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. As it happened, 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 straightened 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.

Letter to MSL generated by Copilot

Dear Editor,

The Evolving Journey: AI and Traditional Human Riding Skills

As we roll into 2025, the conflict between artificial intelligence and traditional human skills in motorcycling has become a compelling discussion that transcends the two-wheeled world. The tension between these forces is akin to the age-old debate between modern motorcycles and their classic counterparts.

Artificial intelligence, in recent years, has made significant strides in motorcycling. With the advent of advanced rider-assistance systems, automated driving features, and AI-driven diagnostics, motorcycles today are more intelligent and interconnected than ever. These innovations promise a future where safety, efficiency, and convenience are maximized, allowing riders to focus on the sheer joy of the journey.

On the other hand, traditional human riding skills represent the heart and soul of motorcycling. The innate connection between rider and machine, honed through years of experience and practice, is something that AI, despite its many capabilities, cannot replicate. The precision of a well timed lean, the instinctive application of throttle and brakes, and the intuitive understanding of road conditions are all aspects of motorcycling that rely on human skill and judgement.

The conflict between AI and human riding skills is not merely technological but also philosophical. Purists argue that the increasing reliance on AI erodes the essence of motorcycling, where the rider's abilities and reflexes play a central role. They fear that over dependence on technology could lead to a generation of riders who lack the fundamental skills necessary to handle unforeseen situations.

Conversely, supporters of AI in motorcycling highlight the undeniable benefits it brings. AI-driven systems can enhance safety by mitigating human error, providing real-time data analysis, and offering predictive maintenance. These advancements can make motorcycling more accessible to new riders and allow seasoned riders to push the boundaries of performance with confidence.

Rather than seeing this conflict as a binary choice between AI and human skills, we should embrace the synergy between the two. AI can augment the riding experience, providing tools and insights that complement and enhance human abilities. It is possible to enjoy the best of both worlds: the thrill of mastering a machine through skill and the peace of mind that comes from knowing AI has your back.

As motorcyclists, we are united by our passion for the ride, whether we lean towards the precision of AI or the artistry of human skills.                                  Let's celebrate the diversity of our community and continue to explore how technology and tradition can coexist harmoniously on the open road.

Yours Sincerely,

TW

 

 

 

Jailhouse Rock - published Motorcycle Sport & Leisure

 

There has been a quarry of some sort on the Isle of Portland in Dorset since Roman times, a castle since the 16^th Century, at least one prison since the 1800s, and one of the world’s largest manmade harbours since 1905. And since 2019, my Royal Enfield Classic 500 has been puffing up its slopes and visiting its cafes. Sticking out into the English Channel on the edge of Weymouth, Portland is a sloping strip of land about 4 miles long and 1.7 miles wide that’s linked to the mainland by a causeway forming part of Chesil Beach. The island is a place of heights and history filled with fantastic views and interest. It’s also wonderful for pottering about on a motorcycle, especially when the machine feels somehow in harmony with its surroundings.

Dorset is a beautiful county of rolling hills, wide vistas and sandstone cliffs, all guaranteeing that any ride along its coast to Portland, either from the east or west, will be a memorable one. Today, I’m coming in from the west, from Lyme Regis, which entails riding the B3157, one of the most spectacular roads in the whole of the country. There’s plenty to do in Lyme Regis, lots of coffee shops and eateries, and there’s parking for bikes, too: just drop into the Cobb Gate car park, the one with the small clock tower at the bottom of the town’s main street and go through the barrier on the left. But I’m just starting, so I ride straight on through, the Enfield popping its way down Broad Street before passing the clock tower and thumping its way up Church Street.

Once out of the town and through the sweeping bends of the A3052, I join the A35 and make my way towards Bridport and West Bay, from there heading along the glorious B3157. I ignore the Lemon Tree at Swyre and the Duck’s farm shop and café at Portesham, both great places to stop, and continue into the outskirts of Weymouth before following signs for Portland. We’re soon on the causeway, the Enfield and me, looking over to the left and to the Citadel and port below, places I’d soon be riding through, and forward to terraces rising on the island.

