I’ll have plenty to say about Newfoundland once I’ve had awhile to explore it. So far I’ve seen some of the far west coast and it has elements of Scotland, Colorado, Washington State, and Alaska. It’s mighty far north so that should come as little surprise.
What has surprised me is the people. Everyone I meet is very friendly and accommodating. I’ve seen generosity from strangers that I don’t really expect from most of my friend. The bummer for me though is, I’ve needed that generosity too often for only being here a few days.
Fresh off the boat
The ferry ride was oddly pleasant. Being the overnight route, most people were just looking for a corner to sleep, but I had a few drinks at the bar (actually lower price than on land, surprise), bummed a smoke (I asked to buy one and the guy gave me two, that’s Newfoundlanders for ya), and read.
The ship sailed calmly. The waters were dead calm but I was still surprised at the smoothness, as I usually get seasick at night when I’m not out on the deck, looking at the horizon line.
The ferry landed at 715-am so things were pretty cold despite the sun being fully out and shining through clear sky. The roads were straight, the speed limits low, but the passing opportunities seemed to time well with my pace. Yet there was a problem.
The bike was tracking like it had a flat tire. The monitor said I had the correct pressure, but the bike was weaving gently over bumps. Eventually I was concerned something serious was wrong so I pulled over to look. Holy hell.
I had checked the tire while on the ferry and noticed it was past the wear bars, and that it was probably 700-1,000 miles from showing cords. Time to replace yes, but not an emergency. Well…emergency. The tire only has four layers, and I could count all four, so I was essentially riding on the skeleton of the tire.
It should have only been halfway through its life, but I did get this tire for free. It was a take-off from a custom build project and it was 9-years old despite being unused.
The polymers and compounds that keep the rubber pliable are all oxidized out by then, and the heat was likely not distributing through the tire like it was designed to. Normally I can order a tire and have it shipped ahead of me to save money. In an emergency your only option is whatever the nearest dealership has.
The tire saga: the final straw
I had a Bunk-a-Biker to meet up with and I hoped he could help. The BaB community offer up their homes for free to fellow traveling motorcyclists, and some will loan tools. Carl lived in Deer Creek and he had a shop at his home.
The problem is, when I got there, he didn’t have what we’d need to change a tire. We could get the wheel off and he even had the tools to break the bead, but he had loaned out his tire irons. Now, in retrospect, I should have just dropped $50 and bought him some irons.
Instead I let myself worry. See, Carl didn’t have a car and if we took the wheel off I had no way to deliver it to a shop. So now I’d need a mechanic (at $125/hr) plus a tire priced at the “we’re the only show in town” level, and a lot of dealerships would be closed the following two days.
A nearby Yamaha dealer had a tire and it wasn’t overpriced, but it was a top-of-the-range model: the Dunlop Elite American. These are the same tires I stopped using after endless flats on two in a row. $460 sounded insane but in US dollars that’s only about $333. That’s their normal retail price. Some dealers will mark them up another 20%.
So hey, I’m winning on one front. The next problem was getting the job done. They were booked out until Wednesday (it was Saturday). But after Carl jumped into the conversation and their two Newfie accents went into sync, a strange conversation transpired. “Now this fella here ya see, he’s on the road. Can’t leave ‘im out in the cold now.” “Yah I hears ya we’re tryin’ to gettim in, lemmie see what I can do, right.”
Needless to say, one of the techs said he’d drop what he was doing and work part of his lunch break to get me on the road, even though they aren’t an Indian Motorcycle dealership. And off I went, limping the bike 30-miles with my fingers crossed and praying to any god that would listen…while it rained.
Somehow I got there, I dropped off the bike and got the service ticket wrote up, and I talked to the tech doing the job. That let me explain to him the trick to remove the rear wheel, which saves on labor.
That saved a bit but the final charge was staggering: ~$730CAD. That’s like $510. For a tire. One tire. That lasts about 10,000-12,000 at best. An hour’s labor, the tire, too much for the “balancing fee” (which is already charged as labor), $95CAD in tax, and there ya are.
The people were great, but dealerships are what they are: stealerships. And the more I thought about it, the madder I got. Even the cheap tires are about $230USD. The rear tire is nearly inaccessible without a lift. Add to it that I’m getting 25mpg pulling this trailer, the bike needs 92-octane gas, and the general cost of parts…well, I was fighting mad. I can operate a CAR for less than this. Way less.
