The Mother Road. Part 4, Texas

Frontage roads were old strips of concrete and tarmac that hugged the interstate, sometimes on one side, sometimes swapping to the other; the old road that the nearby six-lane highway had simply bypassed. Partly because of them our journey so far had been absolutely wonderful. We seldom mingled with other traffic and only when passing through the occasional town were we forced to slow or stop. The Mother Road was making its own way across America despite being shadowed by its own future.

I found myself making comparison with past experiences of travelling in the US, putting them into the context of time to make sense. I travelled North America back in the 1970s, spending time hitch-hiking, riding the Greyhound and generally bumming around. Now, with a credit card and a life of property and obligation, I think romantically about my youth but forget that travel experiences are usually age specific and I wouldn't want to do now what I did then. And in some ways I'm pleased I couldn't afford then what I can now, as I would have missed so much of what it is to be young. One country, two road trips; each almost unrecognisable to the other.

Even now I imagined that without the interstate (all be it in the distance) we'd be riding across a country almost completely devoid of any trace of people and the stuff that goes with them, with unobstructed views in every direction. But then we would have been on a road choked by an endless procession of cars, trucks and exhaust fumes. As it was we were able to ride alone on our own almost exclusive strip, blissfully watching the road ahead and the ground on either side while forgetting all else. Well, except on that our first day in Texas, when the Harley's fuel gauge became the focus of our attention.

I'd read in one of the route guides that it was advisable to keep an eye on fuel levels the farther west you travelled on The Mother Road, as gas stations would become less frequent. I was pleased with the Electraglide's fuel gauge, it gave a pretty accurate and, equally important, consistent reading. A few years back, I had the loan of a Honda Blackbird for a week and while I got used to the idea of riding a washing line, I never felt happy with the fuel gauge, which took an age to get down to the half full mark but from then on behaved like a rev counter when you turn the engine off. Worrying, it was. But now I was worried all over again, not because I'd been caught out by the Harley's range of about 160 miles, or its fuel gauge, which had dropped steadily to a quarter of a tank, but by the lack of fuel stations. Seemingly far from anywhere, we rumbled on past derelict motels and gas stations long abandoned. A cloud settled over me and smiling glances at the surrounding scenery were replaced by nervous ones at the fuel gauge.

A group of young European lads in a rented car instantly took to their phones and started looking up the nearest gas stations for us at a small western style cafe/bar that had enticed us to stop. There was nothing suitable, sadly, and with gratitude we continued our journey. In another small community, I spotted a couple of pumps that were obviously for the use of local farmers. They stood, one diesel and one 87 octane gasoline, engrained with oil, uninviting, and next to an equally grubby shack. I was tempted to risk a small amount but remembering the instructions from EagleRider to use nothing lower than 93 octane, thought better of it, regretting the decision as soon as we had passed on through. The fuel gauge carried on dropping; I slowed. Then, as if my silent prayers were actually being listened to, we arrived in Shamrock.

It's a funny thing that when you need something to come along, like a bus, two arrive. And so it was in Shamrock. We stopped at the U Drop Inn cafe, a Route 66 attraction run by the local council, bought a couple of souvenirs, drank coffee, took some photographs and chatted to Hazel, an 80 something-year-old lady who volunteered there. Hazel had lived in the area all her life and told of how her family moved into town from local land during the Second World War, when petrol and tyres were rationed, making it difficult for her father to get to the factory where he worked.

There were a couple of gas stations in Shamrock and after fuelling, we continued, vowing not to let the tank go below half full in future, if at all possible. The land was now quite sparse, arid and scrubby, a gradual change to the desert that was to come, but the roads were the same: straight, smooth, occasionally broken. The sun shone. Lunch was at a small supermarket in a small town. We sat outside on a bench eating turkey sandwiches bought inside, watching rednecks arrive in enormous pick-ups to buy ice. This was grass roots America, insular, consumer driven. The night was spent at the Holiday Inn, Amarillo.

Cadillac Ranch appeared the following morning, almost out of nowhere. Just the day before, back in Oklahoma, Andy had introduced me to the idea of the Tweaker – a person who uses stimulants, a drug user. I had no idea but, according to Andy (a much younger and, therefore, in touch person) they were all over the place. Look, he said, at some of the people who serve at gas stations or supermarket checkouts, if they appear startled when you speak, they're Tweakers. Today, I think we became tweaker-like, although not through drug use, we were just surprised by the sight of a row of Cadillacs half buried, nose into the ground. But there they were these old, graffiti covered cars about 50-odd metres from the road, in a nondescript field of crops.

We stopped, walked in and sprayed some paint on top of the psychedelic mix of colours already caked on the bodies and axles of these dinosaurs (after being handed a couple of rattle-cans by some people who had arrived before us). I still don't know if there was any significance to Cadillac Ranch, or even if there had to be, I suppose. Bruce Springsteen's song of the same name was a metaphor for death and decline, apparently, so maybe, with their front ends nose diving into the earth, these old cars symbolised the decline of the old America, the one of big cars, big trucks and big, heavy industry: ACME America (where, America Companies Make Everything). Whatever it was, Cadillac Ranch was an interesting stop and another photo opportunity – a chance to capture something of what we expected along the route. For me, it was something I would later paint in a sketch book.

Sketching was something I did all along the Mother Road; simple pen illustrations in a plain note book that could, sometime later, be used to create colour sketches or even, in a few cases, more detailed, larger works. I penned all I saw on the road – the vast variety of an ever changing country. People, trucks, cars and bikes; old towns, old garages and old motels, not knowing exactly where they were or what they were called. Looking at the map now, I can see names like: Panhandle, Canadian, Wildorado and Groom.

By the time we'd reached Texas the 'villes' of the east had largely gone, replaced by names that made me think of the frontiersmen who had travelled west across this country long before The Mother Road found its way onto the map and into American history. There were counties called Carson, Oldman and Deaf Smith... and massive stockyards on either side of the road, where literally thousands of cattle awaited the inevitable.

By mid morning we arrived in Midpoint, visiting the shop to be told of how the town had featured in the animated film Cars, and leaving just as another motorcycle convoy arrived. Among claims to fame in the film industry and to The Mother Road, historic vehicles and signs telling us we had travelled half way to Los Angeles, no one mentioned that the town's real name was Adrian. Soon, we'd forgotten Texas, its cattle and lack of fuel stations, and crossed into New Mexico.