The Mother Road. Part 3, Oklahoma

Our third night was spent in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a State entered sometime in the afternoon; unknowingly, from what I remember. The route was, until the last couple of hours, still on frontage roads, with the occasional excursion away from running beside the interstate and into some local town or community. Towards the end of the day we were on fast, smooth roads, where the speed limit changed regularly: fast road, 65mph; 55mph near junctions: 35mph through towns. Tulsa was the first inner city hotel since Chicago and it really was great to be within easy reach of a selection of places to eat. After parking the Harley in the hotel's multi-storey car park, and after a shower, we walked out to a nice bar a few blocks away. It was a bit like a Wetherspoons. A Greyhound bus depot, often positioned 'down town', I recalled from travels in the distant past, confirmed this memory by displaying a huge advertising sign that said: 'Arse in a Sling, Give Us a Ring' followed by the details of a solicitor.

We left Tulsa the following morning, stopping at some roadside historic railway exhibits on the way and photographing a couple of old engines. A bit of Route 66 stuff seemed to be part of the display,  reassuring us that we were on the right road, as it continued out of town and once again ran close to interstate 44. 

We were soon in big country where, by the look of it, you could build anything you wanted anywhere you liked. Isolated buildings appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly with no apparent connection to the land or locality. Some were pretty ugly, some run down and some run down but simply beautiful. These were the abandoned motels that time and just about everything else - apart from travellers on the Mother road – had forgot. Rows of coloured doors, some dislodged, some still upright but all with paint now flaking stood amongst the crumbling, once whitewashed walls of these old buildings. Only a few decades ago they would have stood proud, gleaming with tall roadside signs shining brightly though the night.

There were a number of 65 mph roads on the stretch out of Tulsa, not interstate but fast single track highways. Enormous modern churches kept appearing. More like massive single storey halls, they stood set back from the road in the flat sprawling landscape far away from any communities that we could see. But like everywhere here, there was plenty of space for parking. I'm not sure we'd seen anybody walking anywhere other than to or from a car since leaving Chicago, not even in Tulsa. From the plains to greenery to church country, our progress continued at a pace.

I noticed a couple of single headlights and white fairings following us as we rode into yet another town and immediately slowed, just in case they were police bikes.  Soon we were stopped opposite the Rock Cafe (of Cars fame) with the two bikes behind us. As it turned out they weren't motorcycles as such but scooters, and the riders weren't cops either, but a husband and wife team out for a Sunday run. We chatted for a while before Andy came running over from the cafe.

Andy, a Scot now living in Australia, holidaying on Route 66 in America, we'd last seen when we set out from EagleRider in Chicago. Andy had ridden with us on that first day and seemed pretty keen to ride with us now. He was a really nice bloke and we were happy for his company and an extra pair of eyes on the navigation. As the days passed I came to look forward to a bit of male banter and chat with Andy and I know Sue liked him. Often, conversations from beneath crash helmets would occur between them, as he pulled up next to us at some tricky navigation spot we'd stopped at. It was great: I couldn't make out all the detail on the satnav maps, not without my reading specs on, so I sat back and awaited a decision. I enjoyed the luxury of simply riding, looking and savouring the journey, the way I wanted to. To me, it was about the traditional American motorcycle and watching historic America roll by. In the sun. With the difficult details taken care of by Sue and Andy, I was in heaven.

From the Rock Cafe we continued a few miles and stopped at Pops, a cafe denoted by an enormous pop bottle out front; a contemporary looking sign, unusual for The Mother Road. There were many bikes: Triumphs, Harleys, Indians, Harleys, a 70s Honda four, and Harleys. We parked our Harleys and went inside. I went to the loo and, not noticing the queue, went straight to a urinal. When I'd finished and washed my hands, I saw the waiting line. I was mortified and made a hasty retreat, noting that there was at least one Brit amongst them. I could see it in his eyes. While all the others said, 'arsehole', his said, 'prat'.

There was something striking about riding in the US: drivers are far more laid back than those in England. The roads are generally far less congested than ours and, I suppose, that makes for better driving. Cars would come up from behind on the frontage road, gaining on us, then sit at a respectable distance until they could overtake. They did this regardless of our speed, which could be slower than the road's limit to enable a bit of sightseeing. Sometimes a truck would come along but I would always speed up or pull over so not to inconvenience the driver. We passed through towns with four-lane high streets that felt 100 feet wide. This was, “Ya'all come back, now” country and the people were pleasant, helpful and friendly. We stopped, filled (gassed) up and used the toilet (potty) and drank coffee (coffee).

The Harley continued to grow on me. Partly, I think, because the engine, that big capacity twin, thumped along a bit like my BMW RT1150. The style, though, was totally different and for long distance touring I'm not sure which I'd prefer. In Europe the Harley would be more a cruiser but in the US, it's considered a tourer and for two-up riding on these straight roads it was wonderful, the passenger even gets an arm chair. If it were my bike, I'd have higher bars and a seat set back a bit to accommodate my taller than average frame, and some highway pegs to let me stretch out. Not that the Electraglide was uncomfortable, far from it, just not ideal, that's all. I had to drop a leg off the inside footplate during tight turns, to allow the bars to move over an obstructing knee. Pretty, slow speed manoeuvring was never going to be possible on such a top heavy bike, two-up, so I didn't worry too much.

We stayed in Clinton for our second night in Oklahoma, in another chain hotel that again resembled something that might have been delivered flat packed, along with a breakfast neatly slotted into a plastic bag. There were other couples there riding EagleRider bikes, doing The Mother Road West to East. One were New Zealanders (ex pats from Kent) riding a Road King, another riding a BMW RT1200. We had a chat and it became obvious the BM pair were not entirely enjoying the journey – difficult navigation and getting lost had, apparently, marred their trip. I thought of our system, satnav, Sue and Andy and felt relieved but sympathetic. Someone did tell us that Route 66 signs were sometimes stolen as souvenirs and, to be honest, the satnav wasn't always without issue. If I set it to 'no interstate', it would understandably want to take us miles out of our way when Route 66 used one of these major routes. When we got further West and roads became sparse, on one occasion it suggested a 450 mile detour to avoid a few miles of interstate. Sometimes, but only briefly, the interstate is The Mother Road.

Still at the hotel, I spoke to an American couple who had been to an archery event. Hunting, it was soon revealed, in the humane manner that only a bow and arrow, or crossbow, can give. I was informed that an animal feels a burning sensation then dies peacefully when struck by an arrow head, as opposed to the suffering of being blown apart by a bullet. Soon after, we entered the Lone Star State.