I’m using a Beeline Moto 1 mounted on the offside mirror arm, running it from a phone sitting in a tank mounted pouch. With power coming from an Optimizer adapter, it works well, ensuring there’s plenty of juice available for photos and messaging when I stop, while keeping the navigation going while I ride. I’ve set waypoints at the castle, a fortification built in 1540 by Henry VIII to defend against the Spanish and French, and the D-Day Museum, each one a chance for a bit of leg stretching.  I don’t visit either attraction, they’re both for another time, but there’s still plenty to see. An American Shernan tank and a Jeep stand outside the museum and two Mulberry Harbour caissons sit out on the water close by. In 1944, half a million troops and 144,000 vehicles departed Portland in just a few hours to take part in the D-Day landings.

The Enfield is quite at home amongst buildings of a bygone age and their flaking facades, despite its shining paintwork and bits of chrome, but we’re soon on the steep switchbacks through more recent housing and climbing to the Citadel and The Verne, a category C ‘Training Prison’ contained in what was once Portland’s main fortification. Built between 1857-1881, the Verne Citadel has served as barracks, battery, hospital, immigration removal centre and is now a prison. It also has the Jailhouse Café and spectacular views across the harbour. It’s a 30mph limit up through the housing, which is of little concern to the Enfield as it’s hardly able to reach such a speed before the road once again doubles back on itself and we’re cranked over, looking ahead for vehicles coming in the opposite direction, squeezing themselves between all the parked cars.

I sit down to a ‘Guvnor’ and latte, the former being a more than decent cooked breakfast, before walking out onto the café’s outdoor seating area and looking at the vista spread below. I can see the massive breakwater and Weymouth beyond, and the port where two RFA ships are moored abreast alongside the same jetty where cruise ships tie up when visiting.  These are support vessels that supply the Royal Navy’s new aircraft carriers, HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Prince of Wales. Not far off is Sir Tristram, an old RFA vessel that was badly damaged in the Falklands War and now serves as a training ship for special forces.

Our next stop is The Grove, another prison and another cafe, this one themed as an American diner. Unfortunately, Incline Road, a route that follows the coast around the eastern edge of the island, is not open to the public, so I point the Enfield up and out of Castletown on Easton Lane and continue south. I take a quick detour by turning left and into Verne Hill Road, New Ground and then Yates Road, simply because I can and they’re the little lanes the bike was made for, before rejoining the main route. Grove Road arrives soon after, and I make my way past the prison museum to the Jailhouse Diner, parking the Enfield on a triangle of tarmac opposite its entrance and below the tall prison wall.

A quick coffee and we’re off to the Bill, passing the disused lighthouse that’s now a bird observatory and homing in on the red and white striped tower that changes from distant landmark to imposing monument as we approach. Once there, I stop a while and gaze at the sea, wondering just how many wrecks there must be out there beneath the waves, before heading back down the western side of the island by following signs for Weymouth. (Portland Bill marks the eastern end of Lyme Bay, and its waters with their shallow reefs, sandbanks and tidal races have been the cause of many a shipwreck over the centuries.)

There’s evidence of quarrying all over the island and Portland stone has been used in some grand buildings, including St Paul’s cathedral, Buckingham Palace and the UN building in New York. My last stop on Portland is at the Tout quarry sculpture park on the way down Wide Street. There was obviously quite a bit to see, but I took a short walk into the area simply to look at the view down to Chesil Beach and the road off the island we’d soon be riding. And so it was that not long after leaving Tout quarry, I started on the first road with a speed limit over 40 mph since arriving on Portland - the causeway back to Weymouth. The road carried me away from a stone-built world of fortifications and lighthouses, of churches and prisons, and back to brick and modernity.

Returning to Lyme Regis, I’m travelling through Weymouth on the A354 and out to Broadwey, from where I turn left onto Church Street and follow Gould’s Hill, the B3159 to Weymouth Road. At Martinstown, I head for Hardy’s monument, an upturned spyglass shaped tower erected in 1840 in memory of Thomas Mastermann Hardy, Flag Captain of HMS Victory at the battle of Trafalgar, and then continue, doglegging across Portesham Road towards Little Bredy. This is Enfield Classic country, with lanes that cut along timeless hills and run through quant villages, past old churches and beside established country houses. Long Bredy and Litton Cheney come and go, and I’m back on the B3157 at Burton Bradstock.

I don’t stop in West Bay, although it’s a popular meeting place for motorcyclists, but instead pull up in Lyme Regis at the Cobb Gate car park. I can see Portland in the distance to the east, its tops rising to the Citadel before sloping down the Bill.     

