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	Sturgill finally wakes around 2 p.m. and out of curiosity we ride around the airport to see the barracks of British, German, Italian, American, and Canadian air forces. Apart from a few cars outside a couple of barracks the airport looks deserted except for two large planes at the far end of the runway, but I'm not sure if they are military or commercial. Our assumption is the training is over for the year so we decide to ride through town for a little site seeing and maybe pick a restaurant for dinner tonight. There are a few places to eat but nothing really gets out attention so we decide to eat in the hotel restaurant and get an early start in the morning. Sunday August 17th 8th Day It's 9 a.m. when we start on Provincial Secondary Route Highway 500 on our way to Churchill Falls. Churchill Falls is 180 miles from Goose Bay and there is no gas station between them. The bikes are very capable of going over two hundred miles on a tank of gas but on this stretch of road we cannot afford any deviations and add more miles than our bikes can traverse. The morning air is cool and the sky is bright blue, last night it sprinkled a little and we hope this will hold the dust down for our ride today. Highway 500 is well-maintained gravel road even dustier than Hwy 510 and again Sturgill elects to ride in the back and fight the dust. I offer a number of times to ride in the back, but he'll have nothing to do with it and unbeknownst to him I'm much relieved because my sinuses cannot handle the dust and I would probably be sick for a week if I had to ride in it. Unspoiled by modern civilization with the exception of a dusty road running through its middle; Labrador is mostly wilderness and the ride to Churchill Falls is unbelievably picturesque with scenic lakes and streams so clear I imagine you could drink from them. I do not fish, but I picture myself casting a line into one of these lakes or streams and reeling in a mammoth walleye or trout in a fierce battle of rod and reel. Churchill Falls is half way between Goose bay and Labrador City, a small town that has a gas station, a motel with a restaurant, and a hydroelectric plant. It is close to noon when we pull into the parking lot of a large building shrouded in red corrugated steel. Each parking space has an electrical outlet used to plug in a
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	car's engine heater while shopping during the frigid winter months. We enter this multipurpose building that houses a hotel, restaurant, library, mini mall, and work out center to have lunch. Ridding on the dusty trail is very draining on us and we take a relaxing hour-long lunch allowing us ample time to calm our strained nerves. A decent lunch served by a wait-staff that is courteous and efficient. As we are paying the bill the cashier suggest we get satellite phone at the front desk, explaining to us that it is a free service provided for people who have emergencies on the desolate highway. Sturgill and I checked into getting our own satellite phone for the trip because of how isolated we will be, but the cost was too prohibitive for our meager budget. These is a great service considering the distance between cities and we probably should have taken her up on it, but decline and thank her profusely for her suggestion as we walk out the door. There is paved road to the edge of town where we stop and fill up the bikes at a small convenience store and start on the next 148 miles of gravel road to Labrador City. While ridding in the gravel I try to look as far down the tormenting road as I dare and pick a line through the gravel concentrating on it trying not to stray. When my line disappears or I drift off it I frantically scan the road for a new one while fighting the front and rear end of the bike in a valiant effort to keep the Blackbird upright. I tell Sturgill that "I've never concentrated so hard for so long on any one road in all my life." Continuing down the road in an act of total disregard for my wellbeing I look up and notice there are no con-trails from jets streaking across the sky. I key the radio and ask Sturgill if he's also noticed the lack of jet con-trails in the sky. "Are you kidding I haven't take my eyes off the road since Churchill Falls," Sturgill replies as I chuckle a little inside my helmet and tell him "I can understand that." Amazing the amount of concentration I'm using and wonder if is really needed or just an over reaction to feelings of uneasiness in this strange environment for a sportbike. Finally around 6 p.m. we arrive in Labrador City, tired and dusty from another day on the gravel pit. We stop at the Two Seasons Inn for the night's rest and I am hoping being this far north to see the "Aurora Borealis" so I ask the motel manger (Heavy Gravel on Road)
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	what are my chances seeing them. Good she tells me if it's a clear and cool night. After a pizza dinner in town we walk in the chill of the evening back to the motel under a clear sky with both of us examining the heavens in hopes of seeing the Northern Lights. In the northern sky we vaguely see a strange phenomenon and believe it to be the Aurora, but there is too much light pollution in the city for a positive identification. We both scamper back to the room like a couple of kids on Christmas morning, get our helmets and jump on the bikes for the outskirts of town to see this heavenly sight. It looks as though there are luminous green ribbons of light drifting down through the sky and wherever the ribbons cross over each other the light is noticeably brighter. We are too awestruck to say anything and minutes pass before we turn to each other and give high fives a good day