The Mother Road. Part 2, Missouri and Kansas

We crossed into Missouri from Illinois on the second day of our 2700 mile motorcycle journey across the USA. I don't remember seeing a sign but the State boundary is in St Louis, at the Mississippi. Almost immediately there was a change: gone were the flat, endless fields, the mass of agriculture. Missouri brought wooded, hillier country, and with it came the interstate. Not that we rode this six lane highway but it was there, in fact Route 66 ran on frontage roads beside Interstate 44 for most of the way to Rolla. Occasionally, we would be diverted away and pass through a small town but then it was back to watching trucks and cars as they sped along the main route.

Although the guide book had told us that Route 66 runs close to the line of the railway, here in the midwestern states it would be just as true to say it follows the interstate. How could any road builder discover completely different routes across the country when over a century before railway engineers had found the best ones? So, we glanced at the interstate and the occasional train, each one sometimes close, sometimes in the distance, while riding our own almost exclusive strip of tarmac. Now and again a car would come towards us, and maybe one might come from behind but both were rare occurrences. It felt there were two Americas: a characterless one of global conformity where nondescript cars and trucks whizzed along and a slower, localised one carrying a lone Harley Davidson Electraglide. From the frontage road you could ignore the interstate, if you chose not to look; when we occasionally found ourselves on the interstate, we didn't have time to look at the frontage road.

The weather got out lovely and warm again and all suitable zips on our jackets were now undone. (I was wearing a Triumph leather with the lining removed, Sue had a light weight Scott gortex.) Even the motorcycle's fairing vents were fully open. In Fanning we visited the worlds largest rocking chair, another Route 66 draw, apparently. A lot of these roadside attractions summed up the ethos of the Mother Road, or certainly during the era in which we were interested. In the 1950s the road was used as a holiday route and gas stations, motels and diners were all trying to attract custom, often with enormous colourful signs or some sort of novelty dimension. As then, our trip was all about simple enjoyment, a vacation from the seriousness of everyday life while still on a journey – an adventure more akin to Disney than Davy Crockett.

In the afternoon we stopped at a small diner in another small town, the type that felt like real America. A wide, uncluttered street allowed us to pull up outside and park nose in to the kerb. We drank ice tea while watching a couple devour what was, I think, a late lunch. A washing up bowl of salad was followed by a large tea tray sized pizza, all washed down with pints of cola. I imagined a petite young American girl and her boyfriend eating such food for several years, and then looked again at the American lady of generous proportions and her equally large man.

That night saw us at the Best Western hotel in Rolla, with dinner at a nearby steak restaurant - in cattle country. The vegetarian option was crap. Breakfast in the hotel was the usual processed stuff that seemed the norm in these places, leaving us both longing for a nice b&b. In reality, the hotels were comfortable and the food edible, it's just that they weren't authentic enough for a trip such as ours. I can see why EagleRider use them - they have a lot of riders to house - and they did fulfil our basic needs, but I think if we were doing our own thing completely, we would have sought out smaller, independent motels and eaten breakfast at local diners. 

A funny thing was happening, though. When we were walking through the hotel and out to the motorcycle the following morning, I experienced what was to become a daily occurrence: the feeling of excited anticipation. The smell of these chain hotel corridors and reception areas – they smell the same the world over – will always remind me of those days and that wonderful expectation. Another day on the Mother Road - on a Harley, in the sun, on near empty roads, in the States. We left Rolla and headed off on what was to be the longest day of the trip. 

The route continued to hug the interstate, clinging to one side then the other on the frontage road. An early stop found us at the Gay Parita, a historic gas station now being run as an attraction by the descendants of its original owners. There was a collection of fantastic period garage equipment inside and a number of vehicles of similar vintage outside. One was a Nash police car (very rare, or so they said) sitting amongst some breakdown trucks. After buying some knick-knacks we signed the fence - yes, the fence - with a few suitable epitaphs: Triumph; Norton; Ace Cafe London; Black Rats London. I bored an ageing semi recumbent hippie lounging in a deck chair out back with my theory on the Mother Road's future. The road, I told him, would become even more popular within a couple of decades, as the interstate will be for the exclusive demesne of electric, self driving cars and trucks. Everything else, including vehicles owned by the ever growing number of retro enthusiasts, will be on historic routes preserved for the purpose of leisure. "Amen to that, brother", he mumbled, although I'm not sure he was actually fully awake let alone listening.