Supliments - letter to Motorcycle Sport and Leisure

Interesting, your opening lines in January's ussue, especially when you said that no one really wants to be average. I don't think a statement has ever been more true when it comes to motorcyclists - just look at their machines. Almost every bike I see has some sort of addition or alteration from the stock item; even my V-Strom, changed in appearence with a few Suzuki extas of personal choice, has the number 7 stuck on the windscreen in homage to Barry Sheene.

Back when all the major manufacturers produced a limited range of models, customization was rife, often cheaply done at home, and mostly pretty obvious to all. Now, every bike maker produces everything, for everyone. Within a specific type, whether it be sports, naked, classic or adventure, there's a plethora of extras, all meaning that no two bikes within 100 miles (I'm guessing) of each other need look the same. Now, there's no need to imagine or invent in order to be different, but simply to choose.

I'm all for electronic aids. I think any feature that enhances safety can only be good and that the significance of an algorithm designed to assist a rider, even improving the riding experience, should never be underestimated or seen as anything other than enhancement. To me, they do not detract from motorcycling; they are not replacing skill but simply supplimenting it. The thing that has changed motorcycling is bike makers swamping each of their models with those possible extras. Good or bad  I'm not sure, but it does take away something of the creativity we onced enjoyed. 

I  admit that my old Norton Dominator had a Dresda tank and seat which I chose from a magazine advert, but my mate's Dommie had a different type. And we both chopped the mudguards differently; our clip-ons and rear-sets came from seperate suppliers. We scoured breakers for bits to make our bikes not only less average, but often truly unique.  

You mentioned Deep Blue, which I remember as a chess playing computer that apparently won a match against a reigning champion of the time. I would argue that played on a conventional board the average person could beat it: a computer is a pastic box and although it might have a lot of flashing lights, one thing it can't do is move the peices.

    

  

Imagine - Letter sent to Motorcycle Sport and Leisure

Dave, I wanted to send this to you in an envelope addressed using green ink, but I couldn't find a green pen, or an envelope, and stamps cost money - imagine having to pay to send someone a message. In fact, imagine having to write with a pen, without spell checker, and not being able to copy and paste, or drag. Imagine having to visit the library every time a particular subject caught your interest, or some question popped into your head. I can't. I can read and write, but all I can see without modern information technology is restriction.

Imagine a motorcycle without ABS, the most significant safety feature since the introduction of the crash helmet. Imagine being able to pump individual brakes 20 times a second, while deciding which brake, front or rear, should receive the greater force. Imagine being able to optimise this cycle rate when cornering. I can't. I've been riding motorcycles year in year out for nearly fifty years, and I've had advanced training along the way, but all I see without this incredible technology is limitation.

Imagine a mum's face when her offspring says they're getting a motorcycle. I can, I see it as if it were only yesterday. But imagine how she might have felt with the knowledge that the machine had a capability beyond that of any rider, and that it would do its utmost to remain upright and out of trouble.

I own a number of bikes, of all ages, and with technology that ranges between acetylene lighting and multi mode intelligent ride assistance. I ride them to the best of my ability, wearing proper boots, armoured leggings and jacket, a smart vest, and a crash helmet, all of which I hope I have the skills never to test.

Cave Man

Back in the 1970s, I worked as a fitter in a commercial vehicle workshop. It was a dirty job in a cold, oily space, where everything had to be finished yesterday, and where I often laboured through breaks. I rode to work each day on a XT500 and at night parked the bike in the street outside a grim little bedsit. I dreamt of a proper home, a garage, and multi-bike heaven.

And of a cave I could retreat into; my space, where everything would be done at my pace. It came, thankfully, eventually. Gradually. A flat sold for a small house that in turn became a larger one with a garage. Then retirement and a move to a place with enough land to build a workshop and garage, somewhere I can’t ever imagine moving from. The building is fully insulated with cavity walls and a galleried ceiling. There’s also a mezzanine deck used for storing bits – frames, tanks, tin wear etc - and Velux windows above a workshop area.

 I’ve owned and ridden motorcycles since my first moped at 16 years-of-age, back in a time that saw frustration with British manufacturing compete in equal measure with an admiration for Japanese engineering. It was about the same period that Scandinavian truck manufacturers were showing British lorry drivers just how good a wagon could be. Despite all that, I do have a soft spot for both British bikes and trucks, driven, it must be said, by rose tinted glasses and a hankering for lost youth. Now I spanner, service and tinker, sit at my desk and read manuals, look at maps plotting trips to bike meets and motor museums, and think about restoration projects either under way or planned. But whatever I do, I do it when I want to and because I want to.