after all. A very fatiguing ride today through the gravel but the scenery on the ride today was breathtaking and the Aurora Borealis have made it worthwhile. Monday August 18th 9th Day We walk over to the McDonald's beside our motel at 8 a.m. for a quick breakfast of pancakes and eggs before loading the bikes for another day's ride. Riding through Labrador City to the outskirts of town the road is paved to the edge of town where we meet a friendly Canadian Mountie who greets us with the "Blue Light Special," we're busted for speeding. The dialogue begins in French then quickly switches to English after the Mountie observes our bewilderment to the French she is speaking. "Slow down," she tells us "you are still within the Labrador City limits and the speed limit is 60 kpm." My black and silver Arai helmet and Sturgill's gray Shoei helmet do an up and down head nod as we apologize to the officer with an explanation of a moment of poor judgment on our part. She realizes from our accents that we are not from these parts and asks us where we a going. Telling her we are on our way to Baie Comeau she warns us of road hazards near the mining facility ahead and lets us off with a verbal warning. "Whew" that was close I tell Sturgill and let out the clutch and pull away from the scene of the crime. (Iron Ore Mining outside Labrador City)
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	Iron ore mining seems to be the source wealth for Labrador City and shortly after leaving our friendly Mountie we pass an enormous mining operation. Large heavy trucks coming and going in all directions and in the distance there appears to be a mountain disappearing from excavation work. Provincial Secondary Route 389 starts here and takes a turn for the worse; it's twister than Hwy 500 and has a number of railroad crossings with no warning lights or arms to come down to notify us of an approaching train. This is not the only dilemma today there are others it is Monday and highway maintenance crews in road graders are pulling gravel from the edge of the road and depositing it as a mound of gravel in the middle of the road. A harrowing experience when crossing over these mounds and I try to avoid them like the plague but this is not always possible. I try staying in the grader's tire tracks, but the graders are so heavy they make trenches for tire tracks and it becomes a white-knuckle experience maneuvering out of them. The front end wants to slide on the sides of the trench while the rear wants to spin on the loose gravel being pushed in by the front. By day's end we pass maybe four road graders and each one is sphincter tightening encounter of bikes and thick gravel. (One of Many Lakes along Highway) Fire Lake is roughly seventy miles from Labrador City and it is here in the middle of nowhere we come upon fifty miles of paved road all the way to the ghost town of Gagon. On this relaxing beautiful paved road calmness returns to me and I start ruminating about our trip. I mention to Sturgill that after all these miles of traveling through this wilderness in the most heavily populated moose and caribou country in the world we have yet to see any wild life. "Yeah, Sturgill replies "it is kind of strange I was hoping to get a picture of a moose or something for little Sturgill." Sturgill's last words are entering my ears when I see what looks like a black bag beside the road, but as I get closer it starts to move and what I
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	thought was bag is really a porcupine. I quickly push the talk button on the radio, "Sturgill, porcupine at two o'clock." "Stop!" Sturgill yells, "I've got to get a picture." Squeezing the front brake lever and stepping on the rear pedal I hastily pull off to the side of the road. Dismounting from the Honda I turn to see Sturgill and his bike teetering within a hairs breadth of going over the hillside. Sturgill in his haste tried to turn the FJ 1200 around in one swoop and lost the front end in the soft shoulder and very nearly goes into the bog at the bottom of the roadside. Me, not being one to laugh at someone's faux pas refuse to help him until he poses beside his bike for this candid moment. As I walk over to this disabled lot a family in a van drives by and sees our demise and stops to offer a helping hand in getting the Yamaha back on the road. After digging out the front tire along with some tugging and pushing we extradite the Yamaha out of the soft shoulder and upright on the road. Thanking the family for helping us I wave to them goodbye as they drive away and I turn to say something to Sturgill, but he is already off with camera in hand in hot pursuit of the porcupine. (Sturgill almost over the hill) The ghost town of Gagon has a divided highway, sidewalks with openings for driveways, but no houses or buildings. Apparently the government or mining company abandoned their development plans and left Gagon to Mother Nature. Riding through Gagon it's back to gravel road until Manic 5 except for a short stretch of paved road that goes over a steep mountain. Traffic is getting heavier now as we are passing more and more tractor-trailers hauling their heavy loads to Labrador City and other destinations. Some drivers are courteous and slow down as we pass while others blast pass in a cloud of dust and flying rocks so thick we pull to the side and wait for the dust to settle. This last section of gravel road is steep with blind crests and I worry about meeting a tractor-trailer roaring up the other side so I keep to the right as I peak the hills. One hill I vividly remember seemed so steep that it reminded me of a roller coaster ride when you