Leaving Missouri, 'the gateway to the west', we started a transition from the greener mid-west that would eventually deliver us to the desert. There was plenty of the old road to see in Missouri but care was needed, as all of a sudden large pot holes or enormous areas of broken tarmac and concrete would appear. This was something we found through the whole trip, that the old route, now superseded by the interstate, wasn't always well maintained. We popped into Kansas briefly and visited another old bridge, an old gas station and a Route 66 Kansas sign. Soon we were in Oklahoma. Now there was ranch land and churches, some big and newly built, as if the largest of all corporations was undergoing a period of expansion. 

The Mother Road. Part 1, Illinois

“If I do get stopped by the police”, I said to Olis, the EagleRider representative handing me the motorcycle's documents, “Do I say, ‘haven’t you got anything better to do,’ like I would in England”? Olis looked at me over the top of his glasses. A lady sitting behind the counter, tapping away at a computer, laughed. It was, I admit, a pretty naff thing to come out with. The truth is I don't think I would say such a thing to any police officer, not now or at any time in the past, although I like to think I'm the sort of person who might. Maybe I just wanted to suggest something comforting to imagine.

We were in Chicago, my wife Sue and me, about to start a trans-USA road trip along Route 66, riding a rented Electraglide. We'd travelled into the city from O'Hare airport a couple of days before on the CTA, the Chicago rail network. Like with all city transport systems these days, an automated announcement ran continually telling passengers to report anything suspicious; in this case, to a CTA employee. I looked about the carriage. A man a few seats along sat rocking violently backward and forward, mumbling something incomprehensible. Suddenly, he stood up and took off his shirt from beneath a sleeveless reflective waistcoat, without actually removing the waistcoat. He then put the shirt back on, on top of the waistcoat. I noticed some badges on its sleeves – CTA, they said.

Chicago is a wonderful city. Clean, interesting, with lots to do, see and eat. We spent a day walking around the attractions, visiting the Naval Pier and Adams Street, the official start of Route 66 (we had decided not to ride back into the city from EagleRider's base near the airport, when we set off on the bike the following day), a building with bits of masonry stuck to it taken off famous buildings from around the globe and the Willis Tower. Here we went up to the observation deck and stepped out on each of the glass bottomed pods that stick out from one side of the building. Never before had I looked down between my feet to the tops of skyscrapers. It was a strange sensation felt by most people there judging by the various reactions we saw to the thought of stepping out into the sky. Some crawled onto the glass while others closed their eyes and ran the few strides it took to get out there. Some simply walked but everyone seemed gripped with the same idea, that this was something you had to do. But once done, and the initial shock and novelty had disappeared, almost everyone looked to the distance and gazed over the city, way beyond the buildings that had fixated them only moments before.

“Look out!” It was the the lady back at EagleRider speaking, the one sitting behind the counter, but who was now getting onto her feet, quickly. “The French are coming.” I looked out the window, as a coach pulled up outside. Would be Easy Riders piled onto the footway. I imagined a biker gang on a cruise ship. In their immaculate retro leathers and jeans, all designed and decorated to give the impression of something subversive, these ageing wild ones looked remarkably like us. A line of Harleys and Indian motorcycles awaited them along with a guide, luggage van and spare motorcycle. We mounted our Electraglide and headed off, hoping to beat the rush. Left and left again I had in my mind from a glance at the map on Sue's phone, but the second turning I took too early and we ended up on an interstate. A toll booth and slip road later and we were back where we started. I tried again, this time successfully negotiating the first couple of junctions of our 2700 mile journey, and we headed towards Joliet and The Mother Road.

The Harley thumped along beautifully, doing what I wanted it to do – be American. But America had changed. Sue had been over more recently than me but from the time of my last visit I really noticed a difference. Cars had shrunk, in the same way ours back home had grown, so that now there seemed little difference in size. And just like ours they'd homogenised, so that no matter who the manufacturer the same curvy, edgeless shape dominated each category. Trucks still had bonnets but even they had softened. Gone were the enormous square grills, flat panels and split screens. The wild west had obviously been tamed and it seemed the hard rigs were now only to be found in the Australian outback. This to me more than anything symbolised the change we were to see everywhere we went: big, functional and individual replaced by normalised, efficient and corporate. Well, almost. Travelling through Illinois on that first day we passed alongside a railway for several miles. Every couple of hundred metres or so a road crossed at ninety degrees. So, every couple of hundred metres or so there was a stop line for us and a crossing for the track. As we rode along, changing down and slowing for each stop line the crossings began to sound their bells. A train was approaching from behind. For each crossing it sounded its whistle. The clanging of the bells, the long note of the train's whistle and the Harley's engine revving up and down made wonderful music - American music that went way back. The train eventually passed us, all two miles of it.