And so I did the math. The Pontiac Vibe is actually a Toyota Matrix rebadged. They sell cheap, and have the bulletproof Toyota 1.8L engine. It’s a large hatchback so there’s a lot of interior space.
The seats fold flat, the whole deck inside is plastic, and even the passenger seat folds completely flat and has a plastic back like a tabletop. 25mpg and tires that last 40,000 miles. Why exactly am I riding around on this overpriced 2-wheeled RV?
Nope, don’t gimmie any romance about “free in the wind.” Being free means being mobile, and you aren’t mobile if you’re broke. The motorcycle industry is still shooting itself in the foot with these bikes. Some companies are coming out with affordable machines, but the American V-twin market is still about tassels and chrome and special edition paint. They may sell an image of freedom, but profit margin is the goal here, not selling “freedom machines.”
And so I’ll be selling the Chieftain this winter and looking for something else. The Pontiac idea costs less than half per-mile to operate than the Chieftain, but my Suzuki DR650 was cheaper still. It uses $90 tires that I can change on the side of the road.
I can repair anything with basic tools. 42mpg, 87-octane, and the only thing driving up the cost is its tires only last about 6,000 miles and it needs a chain and sprocket set every 12,000-15,000 miles.
But if a car needs shocks, an alternator, a radiator, then poof: the cost per-mile skyrockets. The DR is really only a let down because there’s no way to lock up my luggage. Than means bears can get at my food (so you have to tree-hang it every night) and tweekers can get at my laptop.
A plan in the making
So I’ll be floating around in my head for the next month, thinking up solutions. But it’s a good pressure. It’s like deciding to break up with someone when things have been toxic for so long—there is a feeling of relief. I’ll miss the locking luggage and all-day comfort, but I’ll be free.
That’s very much NOT what the marketing department at Indian and Harley want to hear.
But for me, the answer will arrive when it needs to. There’s many bikes to choose from with their own qualities, and I’ll make a decision when the right option presents itself. In the meantime, let’s talk about Vikings and what they have to do with Newfoundland. Let me set that stage.
The northern peninsula
After a few days with Carl, poking about Deer Lake, seeing his collection of project bikes, and him refusing to let me pay for anything, I dropped a 20-spot on his table and went north under cloudy skies.
It was cold. Newfoundland had a crap summer according to locals, and it was beginning to feel like fall was settling in early. It’s always windy on an island like this, and the temps were barely hitting 60°F. Fortunately the rain kept at bay.
I went up Hwy 430 to Rocky Harbor for fuel and food. I tried the moose soup—it was great. It warmed me up, was 35% less $ than I was used to paying on the mainland, and the restaurant was really just some tables added to a fabric store and gift shop.
The towns are so small people need to do a bit of everything. They are used to being resourceful, so adding a restaurant or ice cream parlor to a fabric store or a kayak rental spot makes total sense. For me well, let’s say I’m still training my eye to read signs more closely.
Eventually the cold sank in and my plan to wild camp was fading. It was supposed to help save me money after the tire debacle, but I was cold through into my bones as far as my feet and hands were concerned. I decided I’d find a spot for one night, break open the winter gear I had in the bottom of the trailer, and regroup for tomorrow.
Signs and ‘signs’
I pulled into a lot, because there’s no shoulder on most of these highways. I actually had signal, but it was weak. I was trying to find anything cheap, but most of the places popping up either had no information beyond address and phone, or they were expensive, all inclusive resorts.
I noticed though, that where my little blue dot was, there was a motel icon. I looked over my shoulder. It was a lodge of sorts yes, but it looked closed. There were no cars, no light, no sign. The landscaping was still in progress.
“Screw it,” I said and walked over to check the door. Unlocked. The interior door was unlocked too. Inside the lights were on but it was deathly quiet, and no one was at the desk. It was like a scene from The Shining. A TV was on in the common room and someone seemed to be getting up from an overstuffed chair. Well, humans… okay.
“Do you work here?”
“What’s that?”
“Do you work here?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it open?”
[incredulous look] “Well yeah.”
“Okay, what’s the going rate?”