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	crest the first hill and get a long look to the distant bottom before plunging down it. Manic 5 is a hydroelectric dam at the end of gravel road where I stop long enough to snap a picture of Sturgill with the dam in the background. We ride about a mile further before pulling off to the side of the road and do a bike inspection, get a drink of water, clean and oil our chains and also remove the protective foam from the chin of my fairing. (Sturgill at Manic 5) It's about 133 miles from Manic 5 to Baie Comeau where we plan to spend the night. It's close to 5 p.m. as we are ridding down Rt. 389 when I see the road sign Manic 4 ten kilometers and speculate there are three more Manic's beyond this one. As we approach the entrance to Manic 4 three white Chevy Suburbans pull onto the highway ahead of us. Sturgill cuts into my Alanis Morissette song and says, "looks like our work is cut out for us" and I'm thinking here we are on the best road we've seen in days and three "road hogs" are in front of us. I tell Sturgill, "Nothing like a challenge, we'll pick them off one at a time if we have too" and no sooner do I say this, than all three Suburbans pull out like a freight train and pass two cars. "It looks like a front door to me, Sturgill." "Yeah, without a doubt" he answers and around the two cars we go and pull in behind the Suburban in the rear and I count five people inside it. As we come upon Manic 3 two more white Suburbans pull out on the highway making a caravan of five Suburbans in front of us. Must be quitting time for the employees of Manic and they are all in a hurry to get home because these guys are moving down Route 389 like a NASCAR driver looking for a rear bumper. This must be an everyday routine because they are passing on double
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	yellow lines and not letting off in the curves, as I would expect normal drivers to do. Down the twisting mountain road we go, in and out of shadow filled valleys, past mountain lakes, and long sweeping turns, darting in and out of traffic, the race is on. Following closely behind one of the suburbans I see a tight lefthander coming up and I am anticipating at any moment for the suburban's brake light to come on. Pushing on the left handlebar I start into the corner as the suburban reaches the apex as I watch the SUV's rear end step out about two feet beyond the white line. The brake light is now on as the driver counter-steers the front end with a sudden jerk of the wheel and I watch as the passengers inside the suburban are tossed to the opposite side of the vehicle. By the time we reach Baie Comeau we manage to pass three Suburbans and I tell myself how great it feels to be on real roads again. Baie Comeau, a French speaking providence of Québec sits on the Saint Lawrence Seaway, a modern city with plenty of amenities for two weary travelers. Our adrenaline still flowing from the race coming down Route 389 neither one of us are really tired as we pull into the parking lot of a Motel 8. With a little difficulty in the languages we are able to secure a room, unload the bikes, freshen up and walk across the street to a seafood restaurant. Knowing from the beginning of the trip that when we got to this point we would decide how best to finish our excursion and over dinner we thrash out plans for the final stages of our tour. Sturgill has mentioned in the past that he would like to ride through New York City and during our meal he brings up it again. This is just as much his vacation as mine so we start plotting it out on the map. To do it we have to turn left at Québec City and cut down through Maine, then work our way down the East Coast. There is one small problem though; we have to be home by Thursday. Tuesday August 19th 10th Day We decided in the motel room last night to get as close to New York City as possible today which necessitates a long day in the saddle to be anywhere close. Heading South on coastal Highway 138 from Baie Comeau under a bright blue sky there is a breeze coming off the Saint Lawrence Seaway
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	so cool that I close the vents on my jacket. Nearing the small town of Tadoussac, where Canada highway 138 crosses the Saguenay River we hit a traffic jam and I wonder to myself if there is an accident ahead. As we get closer I can see there is no accident, instead there are two ferries shuttling the traffic back and forth across the waterway and to continue on 389 we must take one of these ferries. Luckily there are no fees or tie downs for this ferry we just sit on the bikes for the five-minute shuttle to the other side. Sturgill has all the road maps and is elected navigator by default to get us through Québec City. I'm riding in front and Sturgill is barking out route numbers across the radio as we drive through Québec City concerned about making a wrong turn and squandering valuable time. Canadian Autoroute 40 West to Canadian Autoroute 73 south then on Highway 173 all the way to the U.S. borders. Stopping at the duty free store before going through customs we take a break for some water and Sturgill searches the store for something to take home to the kids. As we cross the border there is a holdup over some guy trying to ride bicycle into the states. The border guard makes a number of trips in and out the guard post before letting him peddle his bicycle into the United States. No real hassle for us though, I am asked to take my helmet off, show my driver license and answer the standard questions. "How long was I out of the country, for what purpose, and if I have any firearms, alcohol, or anything of value purchased in Canada to claim," before she lets me cross the border. She only asks Sturgill if he has any firearms before he is allowed to continue across the border. Route 173 becomes US route 