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.      

Walking Britain's Coast

People often ask what it was like to walk the entire coast of mainland Britain, it's nearly as common as, why? To be honest, it was a bit like starting a new job. Tough at the start, meeting different people along the way, seeing things that others might not come across and occasionally having to dig deep in order to carry on. And once settled into the long haul, the end became the subliminal goal. We also had to look after each other with lots of laughter and cake along the way. Our rules were simple: walk as close to the coast as practicable; use long distance paths where they exist; take no transport, except ferries to cross estuaries; carry our own kit; walk clockwise, Lyme Regis to Lyme Regis.

Sue and I first met when we both started working at the same place in the early 1990s and although we eventually followed different career paths, we've been together ever since, marrying in 2008 and eventually retiring in 2011. Long distance walking has always been a thing for us, rough camping from our old home near St Albans to my mum's in Exmouth, or some other route capable of being completed in a couple of weeks or so. That's how we spent our holidays most years, walking the trail, stopping at night in a three-man tent with our two labradors. Glorious summer days, mostly; under 20 days, usually. Nothing like the 281 days it took to walk the whole coast.

Walking over such a long period meant walking in winter and the best place to be at that time of year is the South West of England. So that's where it began, from our home in Uplyme, Devon and on the first day of January. Starting so early ensured we would be in Scotland for late Spring and early Summer and then down the east coast for Autumn. In the end it took about three and a half months to get to Scotland and we were there for three and a half months, that's how big the country is. From the border at Berwick-upon-Tweed on the east coast, it took a further two months and a bit to get home.

The beginning of the year saw us in beautiful settled weather, the winter walkers dream – dry and cool. Our Osprey rucksacks were laden with the kit we'd not only need for the winter but also later, when we would reach the more remote parts of Scotland. A water purifier, a GPS, Buffalo shirts. And the everyday stuff: a Hilleberg Nallo 3 tent, Trangia cooker and gas, Goretex waterproofs, RAB Neutrino Endurance three season sleeping bags. Not all of it ultra lightweight but practical for the time and distance we were looking at – reliability and durability in all conditions were the main considerations. Our personal clothing weighed in at a fraction of the total – two pants & two pairs of socks for me, and four of each for Sue; one pair of trousers & shorts, two lightweight tops, and one pair of walking socks. Our boots were Alt-berg and Scarpa, we got through three pairs each, ordered and supplied on route. Out of the box and onto the feet, such is the quality of modern kit. Both of us used two Leki walking poles and couldn't have imagined doing this walk without them. Weight bearing and stability just about sums them up.

The South West Coast Path is the most strenuous part of our coast, by far. Not that other parts aren't a bit tasty but the south west is pretty unrelenting, a 630 mile step machine set to hard. Effort, though, is rewarded and big climbs lead to big views. We used the tent for the first time above Mansands between Brixham and Dartmouth, a cliff top rough camp, the first of a total of 33 pitches throughout the trip. We only camped when we had to, where there was no alternative accommodation, always bearing in mind that stopping just two miles short each day for a bed would increase our overall journey time by at least a month. The second camp came above Portloe and the third at Hinkley Point power station, beside the perimeter fence and below a tall post with two ‘lampshades' hanging from it, and a sign telling us it was 'radioactive monitoring equipment'. “The inside of your hat's turned green”, Sue said. “It's been like that for days”, I reassured her.

We walked into Wales on the M48 bridge's cycle track and started on the Wales Coast Path. It was there we first saw proper Industry, something that would become a big part of the walk. These were often both the best and worst days: feet punishing tarmac, grubby back alleys and lorry filled industrial areas, as we were forced to divert around some enormous estate or other. Places, though, full of interest: Talbot's huge steel works; Milford Haven, where the path was routed through cages over gas pipes and tankers manoeuvred in the sound, as pilot boats whizzed about; and much later, the old works at Redcar, where we made our way around the Tees and into Yorkshire, mile after mile of rusting steel dominating the landscape.

Outside the Welsh Assembly in Cardiff, I overheard an ageing wag ask one of the heavily armed officers standing there, “Are you here to shoot anyone in particular”? On the Gower we stayed in a b&b of every colour, run by a multicolour-clad lady with bright red hair. “I like nothing to match”, she told us. There was a knitted stag's head on the wall of the landing. I asked about Brexit, as it dominated the news even then. “Disgusting”, she said, “Why can't we all just be the same”. 