We stopped for lunch at a cafe decked in Route 66 memorabilia, not long out of suburban Chicago, before continuing on four lane carriageways until the road finally narrowed to two lanes and we were riding between trees. The city had disappeared and towns became their own places. The weather turned warm and sunny (it was early September) and we began to feel a bit overdressed, although, I have to say, not just because of the heat. Every motorcycle we saw had two things in common: they were Harley Davidsons and their riders were dressed in the same gear - jeans, vests and sunglasses. I think our crash helmets must have appeared a bit over the top, let alone the armoured jeans, leather jackets and motorcycle boots. 

There were a number of Route 66 attractions in Pontiac (dubbed mural city because of its large wall painted tributes to The Mother Road), where we stopped briefly, but the French convoy had somehow overtaken us and was now massing at the museum, so we moved on. The day finished with a section on the interstate before we arrived in Springfield for our first night. We were tired. We showered, got some food at a nearby supermarket for a room picnic and slept.

Our hire was a self drive tour, which meant that although each night's accommodation was pre booked the itinerary for each day was up to us. EagleRider had provided a guide pamphlet with a suggested route largely based on interstate use, which we of course, largely ignored. (As a result their predicted daily mileage under estimated the miles actually travelled.) All things considered, it worked well. Each hotel was well equipped and comfortable, although often a little way out of town. But to me it was all about the ride and I think neither of us had the energy for exploration once we'd stopped for the day. With a predicted daily mileage varying from just under 200 miles to just under 300, each day's run looked, on paper, a doddle. But it wasn't always. The extra distance travelled by following the older, historic route, the heat and the manoeuvring of a heavy laden motorcycle  along back roads and through the many small towns took its toll. We didn't feel it during the day, when, with permanent grins the journey gripped us, but in the evening when we switched off we were, at times, pretty drained.

The following morning, when I was loading the Electraglide on the hotel's forecourt, a pair of Harleys caught my eye, each owned, it turned out, by one of a couple of pals who were travelling together. We got chatting and I learnt a lot about how to use the Electrglide's satnav and cruise control. They were interesting blokes, one a retired firefighter (riding a badged 'firefighter' red Harley) the other ex navy. Older, die hard Harley riders and very enthusiastic about the new technology their bikes had to offer, these two encapsulated something of modern America. There was enthusiasm for progress but a real yearning for the American dream, or at least the thought of it.

The advice given in most guide books about Route 66 was to stay close to the railway, if in doubt, as the old alignments tended to use the same routes. They also say that there are a number of different alignments, depending on date, and give basic maps of each. In the end, the 'rules' for us were to follow the historic signs whenever possible, choosing a 1950s alignment when a choice was given, use a map downloaded onto Sue's iphone (having a navigator and second pair of eyes on the pillion was a godsend) and use the Harley's satnav. This last point was purely a coincidence, as we didn't specify - or pay for  - a GPS when we hired the motorcycle.

Like many coincidences the Harley's satnav was a happy one because although we couldn't set it to follow Route 66 the road was occasionally shown (labelled 'historic route 66') and, more importantly, we could set the shortest route to our hotel at the end of the day. And, on this the second day, set the quickest path through St Louis. This was another aspect of the Mother Road: if you followed it meticulously through a city the size of St Louis you'd need a whole day. So, we opted for the interstate and watched the Gateway Arch slip by. 

Before the city we had stopped at the Chain of Rocks bridge, a now pedestrianised crossing of the Mississippi River. Once part of Route 66 the ageing steelwork was a reminder of a time now gone forever and I wasn't too disappointed the bridge had been bypassed - how could this beautiful outmoded mass of steel cantilevers and trusses be seen carrying anything other than big fin winged cars and square grilled trucks. We met a British husband and wife travelling the route on their Gold Wing trike, shipped over for the trip. Cheaper than hiring, apparently, and equipped and set up to their liking, as only your own machine can be.

Still in Illinois we stopped at another Route 66 attraction, a small disused gas station, or maybe, a building made to look like one. It wasn't always easy to tell. Typical of these places - small, apparently struggling to survive - there was something of the old road. On the surface it was tacky souvenirs; underneath, but in plain view, were the true reminders of the past. Languishing in the two foot tall grass surrounding the building were several GMC tractor units. Unusual in their bonnet-less, cab-over configuration, these old wagons had definately seen better days.

