There are a few rules that you should follow when doing any long trips on a bike. Two of them are:
1) Never pass a fuel station without fuelling up
2) Never ride at night
I like riding at night, and I’d done it the night before when I had already checked in and had a place to stay, but generally you want to avoid it if you can.
Today would be a mammoth day, heading back over the 112 that I’d rode last night, checking out a store that hadn’t been open for the sleeping bag I wanted, and going to a bike shop in Conway first, then running down the 302 to Portland before taking the US1 route along the coast, through Camden and on to Bar Harbor. I’d originally planned to spend a night or two in Bar Harbor, but with leaving later this was cut to one night, then none, when we realised that a cousin would be in Halifax with work the day before I’d planned to be there.
From Bar Harbor, I’d ride on to somewhere near the border with Canada, so that it would be an easy ride the following day. I generally like this laying up as it leaves more time to sort any potential problems, one of which was the ferry from St John, New Brunswick to Digby, Nova Scotia only running twice at day at noon and either 8pm or 11pm. The day I needed to travel was a noon and 11pm day, so it meant I had to be there by around 10am. Oh, another fun fact is that you lose an hour as you cross from Maine to New Brunswick.
The day started well, the 112 was fun, but nothing like the thrill of the night before. I tried again ti buy a specific sleeping bag, but no joy, and went to look at some lovely bikes. That done I then headed down the 302 to Portland, before running up the coast.
In these states there is a law that says you must yield to pedestrians wanting to cross the road. It’s not like at home where there is a light with buttons, it’s just a painted section that anyone can wander over at any time. In a busy town you can have five of these within a quarter mile, invariably they all get used, so you wait then go, then wait then go multiple times. In this heat it just makes me melt, particularly when the bike boils and the engine heat wells up before the fan kicks in.
To add to that pleasure, I the heat also makes me drowsy at times during the day, and you need to fight to concentrate. That day during a very hot drowsy period, my stomach also began to rumble, then the fuel light came on. I came to a halt in a town called Bridgton, fortunately outside a public library, next door to a petrol station. Their toilet saved my day, and fuelled up once more I could continue on. These trips are made up of highs and lows, and that road to Portland was a really horrible part, that I just had to fight through.
From there to Bar Harbor was better, but a long slog, getting very commercial just before the end. Bar Harbor itself was lovely, but very busy with tourists. I stopped and wandered around for a while, fueled up again then rode around the national park. With that done, I then headed off towards the border.
I hadn’t planned to ride all the way there, just to get closer and find a motel for the night, but as i left I picked up the 1A instead of the 1, which went slightly out of the way, although it seemed much faster. I realised my mistake fairly soon, you sort of develop an instinct for when the route has gone awry, but decided to wait until the next crossroads to work out how to correct it. When I got to the junction there was a Subway, so I managed to get some dinner just before it closed. There was also a petrol station, but as I didn’t need fuel yet, I rode on. When I got to the road I should have been on there was another petrol station, but again I didn’t think I needed fuel yet, and as this road seemed full of petrol stations I’d just ride on. Needless to say that was the last open petrol station for 90 miles.
As I rode on it got darker and more desolate, though there was still traffic moving around. The night was cooler, and further on a fog rolled in which felt damp, which at first was nice. The fuel light came on as usual around 140kms, but with no fuel around I had to keep going. The furthest I’d gone on a tank was 165kms, but soon I was passed that, with very little in the way of habitation around, riding up onto a high plain then back through forests. I purposely stopped looking at the odometer, but knew sooner or later I’d run out of fuel. Sleeping outdoors didn’t bother me, but having no fuel, and then perhaps missing the ferry the next day did.
Sure enough after a long time, the engine coughed and then died. I dropped down through the gears and coasted to a halt, fortunately outside one of the few houses on the road. This was by now around 9.30pm, but the lights were on, so I wandered over, looking and smelling like a swamp thing as I’d been sweating all day, and asked the owner if he could tell me where the nearest petrol station was. The poor guy had been watching tv in just his shorts on this sweltering night, but jumped up, put a t-shirt on and went to his garage where he found a fuel can with petrol in it.
As I took it back to the bike a car with way too many lights stopped, and sure enough some of them began to twirl in blue. Sadly it wasn’t a mobile disco, but a cop, who was very polite and helpful, telling me that the nearest gas station was only 10 miles away, the guy with the can had said 6, but the cop was right. I tried to give the guy some cash for a beer but he wouldn’t take it, so with a bit of fuel now on board I then rode the final 10 miles almost right to the border to find the fuel station and gas up again. There was a motel on either side of the garage, both with the lights still on, but still being an idiot I was going to ride into town, before common sense finally kicked in and sent me back to the first motel. It was just a short lone of maybe a dozen en-suite rooms next to the owners house, so I had to ring the bell, but the guy was fine about it. The room was cheap, so I’d thought it may not be that nice, but it was scrupulously clean.
With my gear unloaded I made space in a pannier, walked back to the petrol station and bought a cold six pack of Budweiser. Rather than drink them, I loaded them into the pannier and rode back out to my saviours house to drop them off. Just to push my luck to the absolute limit, I rode without a jacket, helmet or gloves again, in the dark. My bike is anything but quiet, so my original plan of leaving the beer on the guys porch was scuppered as he was standing outside by the time I had turned around, even though I’d done the u-turn away from his house. He must have had a horrible sense of déjà vu thinking another bike had run out of fuel as he was shouting can I help you as I walked close. I just held up the beer, said I’d made it to the garage and wanted to say thanks. He was full of you shouldn’t have bothered, but without him my night was have been far less pleasant.
The ride back was uneventful, shower then finally to bed.
Important lesson learned was that even being pushed, the bike ran to 224kms on the tank, which would mean the long leg of the Translabrador is feasible.
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