New
Mexico announced itself with pride: an enormous gantry sign spanned
the entire width of the road, a transition further west on our 2700
mile road trip across the US. Stopping in Santa Rosa for lunch, there
was a motor museum to visit and a comfortable diner to eat in, both
occupying the same building and each geared for Route 66 clientele.
The museum was decked out with memorabilia: duke boxes and pictures
of Marilyn Munro and illuminated petrol station signs made the walls
all but invisible, like the floor, which was covered in the most
beautiful cars you could ever wish to see. Big, curvy windscreens,
flared boots and massive fins, bulbous bonnets and grills. And
gorgeous paint, so deep that even the blacks and dark blues
appeared vivid and alive.
The
three of us sat in the diner, Sue, Andy and me, in a booth opposite a
row of chrome and red stools that lined the counter, true American
diner style. The museum's entrance was guarded by a 70
something-year-old who regaled us with the history of the
construction of the nearby Interstate 40. Corruption, he told us,
had meant that millimetres skimmed off the surface of the road over
hundreds of miles lined the pockets of construction bosses and
officials, while their sons got plum jobs. The truth, bitterness or
just good old rumour, it was hard to tell. Believable, certainly, but
so are many myths trotted out over so many years. The interstate,
though, was recent history and despite the intrigue, The Mother Road
had a far more interesting past.
Route
66 was named The Mother Road by the author John Steinbeck because so
many people owed it their lives. Even in the early days, the
importance of the route was recognised by government funding that
helped transform an often impassable track into a major highway. From
north-east to south-west, Route 66 is the only diagonally running
highway in the US and one of the longest. It travels through three
time zones and has been used by farmers heading west to seek
employment during the Great Depression, troops heading to and from
the Pacific during WW2 and holiday traffic in the years that followed. It has
always been a trucking road, feeding the ever expanding West. And now
it was helping an English couple and their new Scottish Australian
friend and two rented Harley Davidsons get all the way from Chicago
to Santa Monica.
But
not before a rest day. EagleRider had booked two nights in a hotel
on the outskirts of Santa Fe, and that's where we headed after
leaving the car museum. I must admit, I was looking forward to a day
off the bike, not that either of us felt we needed a rest but we felt that it
would be a nice change - and it was for just one day.
There's a
lesson, of course, one we all learn early in life, that goes like
this. If life is good and you seem to be living the dream, and then
on top of that there's something within this apparent utopia that's
going to make it even better, something in a seemingly ideal world
that you are actually looking forward to, then look out. It happened
to us that afternoon, just like it did to some people on the
Titanic - we got wet.
If
there was one thing near perfect on this trip it was the weather. Only near
perfect because of two occasions, the first on that afternoon, on
our run into Santa Fe. Both Sue and I had brought limited bad weather gear
with us, mainly out of space and packing considerations: we'd flown
into the USA wearing motorcycle jackets and carrying crash helmets
and just enough gear to pack into the Harley's panniers and top box.
So, with simple lightweight leggings, we endured. (I was also wearing
a Berghaus waterproof hiking jacket over my Triumph leather and Sue's
summer Scott gortex filled all roles.) The Harley, it has to be said,
was perfect in the wet. I sunk down in the seat, all 6'7” of me,
and the batwing and screen deflected the water. Leg shields did the
rest, while Sue hid behind me. For a while the rain seemed pretty
intense but it eventually dried up and we arrived at the Marriott
hotel, Santa Fe in the warm and dry.
Santa
Fe was like many of the other US conurbations we'd visited: four lane roads,
laid out in a grid pattern, lined with chain fast food outlets and
diners. We walked out to one for dinner. The footways were deserted,
save the few people walking from their cars to one of these eating
places. There were no pedestrians or cyclists, just cars rushing from
block to block, light to light. It wasn't until the next day that
Santa Fe truly revealed itself, when, after a bit of a lay in, we
took the hotel's shuttle bus into the old town. (I'd asked at reception about
walking into town. The look I got from the lady behind the counter
was similar to that of Sigourney Weaver when she first saw the
Alien.)
Henry,
our driver, a Brazilian who had moved to the city from California,
gave us the low down on where to go and what to see. First, it was a
breakfast that comprised pancakes for Sue and a Mexican sausage type
thing wrapped in a pancake type thing for me. The coffee was strong,
which was a bit too much for Sue; my chillies were on the side, and remained there. It was busy, the footways outside were
starting to flow with people and the sun was shining. But was it
authentic, real America?
We
live close to Lyme Regis in Dorset, a beautiful seaside town of
coffee shops, gift shops and galleries. It has wonderful views that
haven't altered for centuries - but don't be fooled, this is no
eighteenth century English village. Nearby are the out-of-town
supermarkets, nationwide fuel stations and fast food outlets. You
arrive in Lyme after turning off the major road network. Mesmerised
by seascapes and valley views, you're seduced by its loveliness and
attribute authenticity, because in the landscape you are seeing
timeless glory. Not so on the run to the historic, old town of Santa
Fe; but there's no difference.