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Post-op Recovery

I don't know if it was simply down to age, lifestyle or maybe some defective gene or other but earlier this year my beautiful BMW RT1150 had to be rushed in for a servoectomy. I loved everything about the bike: it's looks and style, it's handling, it's engine and up till then, it's brakes. But there it was, complete failure of the servo at the rear. Lights flashed and even with my right foot buried into the pedal not a lot of stopping occurred. So in it went, and then out it came, a couple of kilos lighter and with non-abs brakes. Painless in the long run – I no longer have to worry about the inevitable, as the old, linked, servo assisted abs was apparently flawed by poor reliability. Replacing the original system was out of the question, both financially and for peace of mind, so the whole lot came out. And with the right parts from Motorworks, which included a diagram for some essential rewiring, the bike was back on the road.

It's always been a keeper,  so I decided on a post-op recovery ride in order to get used to the feel of the new braking system. With this in mind I headed for Cafe 53 at Marsh Barton in Exeter, South Devon (I like their coffee and the fact there's a Triumph dealership attached) from where I would embark on a run west across Dartmoor and then head south and take the coast road home, a circuit that would, I hoped, give the BM's brakes a bit of a work out. The original system had given reassuring, powerful stopping. Nothing phased it: late braking into bends, last second decisions, it was safe. Now the bends, climbs and dips of the B3212 gave me the first opportunity to see what the bike's new brakes would be like.

I joined the road a short distance along the A30. From the start it twisted and swept, sometimes sharply, and despite generally climbing it occasionally dropped suddenly, all the while being shrouded in trees and hedgerow. Without a good view of the approaching road, straightening bends was difficult. My right foot hovered over the rear brake; my left foot over the gear change. I found myself relying on engine braking more than I had done in the past. Gradually we headed up to Moretonhampstead.

In the village I stopped briefly. It's a lovely place. On this summer Sunday there were many visitors. Walkers were heading for the moor, a large group of cyclists refuelled in the Co-op. I rode out, still on the B3212, passing the motor museum – a celebration of the non-abs. I felt comforted. Not long after, the road became lined by stone walls and the trees thinned out. I passed Clapper Bridge, an ancient stone footbridge, busy with picnickers, and rode on to Two Bridges. Once you're over the cattle grid and the walls disappear, that to me is the moor proper. The 40mph speed limit is no issue; why would you wish to go any faster. I sat back and enjoyed views that extended for miles in every direction, stopping a couple of times just to take it in. Even at a relatively low speed there was potential for some sharp braking. Cattle, sheep and ponies lurked, but none decided to evaluate our lack of abs.

I didn't stop in Princetown, although there's plenty to stop for. Like all these villages in summer, pubs, cafes and shops are all hoping to entice the holiday traffic. The famous Dartmoor prison looked sinister. Originally built to house Napoleonic prisoners of war, its dark walls loom large as you ride into town. From there it was onto Yelverton and lunch at Vieira's cafe, found beside the first roundabout you come to. It's handy, and there's a petrol station close by should you need it. I turned south onto the A386 but only briefly because a left turn soon saw me back on the moor and heading on a lane towards Cadover Bridge and Wotton. For a moment I thought I was in GS territory. The tarmac became lumpy, the lane narrow and a bit bumpy. I passed groups of houses and then went over another cattle grid. A vast panorama to distance valleys opened. Plymouth Sound and the Tamar came into view way below. I crossed the A38 and continued south to join the A379. This was the road that would eventually take me back to Exeter, passing through seaside towns from Slapton to Dawlish.

The A379 would be the real test for the BM's brakes. Fast in places, twisty and with big climbs and descends, I wondered if, without the servo, there would be enough power in the system to make it work effectively. After the long straight at Slapton the road climbed up to Strete. I stopped to take in the view along the coast, looking to the cliffs below from the high vantage point. In Dartmouth I passed the Naval College and made my way down the edge of the river to the lower ferry. It's a short hop across to Kingswear then a climb out next to the steam railway and on up towards the next drop into Brixham and Torbay.

I was getting used to the new set-up. The front brakes remained powerful and I settled into the apparent weak feel at the rear. Through busy Paignton and Torquay the rear brake controlled us at low speed, on the steep slope down to Teignmouth the front did the same. The A379 has a number of roads leading off it that take you closer to the sea in places and I took one of these in order to pass through Powderham, a ride beside the mainline railway close to the Exe estuary. By the time I got back to Exeter I'd put 120 busy miles on the trip.

The bike has since been through an MOT with one advisory – rear wheel bearing play. It's now 15 years old and has 42000 miles on the clock. And for some reason, I still love it.

The Affair

My mate John's wife is a stunning beauty. Everywhere she goes men just stare. And a lot of men, including me, I have to accept, secretly want her. There's nothing you can do about it. You just have to control yourself and resist the inner pangs of desire. Although, to be honest, I'm not sure if I could, given the chance.

