“If you ever plan to motor west….” Bobby
Troup 1946.
Well I did and I did. Chicago, Okalahoma City,
Winona, Amarillo, New Mexico etc., all names lodged in my brain since my youth.
These places dotted across eight States seemed an interesting and obvious route
to travel through America.
The forties, when the song was written, was part of an era
when 66 was in full swing. Many parts of this famous route had been up-graded
for the war effort so had improved this fast and direct route down to the west
coast. I was fascinated to see for myself the reality now. Would it be like
visiting the Crystal Palace towards the end of its’ existence, having been
through its’ busy and glorious days, left semi-abandoned and sad.
Wallowing in memories.
Route 66 still winds through some stunning scenery, past
vast natural shapes and colours. It leads almost to the Grand Canyon, past
abandoned dwellings, out into desert, scrublands and vast vistas. The
tumble-weed still blows across the unmarked dirt road ahead of the bike.
Part way, you have to use the freeway or interstate, but I
found this provided a fascinating contrast. One minute you are riding a narrow
bumpy road winding through a wedge of rocks, then onto the freeway which has
been blown out of gigantic rock formations.
The power of man over
nature seems impressive, but out in the desolate desert you can sense the latent
power all around, almost waiting for the moment to rise. The soft blue sky
becomes dark and heavy with clouds. The storm hits like a wet cold hand, so that
you desperately seek some kind of shelter, watching the torrent wash past.
Up in the mountain
the power of this onslaught washes away, and closed roads. People can only wait
until this natural strength subsides.
Mike deBidaph and myself leave Chigaco, after having
collected our bikes from the freight company. We head south west on the journey
through Illinois. Through Joliet, the first town on 66 to be mentioned. Stop in
Wilmington for that night. Enormous spaceman stands along-side The Launching Pad
Café. Corny I suppose, but it’s the first Route 66 sight to encounter.
Going solo for the last leg of the trip |
Dymchurch on sea or Route 66? |
Boy the roads are worse than in Kent |
Mike and myself on old section of 66. Sign becomes
reality for Mike
the next day. |
Mike posing on old section of the road |
Spaceman in Wilmington. First real 'sight' on 66. |
|
At last, civilisation and someone to take a picture of
me!! |
|
Next afternoon and we find ourselves parked in a no-horse
town, Mount Olive. Mike’s bike is now deceased. Plumes of smoke from the rear
pot. Mike’s not feeling too great
anyway, (caught a bug on the flight), so he decides to get the bike back to
Chicago and return to Miami where we had been staying with his friends.
Which day did God send forth the rain? I can tell you, it was the next two days!
Driving through this torrent the Chief did not stop, and I
did not stop. I rode with my leg tight against the distributor to keep off the
rising tide. I once checked the map
which turned to mush instantly. So, no stopping, no photos, no sights.
Into Missouri, past St. Louis, distant grey condominiums
through the blinding rain.
Through Rolla, Lebanon and past Springfield, the State
capital, not the home of Indian, that’s in Massachusetts.
The foul weather follows me into Webb City, one of the many
route 66 by-passed towns. A rain soaked empty town-ship, which squinting at
through blurred vision, could have produced visions of bygone days, huddled; drawn and soaked figures ambling along the empty wooden walkways
alongside the road.
Loud Harleys barking
along the Interstate, back from the Milwaukee celebrations. Must have seen two
hundred. Many on trailers. Talked to some HD riders, say Milwaukee was a ball.
One complained that he had lined up
to enter the hospitality tent with his ticket
only to find after a two hour wait that he was given a cake and soft drink! Not
very impressed.
Told how in the
evening everyone had heard the whisper that the star act on the main stage was
The Rolling Stones. People were praising HD, saying they had really scored top
organizer to arrange this. Really wound up for a great gig. On strolls, faggot
Elton John! Nice act but a lot of people slowly walked out during the set.
Nothing personal he said, just that an English faggot playing to several
thousand ‘ruffty-tuffty’ bikers was not really the pinnacle of the weekend!
Stopped for petrol in
tiny hamlet, heard deep rumbling noise and rushed outside to witness end of the
world or similar, only a Santa Fe goods train rumbling past the crossing.
Past Oklahoma City,
El Reno, Hydra and on to Elk City. Fine 66 museum here. Well worth a stop.
Find and ride older
66 sections. Overgrown and narrow, have to keep ducking to avoid the
over-hanging trees and shrubbery. Hard work!
Amarillo and visit HD
dealer, recommended by ranch owner during chat in eater. Has collection of HDs.
Expressed surprise that my old Chief is on such a long trip.
“Don’t see many
of these around these days1”
Actually, I didn’t
see any old bikes on the road at all during the whole trip.
New Mexico border and find Glenrio, genuine ghost town.
Died as the Interstate opened. I
notice that alongside the ‘abandoned’ buildings are Keep Off signs.
I continue on old 66 that is red dirt. Looking behind the
bike leaves a vast dust cloud that blocks out the view. Thinking about this
remote trail makes me think of Easy Rider, and how if some red-neck were to take
a dislike to me, I could just disappear. Just then, in the far distance, I see
the dust trail of a pick-up (same as in Easy Rider), coming towards me! As it
passes I see the driver: a
red-necked hill-billy! Several minutes later I stop to take a photo and see the
truck has stopped, U-turned and is heading back!
Now I’m not prone to irrational thoughts, but for a
moment I did wonder what to do. As it turns out, the truck pulls up alongside
the Chief, the chap jumps down and with a large toothless grin says:
“Wow wee! Ain’t seen one of these here machines fer a
long time! You had her long?” Etc
etc.
I see his companion in the cab is a twenty something
Mexican girl, who stared through the broken dusty window with big eyes through
the glass.
Gets mighty lonely in them thar hills!
Santa Fe, and I find and try to drive old 66. To rough,
turn back.
Albuquerque. Stop to take cable car to mountain top. Good
to let someone else do the driving. Leave the town, vast second-hand car
dealers, and breakers yards line the road for miles. Spot several old collectors
cars amidst the piles of jumble.
The freight railway
line is often in sight, running away to the left, following the same direction.
Notice that the maintenance is continuous. Large road trucks mount the tracks at
crossings, riding the line checking the condition of the rails. Miles away I see
mile-long trains pulled by up to four locos and pushed by two more. Giants. Like
oil tankers in the English Channel. Must take miles to stop, God help any car
stuck on a crossing.
One snake-like train
across the distant skyline looks like a zip on its’ side. Each separate wagon
is one raised piece of zip.
Chris Ball............ More to follow.
For full report see next Indian Riders Magazine. Out autumn.