Our route through Santa Fe was flat with no view of the downtown area and that made all the difference. (The city is high on a steppe with the Sangre De Cristo mountains to the north east.) Henry
took us along the four lane, dead straight, corporate lined roads and
into the historic town. The change was like arriving at an enormous sand castle after travelling through a modern retail
park. But this architecture was like nothing we'd seen before, except
maybe in spaghetti westerns, and the Spanish style
buildings made it a remarkable place: a real legacy of the old US
South West. After eating, we wandered around visiting several
galleries, the old railway station, a state government building and
had a chat with a couple of motorcycle cops.
Many
of the galleries exhibited figurative work, both paintings and
sculptures. Some were massive, colourful pieces depicting native
Americans or North American animals. In one gallery where full size
wolf sculptures sat outside, we spoke to an artist's wife who worked
there. Her husband's paintings hung along the length of one wall.
One, which showed a group of Pueblo Indians riding towards a forest
with a low sun bursting through the trees, was priced at $30,000. In
another gallery the owner bemoaned the corporatisation of the US and the
demise of small, independent enterprise: the big boys are taking
over, he told us.
The
railway station was a working transport link with a diesel idling
ready to carry passengers. The platform and waiting area formed some
sort of museum. At the state government building we listened to a
schools debating society competition that was taking place in several
of the assembly rooms. It was interesting and in many ways
reassuring that there were some pretty capable people on their way – leaders of the future, maybe. The debates
ranged but one on climate change caught our interest. I suppose you
must bear in mind that these young people were in a sense advocating
for the sake of argument, so some of the views expressed might not
represent their true opinions. One spoke for the allotted thee
minutes on the need for a 5% tax on fuel to subsidise the fitting of
solar panels on both residential and commercial property. His
'adversary' told the audience of his peers, teachers and an English
couple that this was the US not Europe, and business, not government
should decide.
Two
motorcycle cops were parked at a garage we walked past.
Their 1400cc Kawasakis were fitted with computers that did just about
everything bar ride the bike. The officers themselves had pistols,
automatic rifles, tasers, CS spray and asps. They rode in short
sleeved shirts. We chatted a while and wished them safe years to
retirement.
Santa Fe was an incredibly clean place with no litter or graffiti. Once a
year, we were told, native American tribes converge on the town to
celebrate their culture and to trade, although their influence was
ever present, or so it felt. That and the obvious Mexican history and
presence made it an really interesting place and the day flew past.
We had coffee in a cafè before heading off to catch the shuttle bus
back to the hotel, and watched a group of motorcyclists huddled around some Harleys lined up in the road outside. Many wore the sleeveless
denims associated with biker gangs. I noticed they had West
Fort,Tokyo decorating the back. Another EagleRider group, we
assumed.
The
next day we rode to Gallup. It was a great day's ride, starting
through some of the surrounding hills in the mist. I had the satnav
set to our default preferences for the trip: avoidance – fast
roads, unmade roads and toll roads; preference – fastest. This
wasn't always the best and we had to be a bit flexible unchecking
fast roads occasionally, especially in the west where roads are fairly
sparse. If we didn't, a 200 mile journey could become a 300 mile one
just to avoid a few miles of interstate. Anyway, even with the satnav
we got a bit lost leaving Santa Fe.
Andy
had joined us from his hotel and we headed off. It was soon clear we
were on the wrong route. There were bends, little bits of habitation
and slopes the like of which we had not seen since we arrived in the US.
This was mining territory, it transpired, and we were on the
Turquoise Trail, a scenic highway that passes Placer mountain and
then on through the Cibola National Forest before reaching Albuquerque.
From there we followed the pre-1937 alignment of Route 66. This was
typical western desert with distant escarpments of red sandy rock
straight out of the cowboy films. The weather warmed, the road
flattened and became long and straight again, lined with sand and
scrub. A train of over a mile long swooped in from the opposite
direction, as track and road converged, the driver sounding its
whistle, which made us wave joyfully.
The
whole thing was like a dream, where you could so easily switch off
from the fact you were riding in the real world, forgetting the care and concentration that are always needed. We were
riding a Harley Davidson across an American desert, like people in the films. The road undulated, gradually, but
because it was straight the dips, or the distance between them, was
not entirely obvious – particularly if you're not taking reasonable
care or concentrating. I saw a motorcycle
stopped on the opposite side of the road with a couple standing next to it
and crossed towards them, wondering if they needed any assistance. As I did, a yellow Camero convertible came
towards us out of a dip in the road. I swerved back onto our side just as the chap standing next to the motorcycle gave us a thumbs
up. Later, Andy, who was riding behind at the time and who stayed on
the correct side of the road, told me the look on the face of the
Camero's driver was one of shock, disbelief and the thought of possible
compensation. Later, I laughed it off saying at least I recognised
the make and model of car that could have killed us. But it wasn't
funny, I had made a serious error and vowed not to
be too seduced in future by the wonderful situation that unfolded
every day, no matter how unreal it felt.
Hot
weather returned the next day along with the desert, as we headed for
Arizona and probably the most memorable part of our journey.