Pembrokeshire came and then the west coast, where I had my worst few hours of the trip. We were walking the narrow cliff path in single file above rocks and crashing surf. I'd made the mistake of looking at a map of the country that I carried and seen not only how far we'd come but how far we still had to go. A gloom set over me, not helped by having had little to eat that morning. I felt weak and slowed down. Sue dropped back and looked at me closely. Soon she was leading us off the path to a nearby village, where we sat outside the Co-op and ate pasties and pastries before washing them down with coffee. When we returned to the cliffs the sun was shining and the day had taken on a different feel. Food, we learnt early on, was not to be skimped on. The Llyn peninsular followed, a wonderful part of Wales and a highlight of the trip.

From Wales, the Wirral, Merseyside, Lancashire and Cumbria and then, Scotland. We'd changed boots in Cumbria, bought out to us by old friends. Friends and family played a big part in keeping us going, as did some former colleagues. It wasn't just the bringing out of kit, although that was really important, it was the moral support that someone making the effort to meet up with you gives.

Scotland had us on tarmac a lot, walking cycle tracks and roads. There were exceptions though, the Ayrshire Coast Path, the Kintyre Way, The John o'Groats Trail and The Fife Coast Path were all fantastic paths in their own right. We battled through wind and rain to reach Ardnamurchan, the farthest point west on the British mainland and eventually started on the Highlands. Road walking became inevitable where paths didn't exist and our feet suffered, as did our boots. But every cloud, as they say, and despite being generally quiet, every so often a car would stop and offer us a lift (which, we gratefully declined) and on more than one occasion we were handed biscuits, crisps or a drink.

We crossed Knoydart from Inverie to Kinloch Hourn, arriving in Inverie by small ferry, where supplies for the little village where passed up to the jetty by a human chain. It had rained almost continually before we arrived and the next day, as we headed off across what is billed as the mainland's last wilderness, the downpour continued. It was bleak. We stopped half way at a bothy and brewed up on our camping stove, unable to dry out from the morning's soaking. The afternoon got worse. We came to a bridge crossing a waterfall, which had some of its planks washed away. I managed to leap over but Sue had to crawl across, using rusting steel rails that ran below the missing planks, all the while gazing down at the gushing water. The burns coming off the mountains were in full flood and we were up to our knees in water crossing them. Our feet were soaked and with rising water each one became more difficult, the force of water threatening to dislodge our footing. At Kinloch Hourn we were advised that a particular burn ahead was now dangerous and that a boat would take us along the loch and around it. When we finally reached the lane to Glenelg, it was all we could do to stop ourselves dropping to our knees and kissing the tarmac.

Wet boots are hard to dry when you're using them every day and that's when problems can occur, when your kit is not in best condition. I had a strict routine of conditioning and waxing our boots but Knoydart negated all my efforts for a while, especially with Sue's. Within a few days, she developed a huge blister on her left foot, the first for either of us. In fact I was lucky and didn't get any blisters. Sue only had the one, all be it recurring and all because of  Knoydart and wet boots. It gradually got worse and by Ullapool she was near crippled. We stopped for two days to allow her foot to heal as much as possible and popped into the local surgery, where the blister was drained. With antibiotics, just in case, and Compeed plasters we continued into the far north west – and the next big challenge, the Scottish midge.

Rough camping (or wild camping, as some people call it - those that haven't done any, I suspect, as it's pretty rough, believe me) is a disciplined art. We both think we couldn't start now, not at our ages (Sue was 55 and I was 62 when we walked into Scotland) not if we hadn't done it for all these years. It's not easy. For a start you've got to find somewhere out of view of anyone and you have to survive, basically, with what you've carried. You must leave no trace, which means carrying all rubbish away and you must bury your body's waste by digging a latrine if you need to go, the very reason I carried a small trowel. The trouble is that in midge territory, all this must be done at more than 2mph, max midge flying speed. We got 'midged' a few times while rough camping on the west coast of Scotland.

