LABRADOR CANADA 2003 Departure time is scheduled for 5 a.m. Sunday morning meeting at the first exit on I-79 outside of Charleston, West Virginia. After months of planning a tight time schedule Sturgill Jones and me, Gary Surbaugh are ready to embark on a twelve-day motorcycle odyssey to "Goose Bay" in the providence of Labrador, Canada. Our agenda will take us through a number of States and Provinces to the rugged gravel roads of Labrador Canada and back home again. Two good friends, riding motorcycles to an outlandish destination, the trip will be memorable no doubt. Sunday August 10th 1st Day 4:50 a.m.: In the calm darkness of this Sunday morning I arrive at the rendezvous point and park the bike beside the road, taking my helmet off. As I wait alone in the darkness for Sturgill I take a seat on the guardrail and begin musing about our pending expedition. I watch the few cars whiz by headed for their various destinations and think the calmest time of the day is just before sunrise and I bask in the tranquility of predawn. Moments to myself are rare and I find the peace and quiet to be exhilarating and become so lost am in my own thoughts that I lose track of time and its not until I glance at my watch that I see it is 5:20 a.m., Sturgill is late! I wonder what is keeping him, yet I'm aware of his propensity for oversleeping, so I wait patiently as the dawn starts emerging over
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	the Appalachians. Soon I hear the wail of his Yamaha shrieking in the early morning stillness and see his headlight searing through the dark as he comes down the Interstate ramp. "Sorry I'm late;" Sturgill explains…had to stop and do a little roadside maintenance to fix a minor hardware problem with my luggage mounts. It is 5:30 a.m., the sky is overcast, the air is balmy, and the forecast calls for thundershowers late in the day. Disaffected by the potential weather we head North on I-79 for Morgantown, our objective for the day is to reach Barre, Vermont. I'm riding a sleek, red, 2001 Honda CBR 1100XX Blackbird, a comfortable motorcycle with power to spare when covering a number of States in a single day. Sturgill is ridding an older air-cooled white and silver 1989 Yamaha FJ 1200, a solid bike equally capable of covering formidable distances. Sturgill is a robust man, his 6'3," 225 pound dwarfs his Yamaha while I'm only 5'11' and weigh about 180 pounds and the "Blackbird" makes me look respectable. When one embarks on these long trips with someone it is of the essence that you are compatible with your ridding partner, not merely in personality, but also in pace and endurance. There are a only few people I would endeavor to make this long of a trip with and Sturgill is one of them, we have ridden together so much for so long that we can practically anticipate what the other is going to do. I have ridden with others who can take the fun out of a road but with Sturgill it is always a good time whether we are running a fast pace or droning for hours. Approaching Morgantown, WV we run into a light rain that cools the air enough to send a chill up my back. It is only a misting so my rain suit remains in the tank bag, but I radio Sturgill that it's time for a cup a coffee. On a long trip Sturgill and I have found our "Chatter Boxes" and throttle-locks to be as important as clean underwear. Throttle-locks enable us to take our hands off the grip long enough to facilitate new circulation, stretch our fingers, shake our wrists, giving our arms a break. Throttle locks are dependable but not so rigid that it cannot be over ridden with a slight twist of the wrist. The radios not only break the monotony of hours of silence, but also enable us to quickly relay any problems to each other. To ease the tedium of a long drive I have an MP3 player and small radio that I play through my "Chatter Box" and Sturgill has his own setup, of his son's CD player or a small radio tied into his "Chatter Box. We have a long day ahead of us so our strategy is as follows: cover at least 200 miles between gas stops and adhere to this rhythm if we are to reach Vermont at a reasonable hour before calling it a day. Yet we have already deviated from the plan by stopping in Morgantown for the all-essential morning coffee. After topping our tanks off we quickly we resume our trek and take I-68 East into Maryland as a glimmer of the blue-sky attempts to force its way through the clouds. As we approach I-81 and head north for Carlisle, Pennsylvania we reach our 200-mile mark for gas. Sturgill switched to reserve twenty miles ago and my fuel gauge has been flashing reserve for the last 5 miles. It's around 10 a.m. and this is a "gas and go" if we want to stay on schedule. The bikes are refueled and we remove our helmets long enough to clean the faceshields and within minutes we are back on the road headed for Binghamton, NY, where I-88 East will take
