The 116 miles from Clarenville to St. John’s was grueling. The rain. The wind. The kick-up of road grunge from tractor trailers nearly blinding you. God awful stuff.
If there’s any scenery to see in that 116 miles stretch — any breathtaking panoramas or awe-inspiring vistas — I couldn’t tell you. I could barely see in front of me let alone to the left and the right. All I could make out were shadowy phantoms of rock formations and stoney tundra deeply veiled in the choking fog. Occasionally the shores of a nameless lake or pond would lap the edges of the highway, but how far and wide these waterbodies spanned I couldn’t say. I just kept wiping the face shield and concentrating on the road ahead of me.
We made reservations the night before for a room in St. John’s. Good idea. Tired, rain-soaked, and a little rattled from the ride, we checked in and unloaded the bikes. It’s only then that the sadistic weather gods decided to turn off the water works. Thanks a heap.
It felt good to take a hot shower, put on some clean clothes and sip a hot mug of coffee.