In my garage there are bikes I’ve done, some I’m doing, and some awaiting attention. The Matchless G2 CSR was a project from a few years back, the G12 CSR, a recent recommission. There’s a Laverda 3C that’s on, and on, and on… going. I’ve also got quite a bit of AMC stuff waiting in the wings, and a TTR 600 and BMW 1150 that require a bit of light fiddling. And yes, I have ripped the ABS out of the BM. My other bikes are all current and in use, rotated on a yearly basis.

I think the key to a happy partnership is equality and balance and my wife has interests that occupy her time. She has her own office in the house, where she organises her passion in the same way I do mine in my garage. We spend most days together, but many apart, doing our own thing. And it seems to work. I feel very fortunate, not least because of my garage, but the size, construction, and even content of the space is ultimately not important. The most significant thing is that it’s mine, containing my stuff, and whether there’s one, ten, or twenty bikes in there, it’s of no real matter. What is, is that whatever the machine, it’s kept by me. At a push, a dirty, cold, oily shed would do, so long as it was my space, where I did my stuff, at my pace. 

A Triumph

I smile every time I look at my new T120 Bonneville, I nod when I read about it being such a great bike, and I do an impersonation of Sid James laughing when I think of how it has out retro’d the latest incarnation of the very bike that kicked its predecessors into touch all those years ago. The Kawasaki Z900rs is a great bike, but it's not the greatest at being what it's supposed to be, not now. After 50 years, that title must surely go back to Triumph. 

Letter to Bike magazine

 

I popped out earlier to pick up this month’s Bike, a nice little ride to my nearest WH Smith and just far enough to justify a coffee while having an initial flick through. I know for the sake of the planet I should have it posted or better still, read an electronic version, but I’ve always got the magazine while out on the bike, it just seems right somehow. Anyway, this morning, sitting at a table outside Costa, I couldn’t help but notice a nearby pelican crossing, not least because of the beeping when the lights went to red. I reckon every other person using it didn’t look at the road before pressing the button, and with no thought whatsoever,  every last one of them pressed the button regardless of any approaching traffic. None waited for heavy lorries to pass; many crossed an empty road the lights having turned red for no reason. Some, seeing that no vehicles were approaching, crossed before the lights changed, which, of course, they eventually did, forcing vehicles coming along moments later to brake to a standstill for a crossing devoid of any pedestrian. The lights changing, the beeper beeping, and all those vehicles having to overcome God knows how much friction in order to get going again and accelerate to their original speed. What a waist of precious energy.

I got back on my Strom and rode home, something I’ll do till it dies and I can justify the energy deficit needed to produce a new electric bike.

Furka Pass, Susten Pass, Grimsel Pass

A big GS blasted by, cranked so far over that I wondered how the hell it would recover. A second followed, the rider’s long blond plaited ponytail acting as swingometer, as both bikes heaved one way then the other through the tight hairpin bends. I glanced in my mirror and saw the batwing fairing of a Harley hard on my tail, before looking forward again to see the BMWs disappear around the next bend. The Glide went through too, leaving me with shame and admiration in equal measure. I tried to console myself with the fact the big cruiser wasn’t two-up, but it didn’t help.

All roads led to the mountains from Crans-Montana, my base for the few days I would spend in Switzerland, and it was from there with my lightened, luggage free, Suzuki DL 1050XT, that I sped east along autoroute 9 (or autobahn or autostrada, depending on which part of the country you are in) towards Brig, intent on a day riding three of the most iconic passes in the Swiss Alps: Furka Pass, Susten Pass and Grimsel Pass. I was soon off the motorway and on picturesque route 19 climbing the Rhône valley, following my Beeline as it sent me ever upwards towards Obergom. The road was quiet, open, and perfectly smooth; the land on each side dropping to scrub grass and meadows before rising rapidly to conifers and towering snow-capped rock. I passed through villages with churches that had onion shaped spires, and tall roadside chalets made of a dark heavy wood that looked as if in winter they would be capable of supporting a ton of snow, while rising above any drift blown their way.