“What’s that?”
“The rate…what’s it cost for a night here?”
[thinks for an unusually long time] “One…one-twenty.”
“Well hot damn, sign me up.”
The guy’s name was Lynn and this was Lynn’s cabins, officially named the Wildberry Country Lodge. Simple room, floor heater worked, bathroom was clean, and he offered me a tea right off the bat, and showed me about 20 different snacks in the kitchen that I was welcome to. Not bad.
Breakfast was really good, with fried eggs and bacon, ham, and a jalapeno sausage that was perfect. Couple cups of coffee, some juice and fruit slices, grab a banana, and off I go. Remember when I said I was going to talk about Vikings? Well, here we are.
The Meadows
L’Anse aux Meadows National Historic Site has been on the UNESCO world heritage list since about the 1970’s. In 1960 the remains of a Viking settlement were uncovered. It was thought to be an old Indian camp, but the remaining Earthworks were similar to Viking construction, not the aboriginal people of the island.
Once a few wood and stone tools were found it started to look like it was European, but when they found a metal cloak pin they finally knew for sure. The natives didn’t work with metal. This was part of Leif Erikson’s and other Norse explorations.
According to written stories made about 200 years after the fact, it’s likely the site was never a village but instead a base camp. The short sailing season meant they’d sail down and winter over, with half the team building at the landing site and the other half exploring for valuables.
Eventually the payoff wasn’t working. They weren’t finding enough to justify the effort, and the natives were souring to their presence, so they burned the buildings and left for good. Still, it’s European first-contact with the continent, perhaps 400 years before Columbus landed in the Caribbean.
Today the site is just some oddly shaped mounds, but there are four replica buildings just a few hundred feet away, built in the old style. Wood is hewn by hand, joined by slip fit, or occasionally wooden nails (really more like dowel pins). They dig up the earth, make sod bricks, frame it with timbers and stones, and put the sod back on top to make sod houses.
There are living quarters, a men’s and women’s work room, a forge, and a blacksmith. The site is actually smaller than the actual camp was, but illustrates things well with wood carvings in the doors, hand made bowls, hand forged axes, and docents dressed up in costume answering questions.
I also went to the town of Saint Anthony a bit farther down the peninsula and on the east side. They have a unique hospital. The lobby is lined with a huge relief done by a famous sculptor in the 1960’s, showing Newfie life and dedicated to the medical workers and people who try to improve the lives of others on the island.
The building is marked as historic and, on a side note, has a cafeteria that makes little to go plates for $8CAD that are simple but fill ya up. It’s a good trick when traveling in rural areas if you need to eat on the cheap.
The town is small but has great coastal views and a few other eateries along with a museum. I was satisfied with my day, even finding a penny press. Well, Canada doesn’t have pennies, so it’s a machine that, for a looney ($1 coins have a loon on the back) you can throw a quarter in and have a design pressed into it.
First one I’ve seen in Canada. So after that, seeing a massive statue of Leif Erikson, and grabbing my cold plate at the hospital, I rocketed back to the B&B. Lynn was there and invited me into his place for a beer since it was just me and him.
His Newfie accent gets really thick after a few beers, but we talked about the Island and his past, how his mother makes jams, and the band Motorhead (Lemmy for President, baby). The guy works his butt off but only needs to be opened about 4-months to make his nut for the year.
The entire off season though is repairs and maintenance, the landscaping, roof shingles being put on in the wind and rain, and trying to keep the wood fire going.
The next day was raining, and with it being very close to closing for the season, Lynn offered to let me stay another night, for free. I’m telling you, I don’t know where these tough islanders get such a giving nature. Free snacks, free beers, sharing stories, and even a free night’s stay? Top notch people so far.
Back into the wind
By the time this goes live I’ll have made it to St Johns on the east side of the island, caught some of the racing at Targa Newfoundland, and checked out the aerospace history of the town of Gander. Hopefully I have even more stories to share of good people.
More important though, I hope I don’t have any stories of being wet, cold, and trying to slip my last pair of dry socks on just to shove my feet into wet boots. That, and no close calls with moose. I’ll stay as long as the whether holds, so long as I can keep camping for free and the food costs stay low, but I ain’t got much time left before the nights start to freeze over the wet roads.
