokers exhale their weekend plans behind me until the cigarettes are gone, and so ends the break. I’m silent as I drag my boot in the dust and perform another temporary masterpiece. Two weeks of camping gear sprawl out beside me while downhill, Tom’s motorcycle tank empties carelessly into the ground.  

Are you one of many who drove by and saw us?

You had your chance a few hundred kilometers back. At another gas station Tom is under his bike, fixing the same issue. Here we grip hot coffees and run high on hope.

If not, maybe a week before at a drive-thru car wash? Tom works on his motorcycle, while rain and wind blow through our shelter. After repairs we advance confidently ten meters down the road until our heroine flicks her lights and gives up the ghost. Behind us, the invitation to use the car wash closes as the bay door lands with a thud. Where the rain persists the hospitality wanes.

It is here we begin our journey into Newfoundland.

Downtrodden and wet, we push the bike 500 meters to the convenience store beside our car wash and begin dismantling. Another hour of work in this rain makes us a target for the curious. A pick up truck circles and slows; an arm leans out the window. “Troubles?” the man asks. “Yup,” we confirm. His instant faith in us, paired with a confidence in Tom’s mechanical abilities, gains us temporary use of the storage room. We schlep our wet layers and begin a 7 hour chore; chasing wires, testing voltage, and driving back and forth to the local parts store to borrow and buy. Deep down we realize what we haven’t been willing to face; this bike is beyond our repair. A phone call to Matt at MM Motowerks in Ontario, backs our diagnosis and a new ignition system is couriered overnight. With tired bodies and great resignation, we push our dead horse into the sunset and prop her on the center stand at the efficiency unit we’ve booked nearby.

Unburdening our camp gear, we make ourselves at home at our new address. It’s Friday, and overnight shipping means Monday. Tack on a holiday and we’re stuck here at least 4 days. Well, with one broken wing we can still fly. My bike works, and if we ride two-up we can adventure; if we don’t, we sit here and rot. We assemble a meal of misfits from the expiring labels at the convenience store. Our crumbs mark the map on our bed as we lean forward and plot the remaining days.

The next day I begrudgingly nominate Tom to ride up front as he’s more experienced. I’m the de facto passenger. I knew it was coming but my pride takes a critical hit and lies twisted in the pit of my stomach. Reluctantly, I swing my leg over the back of my bike. My full face helmet hides my scowl. It appears Tom is smiling.                                     

We head to a town on the peninsula and park at a wharf with a crowd of ten people. A dog, sensing my need for distraction, lures me into a game of fetch. His owner trails behind. “Nice bike,” says the dog owner to Tom. “It’s my bike,” I say modestly, but feel like screaming my possession like a child with a toy. I throw the stick as they talk shop. In Maritime fashion they fish until they know someone in common, and through this we’re united. Soon we’re having coffee in his living room, as a Newfoundland comedy plays on the TV in the background.  

Ideal weather waits for us outside. We follow our host as he rolls his vintage Kawasaki around forests, past abandoned mines, and lakes. We land at a picnic table hosting a party bigger than it can contain, in a town where four wheelers and pick up trucks rule the road. We introduce ourselves and the locals scan our surnames for familiarity. We’re outsiders but our host isn’t, and we tell stories long after he’s found the bottom of his drink. People come and go while karaoke warms up across the street. With each introduction we’re told of a man lost at sea whose body was never recovered. Here at this table we help hold his wake.

We head back to our temporary home as an owl sweeps the woods beside us. It’s here I distinguish the difference between being negatively ‘stuck’ in a place or positively ‘stayed.’ I engage this new perspective each time I relay our story.

The next day we bike to a new town. At the cliff edge we check our phones for shipping updates on our ignition system. Our package is delayed, and I receive word my grandfather died. We notice locals park here for cell reception; hopefully they’ll get better news than I did. Stray dogs bark false threats in our direction, as we tell stories to a lady in the car beside us. She works at the wharf and invites us to drop by; wait for the fishing boats to come in. I envision a giant gaping cod cradled in my arms on the back of my bike. We drive down a loose dirt embankment not meant for bikes and wait at the scales. The boats will arrive once their quota is met, and that’s at the ocean’s discretion. Time doesn’t exist here the way it does on the mainland. We wait a few hours but have to keep moving to fit in our day. We return ‘home’ fishless but satisfied.