The climbs became less gradual, but the bends still swept rather than doubling back on themselves, something I knew was soon to come. It was very hot and when a tunnel appeared I welcomed the cool darkness. The road weaved below sheer rock faces protected by sturdy canopies. I looked down into valleys covered in trees. The real climbs of Furka Pass started in Obergom, with steep switchbacks that between each sharp turn had me craning my neck up and to the side, where the road I was following could be seen running parallel above. After a couple of hairpins, I’d settled and sorted my approach, line through and exit. The tall Suzuki, with enough speed, didn’t falter in second gear and ran smoothly, confidently holding its path through every 180 degree turn.  The now abandoned Belvedere Hotel stood on the inside of one tight bend, as the road climbed sharply past the Rhone Glacier. Famous for its appearance in the 1964 Bond film, Goldfinger, the hotel was an obvious draw, but it was the car park and café opposite that provided a place to stop, look at the spectacular mountain vistas and generally take it all in.  The Beeline’s next waypoint was Wassen, which took me through Hospental and Andermatt, from where I joined route 2 and headed north.

Being a simple ‘turn by turn’ device the Beeline has no map detail on its dash mounted display, so I don’t always get it right. There was a confusion of roads and roadworks in Andermatt, which had me flummoxed for a while, but sometimes with the Beeline you just have to stop and check with Google maps. The road was now running close to autoroute 2, which cut its own straight path through the rocky slopes, as we continued turning this way and that, sweeping now through the lower tree lined slopes of mountains ahead. The Vstrom glided along, the motor sweet. I have everything concerning the bike’s electronics set to maximum intrusion – engine management at its softest, ABS at its most aggressive, ditto traction control – and I suppose I could have given the throttle a bit more umph, but I’m used to it now, so I left as is and continued winding my right wrist through angles in harmony with the twists of the road.

From Wassen, the next destination for the Beeline was Innerkirchen, which would come after a near 30 mile run on route 11 across Susten Pass and some of the most spectacular, iconically alpine views of the day. There would be 26 bridges and tunnels through the rock massive and countless viewpoints. The Eiger wasn’t too far off, although admittedly not in view, but if it were, I wouldn’t have been surprised such was the grandeur of those snow-covered mountains. We were heading for over 2000 metres above sea level on a road that can only be described as glorious, panoramic and breathtaking. Between the switch backs there were miles of sweeping bends, sheer drops, tunnels and more of the awesome scenery I’d come all that way to enjoy.     

It cooled as we climbed and unsurprisingly on such a sunny Saturday there were hundreds of motorcycles out. The supermotos were obviously built with switchbacks in mind, the big adventure bikes were giving it their all, sports bikes screamed through, and even the cruisers held up their end; but they all had two things in common: Swiss number plates and the ability to pass me. Surrounded by the snow-covered peaks and climbing higher and higher it became obvious why the Bond filmmakers had come, why companies like Porsche used the backdrop for promotion videos, and why this was surely motorcycling paradise.

I had another café stop before turning south on route 6 and heading back to Obergoms and the road to Crans-Montana. Grimsel Pass continued through the pristine mountain landscape, but the road felt a little straighter, with fewer hairpins and longer sweeps between rock faces on one side and Armco barrier above steep tree covered slopes on the other. Quaint Swiss villages came, and close to Gletsch, a lake with a large dam and hydroelectric plant. Then it was a long series of hairpins again before I was finally back on route 19 and riding to Brig and Crans-Montana. I filled up – fuel stations in the Rhone valley came every few kilometers – and soon joined the autoroute, not forgetting to display the motorway vignette I’d bought at the border with France on arrival a few days earlier. There were just a couple of other motorcycles on the road - both seemingly happy to sit a few cars back. 

 

Built in India - letter to Motorcycle Sport & Leisure

 

What a great article that was about the Norton Commando 961 in July's MSL. And what a great bike the Norton is. And how great is the whole retro bike scene, allowing as it does the style and feel of those old bikes without the reality of true authenticity. ABS, electric start, oil tight and reliable, what’s not to like?

There are plenty of people like me out there ready to buy them, these new old bikes – except that I won’t be. Well, not one made by an Indian company. And sadly, that means no new Norton me. Why, because it’s not British? Certainly not, Norton's Indian owners are preserving an iconic name in motorcycling, for which we should be very grateful. Because there are yellow upside down forks with orange reflectors stuck on them? Nope, that’s just a sign of the times, and they are there for the simple reason the bike must exist in the now.

It's because I absolutely refuse to do anything that supports the Russian economy. The longer the war in Ukraine goes on, the more we will suffer. The quicker sanctions work, the quicker we can get back to some sort of normality. By importing Russian crude, India is funding Putin’s war, prolonging the agony of Ukraine and threatening life in the West. I know it’s complicated, and I am fully prepared to except that I have little if no understanding of energy markets. But the principle stands – give nothing to Russia other than that which is absolutely necessary. India can source oil elsewhere, as it has in the past, it should continue to do so now. I also appreciate that this might not be the sort of material for a magazine dedicated to the true enjoyment of motorcycling. But these are difficult times, and not just for Europe - we all should be aware of the importance and consequences of the choices we make, and what is ultimately at stake.