We reached the north coast and headed east for Dunnet Head, the most northerly point on the mainland. We celebrated reaching the iconic John o'Groats and shortly after turned south at Duncansby Head. Interestingly, the half way point for the journey was down on the west coast somewhere north of Ardnamurchan, but it wasn't until we turned south that it felt like we were on our way home. Duncansby Head to Wick was a real stunner of a cliff walk. The John o' Groats Trail carried us along high cliffs and gave spectacular views to colourful sandstone stacks and caves far below. Blow holes and Fulmars and not another soul. Occasionally, we were sent onto the A99, as the cliff path became impassable – this is not a well trodden or well maintained route – but the effort made to stay with it never went unrewarded.

Through Inverness and on to Peterhead, then down to Aberdeen walking the 12 miles of beach south of Newburgh, an area known for its seal colony. Photographers mixed with dog walkers, as we walked out of the town, all standing looking at the seals bobbing and diving in the river estuary. We were soon alone with only the dunes and surf for company. Eventually, we came to a group of 10 to 12 year old lads playing beach football, a couple of little nets had been set up and a few adults appeared to be running the show. Out at sea, about 40 feet away, 20 or so little whiskered heads sat motionless all looking landward at the match taking place on the sand. The lads seemed oblivious to their audience; local boys used to it, maybe, but we stood a while in wonder.

In Aberdeen the might of the offshore business really showed itself, with enormous work platforms and ships both in and outside of the harbour. We'd seen workboats for the wind turbines on the west coast of England but nothing on this scale. Offshore wind is now big business in Scotland: where these ships once laid oil pipelines they are now laying gigantic cables linking the wind farms to the grid. We saw it all the way down the east coast of England too - Blythe to Great Yarmouth.

We made good progress through Northumberland and Yorkshire. The Cleveland Way through Yorkshire possibly the best of all, with its beautiful flat topped cliffs, grassy paths and seabird colonies. There was a second change of boots in Seaton Carew and an offloading of other bits of kit no longer needed. We were ahead of schedule, so I decided to head home in shorts – waterproof trousers could be used if it got too cold – and dumped my walking trousers and gaiters. The GPS went as did the water purifier. Sue moved into a new pair of Scarpa boots a full UK size bigger than the ones she'd started in. Our feet were sore, it has to be said, the sheer daily pounding over so many months was taking its toll. Walking between 17 and 20 miles most days and carrying up to 20kg for me, 16kg for Sue, had flattened Sue's arches and given us both painful soles. Although I had lost about 8kg in body weight in the first six weeks and Sue, nearly 4kg, Scotland necessitated carrying more food as well as kit, so it wasn't until we reached the east coast and ditched some that our overall weight eased.

Lincolnshire and East Anglia brought the sea defence dykes that meant flat walking for weeks on end. Then Essex and the Thames, where we crossed from Tilbury to Gravesend,  Kent, Sussex, Hampshire and finally, Dorset and home. We finished with a surprise welcoming party at the clock tower on the front at Lyme Regis. The circumnavigation of our island had finished. We walked up the hill to Uplyme and our lovely house. It was there that our journey ended, after 4500 miles.

A number of people do this trip every year and because it's over such a great distance and over such a long period of time they do it in different ways; their way, just as we did. Some do it for charity using a camper van and volunteer drivers. Others have kit carriers and accommodation booked all the way round. Some do a bit each year, often completing the walk decades after they'd started. We did it for ourselves, mainly because we didn't want the added pressure of letting anyone down – we thought there was a fifty-fifty chance of finishing when we walked out of our home.

You don't have to be super fit but it's essential to put a few miles in before you start, over a period of months not weeks. You've got to really want to do it, as it's as tough mentally as it is physically. Your kit needs to be sorted, researched and not bought on a whim. Buy the best you can afford and if you take advice, take it from someone who has done it. Some good blogs have been written over the years. Sue did all the navigation, using her phone, boosted by a portable battery and with a number of apps, including the official Ordnance Survey one. We booked accommodation up to four days ahead, but that was unusual, sometimes it was on the day. Once or twice it was from the drive of a B&B. To be honest, there was more planning needed to get the house ready to leave. Like most things, getting going is often the hardest part.

Why did we do it? That's a really tough question, because an idea that started in the distant past had built, eventually taking on a life of its own. From a notion, as we walked our two Labradors along a trail years ago, that to walk the whole coast would be the ultimate challenge, came the plan to one day do it. The rest was out of our control and we talked about little else every time we ventured onto a cliff somewhere or walked along a beach. Was it worth all the effort? Without a doubt – but we won’t be doing it again!