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	us toward Albany, NY. Interstate driving is as boring as it gets, but I liken it to the Fed Ex motto: when you positively have to be somewhere it's the safest and fastest way to travel. For the next 2 ˝ hours of droning Interstate highways I shift a total of twelve times, six up and six down. We stop on I-88 around Oneonta, NY around 1 p.m. for gas and a bite to eat, shoot the breeze with a group of Harley riders out on Sunday ride. Our goal is to expedite these breaks and resume the trek yet we have forfeited 45 minutes. Back on the road and headed for Albany the blue sky is relenting to immense white cumulus clouds, a sure sign of impending thundershowers. I have been a "Weather Channel" zealot for the last few days in preparation for this trip so the atmospheric conditions are not a surprise. We are about ten miles outside of Albany, NY driving east on I-90 just before I-87 when I notice the sky is a threatening black in the direction we are heading. Close to Saratoga on I-87 North the sky opens up with a deluge of rain and I pull under the first bridge we come to because my leathers do not repel water like Sturgill's "Aerostitch" suit. We sit under the bridge and have an energy drink and realize waiting for the storm to pass will be too much of time expenditure so I reluctantly put my yellow rainsuit on and start back on the road. Around 6 p.m. we get off I-87 at exit #21 just north of Glenn Falls and start on State Route 9N that snakes around through the little towns along the banks of the lake. Stopping in one of the tourist towns for gas and a chance for me to get out of my rainsuit we pause only long enough for a bottle of water and a quick trip to the men's room. Back on the bikes for only a very short time we stop for a picture beside Lake George after a riding a short section of 9N that ran over the mountain and dropped into the valley beside the lake. The best road we have been on all day, smooth, tight and uninhabited allowing us a small amount of time to flex the muscles of the Honda and Yamaha. Continuing on 9N until Rt.17 into dairy country of Vermont, the sun is setting over the rolling hills of Addison County. As dusk yields to darkness I learn something about Vermont State road signs; a yellow sign with a black arrow means a 25-mph curve lies ahead. The first arrow catches me off guard and I really have to push the right grip to get the Black Bird around this tight right-hander. My foot-peg barely off the tarmac when half way through the turn I see a tow truck crew loading a crashed motorcycle on
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	a trailer and conclude the rider misread the arrow worse than I. The CBR 1100XX such a pleasant handling motorcycle that it inspires me to ride where ability has not ridden before. This is a nice twisty road that has the potential to be exhilarating on the Honda, but its dark and the mental picture of the tow truck crew loading my bike onto a trailer is searing in my brain so I slow the pace down a little. Sturgill commiserates with me by radioing that the same corner was tighter than he realized catching him off guard as well. We pick up Rt.100 and ride it the entire way to I-89 and go south and make it to Barre, VT around 9:30 p.m. Sixteen hours on the road today and my body has been relentlessly whipped by the wind, my neck is tight and my back is telling me to give it a reprieve, it has been a long day in the saddle. Tired, hungry, and anxious to find a place to eat and a motel for the night, my odometer indicates we have ridden 883 miles, not a record for us, but not a bad day on a motorcycle. Monday August 11th 2nd Day It is 9 a.m. this morning: riding on Rt. 302 on our way to New Hampshire I spot a snow mobile dealership and pull into their parking lot, it was my responsibility to pack the chain lubricant and I forgot it. Normally we use "WD 40" to clean our chains but yesterday to keep from riding with dry chains we used it for a lubricant so now I have to plunk down $10 for a spray can of chain elixir and figure that is the price I pay for negligence. Rt. 302 was chosen for the purpose of riding across the "Kancamagus" trail in the White Mountains. A stunning road that winds up through the valleys of the White Mountains sandwiched between granite walls of rock and we are greeted with a spectacular view of what seems to be half of the state of New Hampshire as we reach the top. After a great ride on Rt. 302 we take Rt. 112 which is plagued with construction that constantly impedes our every few miles with single lane traffic. Our initial goal for the day is to be in Sussex, New Brunswick Canada by nightfall but at this point I'm beginning to have my doubts that it's feasible.