So, there won’t be a new Norton in my garage, or a Royal Enfield Continental GT 650, the other modern classic on my ‘must have’ list. Maybe they’ll be sold to someone in Moscow instead. It’ll have to be the Gold Star, on the basis that it’s another iconic classic British motorcycle available for us to buy - Oh, hang on... .

 

Loud Motorcycles (Letter to Bike Magazine)

Funny thing, noise from bikes. While too loud is rapidly becoming unacceptable, so is too quiet. In fact, the latter is now subject to law, with the EU requiring new electric vehicles to be fitted with noise emitters. It’ll be the same here, no doubt.  I’ve long been against loud bikes, but simply on the grounds that it’s far better for a copper standing at the roadside to think, “What was that"? as you sail on by, rather than, “What’s this"? as you approach. That was true even back in the days when an R80 hadn’t a hope in hell of catching an RD350.

 

The Old World

In 2014, while walking around the docks at Mangalore, where every truck seemed to be an Ashok Leyland and every motorcycle a Royal Enfield, I stumbled across a man sitting in the dust of the road in front of the open mouth of a tipper lorry. Surrounded by the carcass of a gearbox and with taper roller bearings laid neatly on rags by his side, he was rebuilding the machine’s drive train - as vehicles trundled past kicking up a fog of yellow ochre. “He is very strong man”, announced a portly suited gent standing over him.

I love my Royal Enfield and for the price it’s a great bike. But I’m not deceived into thinking that the marque is comparable to other modern incarnations of the classic genre. To the visitor, India is a wonderful, unique, sometimes baffling, explosion of new and old. It has aircraft carriers and a space agency, but also a population with expectations decades behind our own. And people prepared to fix things at the side of the road.

Sent from my Galaxy

Time and Place - the South-West in winter

I’ve long held the view that the motorcycle can never be wrong and if there isn't harmony, then it must be the type of road that’s at fault. It's a bit like touring in winter: the season is not going to change, so if any pleasure is to be had it'll be a matter of place as well as time. It was mid-December when I pulled on a rucksack and set off with the Enfield on a three-day circuit of the South-West of England, a peninsular overlaid with the sort of roads the bike was made to explore. With often the best UK Winter temperatures, and as a popular destination all year round, I was hoping for some good riding along with a reasonable supply of cafes warm up in.

My Classic 500 has no luggage, hence the rucksack, and I left Lyme Regis on the Dorset coast relieved to feel perfectly comfortable with it sitting on my back. The minimum of personal stuff was needed but with the inclusion of some extra warm layers the pack was full. I intended to travel anticlockwise completing at least 150 miles per day and had two night's accommodation booked, the first near Bideford in North Devon and the second close to Falmouth on Cornwall’s south coast. The A358 was an obvious choice on which to ride north to Watchet in Somerset, where I stopped at the public loos before dropping onto the edge of the pedestrianised harbour area.  Parking on block paving just beyond some black posts seemed to be the thing to do, as there were a few other bikes already standing there. 

Using a rucksack means that kit has to be carried both on and off the bike but the waterproof Kriega R30 sat quite low with a cross belt harness configuration that meant it didn’t pull on my shoulders, so I happily walked off to the nearest café while still wearing it. Watchet has a sculpture of the Ancient Mariner by its harbour and the town is said to have been the inspiration for the late 18^th Century Samuel Coleridge poem that tells this tale of woe. In fact, the area was one regularly visited by the poet and probably his most famous work, Kubla Khan, was written after apparently being awoken from an opium influenced dream by ‘a person from Porlock’. And that was where I headed next, riding Cleeve Hill to Blue Anchor before joining the A39 on its journey westward.

Little progress would be made if I dropped into every little town along the coast and with short days (It was dark by 5 pm) a certain amount of restraint was needed. I ended up scooting along the A39, a nice winding road that climbs and falls along the North Devon coast, while choosing which places to visit. It was wonderfully quiet and all I had to do was keep an eye on the white direction signs displaying the names of nearby towns and villages. I bypassed Minehead but took the lane to Porlock Wier, dipping down to the sea with the intention of continuing close to the cliffs and on to Lynton and Lynmouth. But it wasn’t to be.