A pickup truck is parked beside our broke-down bike at the motel. Until now we’ve dominated the empty lot. Perched in an orange plastic chair leftover from a 1972 classroom is our new neighbour. He invites us for a drink and we lower the truck gate to join him. He shifts his chair then disappears inside; returning with a plate of seal flipper, biscuits, and gravy. The taste is fishy and salt laden like seaweed. It’s hard to escape the musky game in each bite. I indulge in seconds and Tom stays away. We tell stories until the moon is high, then say goodnight.  

I wake up and the seal meat wakes up with me. Our parts are arriving today! Tom calls the store to ask when our shipment will arrive. The lady laughs, ‘Sometimes it comes before noon Love, and sometime it don’t come at all.’  No further explanation, no apology, because that’s the way it is here. With an unpredictable pick-up time we drive 2 hours for our package in a downpour on the highway, while trucks torpedo us with water. At a coffee shop with hot drinks and Wi-Fi, we find out our parts have been delayed. Defeated, we drip-dry and head back in the rain.

During the next two days we re-visit an oceanside town and watch whales from a lookout on the cliff. Our neighbour feeds us again. We enter a tiny lighthouse, crouch, and sign our name in the guestbook. We visit an abandoned mining town, population 3 plus a dog. We don’t meet the mayor, although plenty of people ask if we had. We picnic whenever we’re hungry, while the ocean waves crash around us. We see more boats than cars. We stretch out the days with hikes over rocks and trek through spongy wooded pathways. We have the whole world to ourselves and feel lucky.

Delivery day is upon us again, and I stay back to watch my grandfather’s funeral online. Tom heads to town to try his luck at capturing our elusive parcel. Hours later he returns triumphant, and instantly begins work on the bike. Time is against us, with an un-moveable ferry schedule and our motel at capacity, it’s our last chance to get the hell out of Dodge. Our neighbour arrives with supper, and shoos the onlookers who have flocked like seagulls at the attraction of Tom the mechanic. We sit side-by-side well into the night and hold flashlight vigil over production. Shortly after midnight we celebrate to the sound of the engine turning over. We cheer, disperse, and tuck in, until there’s a knock at our door; then we celebrate awhile longer.

I’m riding my bike again; Tom’s is fixed and under him. We watch the peninsula disappear behind us. Triumphantly, we continue our Newfoundland adventure as the sun shines on our efforts. We stop for fuel 3 hours down the road and start our engines, only one refuses to ignite. In a rehearsed motion we push the bike against the side of the store and begin repairs. Tom’s bike, stripped to the frame, draws a crowd. ‘Troubles?’ a new batch of locals ask, as they near the scene.  “Yup,” we reply, while Tom carries on.

Under a gathering cloud of repair exhaustion, careless mistakes happen. While swapping out bike parts my points end up wrapped around the cam shaft. We no longer have a horse in this race. I begin looking for ways to lug the bikes back home. We dial a tow truck who can’t tow bikes but suggests someone who can. We’re tasked to find his name in the phone book. It’s 2024, and we explain what a phone book is to the teen who works the cash. He manages to dig one up from the archives behind the counter. Our phone call lands, sending a half-ton truck to our rescue an hour later. We transport our bikes to a garage, where they stay the night without us.

We spend the next day on repairs, working out of our host’s garage. By evening we get my bike running, and reluctantly decide to leave Tom’s behind. Camping gear and half our luggage is remorsefully tossed into a pile, to remain with the bike until our return. With a day left to catch the ferry, it seems likely we’ll be going home.

At the dock we’re packed in numbered lanes as we wait in line to board the ferry. I recall the biker we met two weeks ago on the boat over. Full of wide-eyed innocence we relay to him the details of our upcoming route. Being from Newfoundland, he acknowledges the beauty and isolation the island is known for. He speaks largely of it’s legendary hospitality. “You’re going to have an amazing trip!” he predicts. Somehow, through all our troubles, I believe he was right.