The Mother Road. Part 6, Arizona

The Funny thing on a trip like this - riding a rented motorcycle across an entire continent, where so much changes and where there was so much potential for bother -  nothing had gone wrong. Moreover, neither of us could actually pick out a best or worst bit, even though you would have thought, as the days went by, something would have stood out: something would be better than everything else or have rubbed us up the wrong way. The reality was, though, that the whole thing seemed just right, somehow.

But that was before we reached Arizona. Nothing went awry, it was just that once we'd experienced it, nowhere else seemed more right than Arizona. Sue and I had travelled through six states by this time, passing from the East to the West, from agricultural land to cattle country, from varied greenery to great plains and then desert. Now we'd entered Arizona and the Mojave, the driest region in North America and another chapter in our 2700 mile trip along Route 66; one that would show us incredible scenery, real American motorcycle landscapes that looked straight out of Easy Rider and Electra Glide in Blue and the biggest hole in the ground you ever saw.

We passed the Tee Pee Trading Post, sitting among a line of shops set in the sand and dirt that lined the road, with a backdrop of ochre and red sandy cliff faces; shops proudly announcing their 'American Indian' ownership and advertising authentic Navajo gifts and Zuni jewellery. Our first stop, though, was a few miles farther at Chee's, another native American place, the owner of which lived on a nearby reservation. He told us of the liquor store on its edge, the busiest in the State, apparently. Sadly, I had no reason to doubt him. Andy explained later, in whispered tones, that there were issues with alcohol, Native Americans, social security and the reservations. I think I preferred tweakers; their predicament seemed easier to pour scorn on. A dust road followed: several miles of white low fog created by sand kicked up by a breeze and the occasional car. I entered it with a certain amount of trepidation – I have ridden off road but never on a motorcycle so unsuitable, two-up. But this wasn't really off road; it was just on a road that was a bit off.

Then it was on to the first of a number of Arizona's amazing geological features – the Painted Desert. Like an enormous dessert - a desert dessert - the whole landscape comprised layers of colour.  Purples and bluey creams lay around us like acres of a half-eaten pudding. Riding the top of an enormous afters, we gazed in awe at the stratum revealed by its ravines – as a Country and Western station blared soulful guitar ballads and drawling vocals from the Harley's stereo.  It cost $10 for a motorcycle to enter the park; worth every penny for the experience. An eroded, exposed landscape of stacks and rocks, pillars and mounds, as far as the eye could see. All those different shapes and shades and to a soundtrack of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers. Nearly 30 miles later the Petrified Forest appeared and there were more moments of wonder and amazement, and stops to photograph and generally gaze. Arizona, it turned out, was all about gazing. And riding in the warm air under a lovely blue sky.

We took it easy in Winslow, Arizona, standing on a corner near a flatbed Ford... and had an ice cream. For all its statues and street memorabilia, there were few people about. But that was what we'd become used to on The Mother Road – lots to see but spread over such a vast distance nothing was ever too crowded. The route took us on a big sweep away from interstate 40, as we made our way towards Flagstaff and a hotel for the night. This was open country, empty but for a few isolated properties spread out on the scrub desert. A silhouette of mountains got gradually closer as we approached the city. The landscape got greener and trees came with a climb. I was now completely in love with the package that seemed to accompany the Harley – sun, warmth, scenery and an empty old road.

The next day could have been a short one - Flagstaff to Williams - had we used the itinerary supplied by EagleRider. It was clear, though, that a diversion from Route 66 had been catered for and one I'm sure that most people would take - a run up to the Grand Canyon. We filled up in the morning, meeting Andy at the gas station – Andy was a Scottish, now Australian, fellow EagleRider renter and new friend. A group of bikers rolled in, all wearing denim waistcoats and one sporting a hand gun on his belt. A born optimist by the look of it, he had not one but two ammo pouches. They made an obvious point of  ignoring us completely and with tanks and egos replenished, cruised out in formation, a convoy of conformity. We headed north, to the Canyon.

As we left the mountains of Flagstaff behind and made our way back into the desert, the land turned increasingly red and rocky. We climbed and at one point I felt my ears pop. There was a $25 entrance fee for the park and the road took us past many Native American stalls selling rugs and jewellery. “It still makes me stare in wonder”, Sue said, as we stopped again to stare in wonder. A river valley, but a big one, and as I said - the biggest hole in the ground you ever saw. Cars, motorcycles, coaches and motor homes as big as coaches, cruised the miles around the canyon, stopping, as we did, at viewpoints around its ridge. A tower full of artwork was a popular attraction. All replicated, as was the tower itself, from original designs produced centuries ago by the inhabitants of this land.

The following day was a special one – we met Angel Delgadillo, the founder of the Route 66 Association and 'The Father of the Mother Road'. Pulling into the small town of Seligman and stopping outside the barber shop that Angel had run since the 1950s, it became apparent the place was quite a draw. A film crew were inside interviewing Angel; his daughter was supervising the legal side of the 'brand' and serving in the souvenir part of the shop. We went over the road to a cafe and then wandered up the road a bit looking at some other Route 66 exhibits – old cars and the like. Angel's daughter met us at our bikes when we returned and asked if I would be willing to be shaved by Angel, for the film crew. 

I had a free wet shave. “How many people have you shaved in your time”? I said, as I lay back in the chair, my face covered in a hot damp towel.

“You're the second”, the 90 year-old Angel told me.

“Who was the first”? I asked.

“He's buried out back”, he replied, giving an answer, it was obvious, that had been repeated  many times over many years. Outside, once the film crew had packed up and gone, Angel shook our hands and waved us a cheery goodbye.  "Ok, Hosey", he said and cycled off with his clarinet to a rehearsal with his band; we climbed on the Harleys and pointed them towards Oatman.

In many ways Seligman was a typical Arizona town - just a row of small detached buildings on either side of the road – but one that had reinvented itself with Route 66. Oatman, on the other hand, has its own special history – gold.  The climbing, twisting road that took us up to the small mining town showed the Harley to be capable but slow on the switchbacks and I wondered how much quicker a tourer would be. Quite a bit, I imagine, but I did have a slight problem with the Electraglide in that I had to drop my inner leg off the foot plate on tight turns, or my knee got in the way of the bars. I've since bought a 2009 model, and with Tallboy bars and seat the issue no longer exists.  But all the same, with a touring motorcycle's lean forward/legs back position and less top heavy feel, they're always going to be more suited to sharp bends. But touring isn't all tight corners, even in Europe, and the Electraglide is a very comfortable long distance motorcycle for both rider and passenger.

And in a place like Oatman, Arizona, it would be impossible for a Harley Davidson of any description to look out of place. If Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda - or Clint Eastwood and Lee van Cleef, for that matter - had ridden through, I don't think anyone would have batted an eyelid. We parked up and ambled along the dusty main street between souvenir shops and bars housed in the town's old timber buildings with raised planks out front, dodging the donkeys (wild burros) that walked freely about the town. The history of a gold rush over a century ago and the story of how Oatman got its name – after Olive Oatman, a girl from Illinois taken captive by a native American tribe while travelling west with her pioneering family – was there to be found, if we had the time to look for it. We didn’t and after an hour or so left and made our way into Nevada.