201 and a feeling of relief comes over me to be back in the States. The two-lane US 201 meanders down through the northwestern region of Maine, winding through the countryside along rivers and lakes. It is late afternoon and the red summer sun is casting long shadows across our path putting us in and out of the eye squinting sunlight as we make way for the nights lodging. It's 7:30 p.m. when we pull into the town of Skowhegan, Maine and Sturgill for the first time on the trip says he's too tired to go on and wants to call it a day. I can tell by the sound of his voice that he is toast, besides I am tired as well and figure staying here instead of a bigger town we will save us a few bucks on motel charges. To be anywhere close to New York City we would have to ride late into the night and the hazards of night riding are bad enough but are even more dangerous when you are tired. Our eyes were bigger than the miles that had to be covered so New York City is cancelled and placed on a list of things to do in the future. Wednesday August 20th 11th Day After a much needed night's rest and New York City no longer on the agenda we are ready to return home, to the Mountain State of West Virginia. Large doses of caffeine from McDonald's, the bikes are topped off with gas, a candy bar eaten and we are on the highway before 7:30 a.m. It only takes us 15 minutes to reach Interstate 95 where we go south through Portland Maine taking
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	turns paying each other's tolls as we continue south into New Hampshire. Staying on I-95 south we cross the state line into Massachusetts and take I-495 around Boston. On this eight lane Interstate the traffic is very heavy so we stay in constant contact with each other over the radios allowing us to concentrate on the traffic instead of constantly checking our mirrors looking for each other. At Marlborough, Massachusetts we take I-290 to Worcester then west on I-90 for 12 miles until I-84 and then south into Connecticut. Through the cities of Hartford, Waterbury, and Danbury all the way across Connecticut and into southeastern part of New York state all on I-84. The further south we go the hotter it is becoming and the heat is sapping the energy out of us. Stopping at a Cracker Barrel in New York State we take an hour and half for lunch to cool off. Sturgill opts out of eating for a large glass of ice tea before going over to Wal-Mart for a quart of oil while I finish eating a cold salad in the comfort of air conditioning. Interstate-84 barely goes into New Jersey before it crosses over into Pennsylvania where we take a left at Scranton, PA and go south on I-81 through Harrisburg. A long hot exhausting day in the saddle over 600 miles of riding consuming three tanks of gas before stopping at a Super 8 in Carlisle, PA for the night. Sturgill and I had talked about taking some back roads on the final leg, but decide during dinner we've been away from home long enough and elect to ride boring monotonous interstate for the quickest way home. Thursday August 21th 12th Day On the concluding day of this odyssey we are up early and on the road by 7 a.m. heading down I-81 toward Hagerstown, Maryland where we will go west on I-68 toward Cumberland. The humidity this morning is high and creates patchy fog on I-68 and I'm bopping in and out from behind the windscreen trying to keep my faceshield clear. By the time we reach Cumberland Gab the morning sun is out in full force and it's starting to get uncomfortable in full leathers. In Morgantown, WV we stop for gas and the temperature must be in the high 80s and the hazy hot sun on my black leathers is cooking me like steak on a charcoal grill. A couple bottles of water and a splash of water
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	down my shirt I'm back on the bike for the last leg home. Going down this last stretch of road I'm crawling all over the "blackbird" trying to find a comfortable position in this terrible heat. The air is so hot I feel as though I'm standing in the exhaust of a hair dryer on full max. I try to get the oppressive heat off my mind and start to reflect on the past twelve days and think of all the places and people we've meet while on this tour. I think about the stunning red sunset on a blue ocean, kids with their faces pressed against car widows gesturing to us to raise the front wheel off the ground. I think of the ferries and their pungent smell of burning diesel, the crisp clean air of Labrador, the sound of water sloshing against the ferry hauls, and to the unnerving crunch of gravel underneath our wheels. It's been a great journey with a little rain our first two days while the remainder of the trip was sunny and dry. Both the Honda and Yamaha proved their worthiness by their flawless performance and our concern of a flat tire, especially in Labrador was nonexistent. I wished there had been more time to spend here and there along the way, but after all the long days in the saddle trying to beat dead lines to certain destinations I will always remember the image of Sturgill and his Yamaha in my mirrors. Sturgill made the statement which is fitting for the conclusion of the trip, "When we're old and sitting around in rocking chairs we can tell the grandkids about the old days of riding through Labrador on motorcycles before they had paved roads." It's one o'clock in the afternoon as I pull into my driveway my odometer shows a total of 4758 miles and I guess somewhere around 800 miles were spent riding gravel roads. The Blackbird is a filthy mess from one end to the other, I'm tired, hot, and sweaty from the blast furnace heat ridding down Interstate79 and I think to myself before dismounting; "I wonder where we will go to next year."
Tentative Schedule