The Mother Road. Part 5, New Mexico

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.