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	The small town of Conway is just in sight when it starts to rain in biblical proportions. It's the type of rain that if you don't already have a rain suit on it's too late. I'm soaked to the bone in seconds, whereas Sturgill is dry in his suit and again I fight back my sinful nature of "coveting thy neighbor's suit". Despite my damp conditions my optimism is secure, for it is a very warm day and not quite noon so there is plenty of time to dry out. Seeing the glass half full some riders will agree that sometimes being wet on a very hot day is really a benefit, the rain cools your body as the water evaporates from your skin whisking away body heat. Keep thinking positive I tell myself and the rain subsides almost as quickly as its ambush. At the first stoplight I take my gloves off and start wringing out what seems to be a glass of water when Sturgill pulls up beside me and asks if I want to put a rainsuit on. I quickly survey the sky and the sun is now shinning, the black clouds are retreating and in my dripping wet suit I tell him "I'm okay; I treated my leathers with water proofing before the trip and I'm as dry as a sponge at the bottom of the sea." Continuing on Rt. 16 to Gorham we take Rt. 2 all the way into Maine and then I-95 North to Bangor and exit onto RT 9. As we exit I-95 a heavy rain from a dark cloud is just passing and water is running down the exit ramp like a trout stream with the sky still threatening I take no chances this time and put my rainsuit on before continuing to Calais, Maine. Stopping in Calais around 8 p.m. for a Chinese dinner we exchange some currency in our preparation to cross into Canada. We top off the bikes with cheap American gas and wait for a rain shower to pass before crossing the border into Canada. (Crossing the Canadian Border)
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	Traffic is so heavy at the border it takes us 45 minutes to reach the border patrol booth where we are put through the usual series of questions; "Have you ever been in Canada before? How long are you going to be in the country, are you carrying any firearms?" We loose an hour crossing the border because Canada is a different time zone one-hour ahead of Eastern Standard Time. It is dark by the time we reach Provincial Route 1 and the warm moisture from the recent rain mixes with the cool night air conjuring a fog so heavy that moisture is depositing itself on my face shield obstructing my visibility. If I tuck down behind the bike's fairing and peer through the windshield I can keep the water droplets off my faceshield allowing me to see maybe ten feet in front of the bike. The fog is so thick I feel as though I'm riding into a gigantic white wall, this atmospheric impediment and the legitimate concern of running into something forces me to slow down to a crawl. I key Sturgill on the radio and ask him how he is doing back there, "Not bad," he replies and knowing my friend I interpret this to mean he can barely see my taillight. Creeping along at a snail's pace for what seems to be an hour a tractor-trailer roars past us splitting the fog at about 65-mph. Desperate for a set of eyes in this soup we start chasing the truck's red taillights and for the next hour and half I keep my chin on the tank-bag as a knot grips my back as we follow this semi to Saint John. It's 11-p.m. when we pull off at the first lighted exit in St. John's and the tractor-trailer's guiding lights disappear quickly into the mist. The last hour of intense riding has drained me both mentally and physically; I'm spent for this day, it's time to hang up the helmet and get out of these damp leathers. Looking for a night's rest, the first motel has no vacancy but the night manager has pity on us and calls another motel and gets us a room and gives us directions to our night's refuge. The people we have met here in Canada over the years have always made us feel welcomed in their country never giving us the impression of being an outsider whenever being around them. By the time we get to the motel I don't even ask the price of the room, all I want is a hot shower and bed. Tuesday August 12th 3rd Day It's 8 a.m. and the air is a little nippy this morning as we load the bikes in preparation for the day's ride. Last night's fog has given way to a beautiful clear blue sky and the "Weather Channel" says no rain in the forecast. Chains are cleaned and oiled and a quick stop at "Tim Hortons" for coffee and doughnuts before getting back on Provincial Route 1.
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	Stopping briefly at the large welcome to Nova Scotia sign we have our picture taken by a young girl whose family is doing the same ritual as we are. Then it's on to Trans Canada Highway 2 taking us into Amherst, Nova Scotia where we pick up the two-lane Trunk Highway 6 and follow it as it meanders through farm country and small towns. Out of Amherst on Highway 106 toward New Glasgow for Trans Canada Highway 104 into Port Hastings to ride Highway 19 up the west side of the upper peninsula of Nova Scotia. Driving up this scenic highway the Gulf of St. Lawrence is on our left along with a few pull-off areas for picture taking and enjoy the creation of God. As we continue the drive up Highway 19 a little pull off area on the left catches my eye where I see a number of cars coming out of a way side. I tell Sturgill, "Let's check it out" and I turn my left turn signal on before turning onto a gravel road that leads to a grassy prominence jetting out in the water. I am guessing we are about forty feet above the water with a small bay on our right and the wide-open gulf on our left. Riding out to the end of the prominence we get off the bikes and remove our helmets and hear the sounds of children voices coming from the bay. Out of curiosity we walk over to the edge looking toward the bay to see what all the chatter is about. Seeing a dozen or more kids swimming in a roped off area of the bay Sturgill and I both shiver a little thinking how cold the water must be and wonder how the kids can have such fun in freezing water. Sturgill makes a mental note to himself about how he would love for the family to see this or even better that he and little Sturgill could ride up here someday. We spend about half an hour taking pictures and promising ourselves to stop here again on our next trip through here before getting back on the bikes and heading to Cheticamp.
