Route 66

“If I do get stopped by the police”, I said to the motorcycle rental company’s representative handing me the Harley's documents, “Do I say, ‘haven’t you got anything better to do,’ like I would in England”? He looked at me over the top of his glasses. A lady tapping away at a computer behind the counter we stood at, laughed. It was, I admit, a pretty naff thing to come out with. The truth is I don't think I would say such a thing to any police officer, not now or at any time. Maybe I just wanted to suggest something attractive to imagine.

Within days we were riding through ‘big country’, where, by the look of it, you could build anything you wanted, anywhere you liked. Isolated buildings appeared out of nowhere, then disappeared just as quickly, with no apparent connection to the land or locality. Some were new, bland, and with no obvious use, some were ugly, some run down, and some run down but simply beautiful. These were the abandoned motels that time and just about everything - apart from travellers on Route 66 – had forgotten. Rows of doors of different colours, some dislodged, some upright, but all with paint now flaking, stood amongst the crumbling, once whitewashed walls of these old buildings. Only a few decades before they would have stood proud and welcoming, with tall roadside signs shining brightly though the night.

Our motorcycle thumped along doing what I wanted it to do – be American. But America had changed since my last visit. Cars had shrunk, in the same way ours back home had grown, so that now there seemed little difference in their size. And just like ours, they'd homogenised, so that no matter who the manufacturer, the same curvy, edgeless shape dominated. Trucks still had bonnets, but even they had softened. Gone were the enormous square grills, flat panels and split windscreens. The wild west had obviously been tamed, and it seemed the ‘hard’ rigs were now only to be found in the Australian outback. Big, functional and individual had become efficient, globalised, and normalised.

Well, almost. Somewhere along the Mother Road, we passed alongside a railway for several miles. Every couple of hundred metres or so a road crossed at ninety degrees to both our path and that of the track. So, every couple of hundred metres or so there was a stop line for us and to our right, a crossing for the track. As we rode along, changing down and slowing for each stop line, the crossings began to sound their bells. A train was approaching from behind, and for each crossing it was sounding its whistle. The clanging of the bells, the long, melodious note of the train's whistle, and the Harley's revving v-twin engine, made wonderful music - American music that went way back. The train eventually overtook us - two miles of wagons loaded with 40’ ship containers stacked two-high.

Snakes & Ladders

 

Snakes and Ladders is more than just a simple game to some. In fact, over the centuries it’s been used to teach moral values, to illustrate the various ups and downs of life, and even to help instil leadership skills. The road to success it seems to say is one that climbs worthy ladders while avoiding those slippery snakes of shame.

Well, you can forget all that rubbish, because on a bike the snakes are the good bits, and the ladders merely a means of getting to them. And they’re everywhere those superb snakes. When I asked ChatGPT to suggest a ride through Dorset, Somerset and Devon, taking in as many hairpin bends as possible, it found quite a few decent ‘twisties’ spread between Lyme Regis in the south and Lynton in the north. In doing so, it kicked off a game worth playing if ever there was one - along with a wonderful anticipation AI will ever be capable of comprehending.

I knew it was to be a long day: after I’d put in all the waypoints, my Beeline predicted close to eight hours of riding. First there would be Zig-Zag Hill, near Shaftsbury, then Cheddar Gorge, followed by Porlock Hill and Lynmouth. The intention was to head home to Lyme Regis by crossing Exmoor, all on good old country roads with a variety of bends.

An early start got me through Broadwindsor and on the A30 to Yeovil in quick time, from where I simply continued to just beyond Shaftsbury and the first snake, on the B3081. Coming in from this direction made Zig-Zag Hill a double-whammy, as once through I’d have to U-turn and head back to Shaftsbury. In the end, I got held up on my first run by a large van and had a second go, resulting in a double-double-whammy. Zig-Zag is tight, not very quick, but nonetheless a great test of finesse.

It wasn’t long before I was in Wyke and parked outside the Old Brewery Cafe and Kitchen (formerly Moto Corsa) and enjoying a club sandwich while looking at a beautiful red Moto Guzzi V1000S. Not another customer’s bike, and not outside either, but one of a number of motorcycles belonging to the owner of the cafe that are dotted about the place.

The road leading to Cheddar was wonderfully fast and sweeping, so much that the gorge presented a sudden shock with bends that were both challenging and tightening. I entered one far too quickly, thankful for my Bonneville T120’s dexterity, while cursing myself for such ragged riding. She always feels sure-footed, my Bonnie, balanced, and although ultimately nothing can defy the laws of physics, we came through unruffled. Left, right, left, the twists came in quick succession. As I straighten after one and lined up the next, I saw a small sports bike on its side on some grass to the right, with a young lad, crash helmet in hand, limping up and down beside it. A car had stopped and its driver was walking towards the stricken bike. I got a thumbs-up and pushed on.

In summer, Cheddar Gorge is an impossible, frustrating crawl, a stream of campers and caravans, but in spring and autumn it’s simply glorious. The inevitable urban speed limit came, but to be honest, the cruise to the little village at the bottom was by then welcome and I came out the other side steadied and ready for the run to Bridgewater.

I had the Beeline set to ‘avoid highways’ but made the decision to hop onto the M5 to Bridgewater and save a bit of time – the alternative being not much more interesting - leaving the motorway immediately before the town, then continuing south on the old Bristol road and taking the A39 into the Quantocks. It all got a little dull for a while, with too much traffic and too little to see. A fatigue set in. By the time Minehead was bypassed, everything had turned full circle and soon enough my mood brightened. The sea appeared, and with it came moorland, as the expanse of the Exmoor National Park opened to the left.

The road became a gentle roller coaster. We climbed and weaved; big vistas came. A blue blur flashed to the right, shades of green merged to the left, as my speed once again began to creep upwards. I just couldn’t help it. The road, the weather, the bike, the temporary absence of other traffic, it was all so perfect. I felt the Bonnie lift and glide, as I went on and off the throttle through the bends; she throbbed and roared, literally purring on overrun. I knew animals roamed free on the moor, and I did my best to spot any in the distance close to the road, but sometimes, when everything feels right, you must simply run with it. Safely!

By the time Porlock came, so had trees and bushes enclosing the road and traffic streaming in each direction, slowing me to a relaxed, distanced pace. Porlock Hill presented stone walls and steep grassy banks, as the road climbed and twisted. Gear choice became simple: get into first early and accept a bit of initial revving, as opposed to snatching it as the bends tightened and suddenly steepened with unseen ramps halfway through. The T120 has always felt a little high-geared, so bottom suited her well on the tricky climbs of Porlock.  

I stopped in Lynmouth for a cuppa at a café at the bottom of Countisbury Hill, before heading out, still on the A39, and up to Hillsford Bridge, where I turned off, crossing the moor towards Somonsbath on the B3223. This is a fine heathland road that gradually opens, as its verges decrease in height to give wide views across gorse and grass.  It’s high, the land around dropping to a distant horizon, so the dome of the sky dominates and the gently twisting road becomes everything.

From Exebridge, I followed the Exe on the A396, falling with the river towards the south, its water running fast and rock strewn somewhere in the woods to my right. With steep verges, blind bends and overhanging trees, this often damp route is for camper vans and sightseers. I slowed and relaxed.  Then it was Tiverton, a bit of shuffling through the town to find Canal Hill, and on to Collumpton. From there, Honiton came after a spell on the A373, and then it was onto the final ladder - the A35 homeward.

And with that the game was over and I’d reached the finish on my imaginary Snakes and Ladders board, not by avoiding the snakes but by riding as many of them that I could. In the end, and despite ignoring convention, I’d won - funny old game, motorcycling.