I was in the garage tinkering with my Triumphs when my wife came in and spoke those fateful words.

“B has been on the phone”, she said. (B is John's wife). “She wants a favour of you. It's a 'big ask'”.

“What is it”? I said.

“John's done his back in and is no good for anything. He can barely move in bed let alone manoeuvre on the sofa. He'll be useless for a while, apparently. B wants you for something. She'll tell you herself what it is”, my wife said. “But it's OK with me”, she added, “if you really want to do it”.

Excited, I phoned B. The big ask, it transpired, was to travel from our Devon postcode to Liverpool to buy a Harley Davidson soft tail custom for the incapacitated John. B had arranged it all: a flight from Exeter; enough cash for the bike, a taxi at the other end, fuel for the ride back, and my breakfast and lunch.

“A Harley”, my wife said. “what will you wear”?

“My Triumph jacket”. I said, “I do have some standards”.

The aircraft was a small, twin prop thing that pinned me to my seat on take off, took me just above cloud level and then thrust me forward into my seat belt before stopping in Manchester. The flight attendant barely had time to flog a croissant. The taxi out to the Liverpool took about the same time it took fly up there, and cost about as much.

The Harley was, at first glance, in pretty good nick. “It's mint”, the seller said. I looked closely at the pitting and corrosion on some of its chrome. “It's eight years old”, he said. I rubbed my fingers over some surface rust on the spokes of the front wheel. “I use it all year”, he muttered softly. I'd never really looked closely at Harleys before but there was something in the bike that got to me. I thought back to the Easy Rider poster on my childhood bedroom wall, showing those raked Harley choppers with their front wheels sticking way out in front. With its chrome, high bars, stepped seat and forward controls, this bike reminded me of long forgotten dreams: the illusion of something that can never really exist, and of how much I wanted it to.

I had my back turned when the seller started the engine and for a moment I thought someone was taking up his drive. “Long shots”, he said, followed by something about tuning. I phoned John, trying not to think of what it would be like if I had B to massage my aching back, and he told me to hand over the money and head home.

I tried to enter into the Harley spirit and envisage we were on some far flung interstate. I followed route 62 to the 6 (M62 and M6), crossed the Golden Gate Bridge (Manchester Ship canal) and pointed the chrome south-west. Once I got the Harley into sixth gear - a little green speck illuminating on the tank console - it seemed happy to just stay there. On and off slip roads, around sweeping bends marked by big black and white arrow boards, the bike just swooped and glided. The big capacity twin felt nice and 'torquey', like those engines do, and I liked it the better for it. Just before Birmingham, I stopped for fuel. Truckers, car drivers and just about everybody on foot watched as we passed by and then pulled up at the pumps. I got a thumbs up from one driver, 'beautiful', mouthed another.

From Birmingham I joined the M5 and started to feel the strain of high speed cruising on a... cruiser. I felt like I'd been sky diving for 200 miles. My chest was being pushed back, so that I was forced to pull myself forward on the bars. My shoulders and wrists started to ache. I longed for a screen and fairing, for cruise control.

I stopped again south of Bristol. This bike was no mile-eater, not in comfort or range, anyway. But a funny thing was happening: I was beginning to like being with the Harley, pleased to be part of its image. When I started the engine again, I smiled at the roar that came from from behind. I left the motorway in Somerset a short while later and headed due south, taking the long way home, enjoying this shining, elongated lump. We headed down to Chard on the A358, crossing the busy A303 and then onto the more twisting section to Axminster. It's a busy holiday route and pretty well maintained, so I was able to enjoy the Harley even more. At low speed it seemed to drop into corners more than I had expected but when we were shifting it was fine – not sports bike handling, I'm sure, but OK for some one like me who enjoys taking in the sights.

Axminster's a nice market town with plenty of cafes, but I was too near home to stop. I joined the A35 for a short distance and then turned onto Trinity Hill, passing Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's River Cottage before entering lovely Lyme Regis. If ever there is a town made to visit on a motorcycle, it's Lyme. The sea, views along the coast, old world charm, plenty of places to eat - and parking. And it was here the Harley Soft Tail Custom decided it was home, rumbling along the coast road, easy riding without being stretched over a fuel tank or having to change gear, well not often anyway.

When I finally got to John and Bs, B met me on the drive. John hobbled out almost immediately and I could see by the look on his face he had loved the bike long before this moment, when he was to set eyes on it for the first time. I also knew he'd be loading it up with some Harley bling as soon as he was fit enough. All that extra chrome and stuff. But I understood it now, feeling a bit Harley'd up myself. B thanked me as she drove me the few miles to my place. “I owe you one”, she said.