A stone built arch and closed picket gate stood across the way just west of the little village, with a sign that told me a toll was needed. There was no one about, so I cut back up to the A39 and climbed Porlock Hill. The Enfield took the steep gradients and switch backs in its stride, but I was happy to be on our own.  The tight turns and ramps had us down to second gear at one point, with the engine thumping away and me sitting upright and relaxed in the knowledge that nothing was coming up behind. Big climbs lead to big views and the top gave a magnificent look back to the bay below Porlock, the hills beyond and an ice blue sea that stretched to the horizon under a cold, clear sky. The A39 drops into Lynmouth on Countisbury Hill, with views down into the village all the way in, and it was here that I left the A-road and made my way through Lynton to the Valley of the Rocks.

Lynton and Lynmouth are typical West Country tourist spots, but they weren’t for me, not today. I had miles to do and there were other places to see. Riding was the thing, especially with such limited time. The Valley of the Rocks runs parallel with the coast and was once described by fellow poet and friend of Coleridge, Robert Southey, as ‘the very bones and skeletons of the earth’. It’s not only a place of giant rock formations, as impressive as they are distracting, but also one of feral goats, which taken together made for a slow run through. Eventually, another small toll gate greeted me, so once again I turned back and returned to the A39.

Next on my mental list of places to visit was Ilfracombe. I turned off onto the A399 and rode down towards Combe Martin, famous for having one of the longest village streets in Britain and the Pack o’ Cards Inn (four floors, one for each suit; 13 doors on each floor, representing each card in a suit; and sitting on a plot measuring 52 by 53 feet, one for every card in a pack plus the joker). Ilfracombe came soon after, with a short leg stretch next to Verity, Damien Hirst's 20 metre tall statue of a pregnant lady holding a sword aloft. Hirst describes his work as, ‘a modern allegory of truth and justice'. Others use different words. It has got to be seen to be fully appreciated and I have to admit that I left trying not to think whether it had any meaning; riding in winter was hard enough.

The  A360 carried me west from Ilfracombe before the B3341 took me down to Woolacombe, from where I simply followed signs for Croyde and then Braunton.  Looking down onto Saunton Sands, I passed close to the coast before heading inland in order to get around the vast Tor and Torridge estuaries. It started to get dark and busy with traffic being funnelled over one river and then the other. I pushed on, the Enfield hammering along the A39 at 60 mph. I think we were both pleased to reach The Hoops Inn at Bucks Mills, just short of Hartland and the Cornish border. It was a comfortable place, where I had armchairs in my room and a big TV on the wall. An excellent dinner was later served in the bar.

I enjoyed an equally excellent full English in the morning, before heading out to the carpark at the rear of the pub only to find the bike white with frost. The temperature had gone below zero overnight. I made the decision to stay on the A39 for most of the morning, to allow the backroads to de-ice and for me to make some progress. I wanted to ride the coast between Hayle and Lands End, so sacrifices had to be made. Many places were bypassed – Bude, Boscastle, Port Isaac, Newquay. Even Morwenstow, where the reverend Hawker (1803 – 1875) would bury the bodies of shipwrecked sailors washed up on the shore, and smoke opium while writing poetry in Hawker’s Hut, his lookout on the clifftops and now the smallest property owned by the National Trust.

The A39 was perfect. Perfectly quiet; perfectly winding. If a car came up behind, I simply moved over, but one rarely did. The Enfield loves 50 mph; it smooths out and finds a sweet spot between thump and hammer. So, that’s what we stuck to, all the while gliding along alone, looking at the sea, rolling hills and wind turbines. But nothing lasts and by late morning we found ourselves on the A30 running through Redruth and onto Hayle. I stopped at Asda in Hayle for a warm up and coffee in their café. With the bike doing about 80 mpg and with a 3 gallon tank (13.5 litres), fuel stops weren’t an issue and I filled up in the knowledge that a full tank would carry me well into the following day. Hayle has a great industrial heritage and in the 19^th Century the largest steam pumping engine ever built was made at a local foundry before being shipped to Holland. There was plenty to stop and see – on any normal day.

With too few hours of daylight left, I continued onto St Ives, doing a round of its narrow streets before heading off on the B3306 towards Zennor. The road climbed and dropped; there were tight bits, straight bits and sharp bends. The land around became moor-like but the sea was always with me. Passing between farm buildings, I noticed slurry on the road and from there on took it easy through corners, where hedgerows shielded any view of the road ahead and where it was obvious farm traffic had passed. Old ventilation shafts from the tin mines this area was once famous for came along - and at Pendeen, a museum of mining. And then a very nice café that provided another warm-up along with coffee, a toastie and cake.

