“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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