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	(Prominence in Nova Scotia) This is our second trip through Nova Scotia and we intend on staying in Cheticamp at the same motel as we did two years ago, but upon arriving around 5 p.m. we find there isn't a room available in all of Cheticamp. Choices have to be made and our options are go back 25 miles or continue forward for another 25 miles and hope there is a room available in whichever direction we chose or camp here in Cheticamp at the National Park. In planning this expedition we considered camping as a last resort and with no guarantee of a room if we drive the 25 miles we pull out of our saddlebags our last resort, a tent and two air mattresses. Camp is set up quickly and after a couple of hot showers we go into town for a dinner at the same seafood restaurant as last time we were here. Camping can be fun but not this time because it has to be the coldest night
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	of the trip, the temperature drops into the 40s° (F) and we shiver the night away underneath insubstantial blankets and lightweight sheets. Wednesday August 13th 4th Day Sturgill and I are both up early and I quickly jump into my riding suit in hopes the black leather will draw warmth from the bright sunlight as we break camp and load the bikes. Riding into town for breakfast at the motel we should have staid in last night I have French toast, bacon and four cups of coffee before I am able to knock the chill off. What a miserable night we spent last night but today is a new day and with it a new attitude. Preplanning for this trip required the coordination of three ferry crossings to make it through Labrador and home again on the allotted time we have. Today will be the first of three ferries that we have to catch. Reservations were made weeks ago for two ferries and the third one is a first come first serve basis. Our first ferry (www.marine-atlantic.ca) departs from North Sydney, Nova Scotia at 3 p.m. and we need to be there at least two hours before departure time to keep our reservations. (Sturgill at the start of Cabot Trail) Cheticamp to North Sydney is about 90 miles giving us plenty of time to enjoy the ride over the gorgeous Cabot Trail. A road that runs up and around the most northern part of Nova Scotia and is one of the most scenic highways, I have ever ridden. A road made for a motorcycle with tight twisting turns down through green valleys to the ocean's waters and up again to mountain vistas dotted with yellow caution signs warning of moose crossings. I'm grinning from ear to ear inside my Arai helmet as Sturgill and I entertain ourselves on a mesmerizing road with an ocean beside it. The Blackbird is such a joy to ride on this road the
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	smooth power delivery of its four cylinder engine seems so effortless as I flick it in and out the many corners of the Cabot Trail. The latest "Linked Braking System" works great on this bike and I feel no ill effect on handling as some magazines have reported but I'm not running at racetrack speeds either. This is the real world where restraint of the right wrist is more important than dragging a knee puck though a corner. I bought this bike for comfort and agility to cross a number of states in a single day or blast down a twisty country road with confidence and to these criteria I am well pleased with my purchase. Coming to the end of the Cabot Trail we meet light traffic and come up behind an extremely slow moving car with a small pickup truck following at a very close distance. I give Sturgill a heads up on the radio that I'm going to pass them both at the first opportunity I get. The "CBR 1100XX" is a very powerful motorcycle and normally does not needed downshifted when passing, but they are moving so slow I drop two gears to keep from lugging the engine. The truck is so close to the car I cannot see the car's taillights from where I am riding. I put my blinker on and wait for an oncoming car to pass as the road opens with a short straight stretch long enough for two motorcycles to pass these obstructing vehicles that are impeding our travel. I twist the throttle and commit to overtaking the truck and car with Sturgill close in tow. For its age the Yamaha is still a very fast motorcycle. It might not have the latest technology, but it still has plenty of grunt down low for quick passes. I am almost past the truck when I notice the left turn signal flashing on the car and a driveway coming at me on my immediate left. On the binders as hard as I dare, the tires are at their limit of adhesion clawing at the tarmac in a fearless effort to slow this bullet down and no time to notify Sturgill that car is about to cut us off! Any moment I expect a Yamaha wheel up my Honda's exhaust, but out of the corner of my left eye I see Sturgill moto-crossing past me in a cloud of dust and flying rocks on the berm of the road. Sturgill is wrestling the Yamaha like a cowboy holding onto the horns of an angry bull and somehow manages to flick the bike back on the road just before reaching a drain culvert big enough to swallow a small truck. Funny how the brain slows things down during moments of panic because it seemed as if Sturgill was in slow motion as I watched the wildest ride I've ever seen. The car, truck and I have come to a complete stop with me on the wrong side of the road my intuition tells me there will not be a pleasant conversation if I stay here. I let off the brakes, twist the grip complete the pass and high tail it down the highway in chase of Sturgill. About a mile down the road I catch up with Sturgill and follow him for a little while without saying a word. Finally I ask him if he's okay, "I just didn't want to run into the back of you" Sturgill replies with a shaken voice. I reply by telling him "I'm glade you didn't hit me, but "YOUR LIFE" flashed before my eyes Sturgill."
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	Last night at the campsite we were told that a ferry crosses St. Anns Bay ($5.00 Canadian) every 15 minutes and it would save us about half-hour in travel time by cutting off some of the bay. Arriving just as the ferry is getting ready to cross the bay we ride straight onto the boat for the short voyage to the other side. Five minutes and we are back on the road assuring us that we should make it to North Sydney with more than two hours to spare. (Toll Booths for our Ferry) It is around noon when we enter North Sydney Harbor and follow the road to a set of tollbooths where I give the girl working in the booth our reservation number. Punching the numbers into the computer she asks each of us for $36.75 (Canadian) for the voyage (bike included) to Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland. After paying the fare we are directed to the front of the far-left.
Labrador Part Two