I reached Lands End and simply rode around the near empty car park before making my way in the direction of Falmouth for the night. The B3315 took me to Newlyn and Penzance, the A394 to Helston and then some minor roads to Gweek and a nearby B&B. It was dark by the time I arrived and the lanes that finally delivered me to my bed  were wet and slippery. I was ready to chill with the room picnic I had bought in Asda earlier.

The following day passed in a similar manner – the morning spent making some miles while the temperatures increased and the afternoon enjoying the coast. It suited me fine because I really wanted to ride the A379 through South Devon and knew there wouldn’t be enough time to hug the whole coast back to Dorset. The A390 and A38 took me to Plymouth and the Tamar toll bridge (free for motorcycles, just stop at the barrier and wait to be waved through). From there I made my way down the eastern edge of the city on the A374 before picking up signs to Brixton and the road that would take me all the way to Exeter.

The A379 is simply a road to be enjoyed in itself, but it’s also one that you can dive off from and into any one of the many small villages that line the coast. I made my way to Slapton Sands and then Dartmouth, where I stopped for a late coffee, before taking the lower ferry (contactless accepted) to Kingswear. Paignton and Torquay came and went, as did Teignmouth, but not without a stop at the station café (bike friendly and with toilets on the platform). Soon, I was heading East on the A3052 back to Lyme Regis, where a trip distance of 491 miles was completed and another chain adjustment became  due. It seemed that the side stand cut-out switch was the only thing not in tune with the alternative to Summer Sunday afternoon riding. It now resides in the bin; the lanes won’t miss it.  

 

Letter to Bike magazine - Oct 2020

 

This is the Z1000ST (FLA 476T) I bought direct from Kawasaki, Slough, a few months after it was tested by Bike back in 1979. It was simply wonderful, and from the sweet spot in bike history between awful and silly; tiny and Tupperware. Comfortable but not unwieldy, uncluttered and with a bulletproof motor – and believe me, like most 23 year-olds, I knew how to fire bullets at an engine – it did everything you could possibly want a bike to do. I can’t deny that motorcycle ABS has probably been the most significant safety feature since the introduction of the front brake but there was nothing like riding one of these uncomplicated superbikes, just you, the road, and the perfect machine.

 

Bike is still as good, though.  Fewer dolly birds advertising nylon over suits or draped over a Ducati 900 and the writing’s still very entertaining and informative.  However, the silencers on the ST were shot within a year and, of course, as an ex-demo there was no warranty. Did you wash it properly when you had it?

 

Rogue Male in Lockdown

        

The Royal Enfield Classic 500 I bought last October is sitting in the garage and I’m indoors fantasising about a bygone age.  I’ve just finished reading Rogue Male, a Boys Own adventure with an illustrated cover designed to spark the imagination, like the ones they had on motorcycle magazines back in the 1950s. The book’s protagonist is pursued by a deadly foreign agent across pre-war Europe before going to ground in Dorset, not too far from where I live. In the mother of all lockdowns, he digs in and hides in a burrow somewhere between Beaminster and Lyme Regis. And I intend, once this present situation is over, to take the Enfield and go look for him.

I’ll start by going East down the A3052 into Lyme Regis, where our hero risked leaving his hideaway to collect mail forwarded from London. It’s a beautiful town with views along the coast all the way in. It’s also a place to stop for coffee. Just pop into the carpark at the bottom of the main street by the little clock tower and slip through the barrier on the left - you’ll often see plenty of other bikes there. But I won’t stop, not today, I’ll continue east out of town, climbing through the long sweeping bends until I come to the A35. The Enfield likes something a bit more sedate, so I’ll go through Charmouth coming out on the A road further along. A quick right and first left will see me on the lanes towards Whitechurch Canonicorum. I use this route quite a bit and I know the bike will come into its own thumping along in 2nd or 3rd gear, the wonderful sound of its Hitchcocks exhaust ricocheting off stone buildings along the narrow lane.  There’s always grass and loose stuff up the middle, so I’ll stick to one side and take it easy through the blind turns.

From Whitechurch I’m following Sustrans cycle route 2, a road section that’s narrow and slow, ideal for the Enfield, which will need few gear changes and just chug down to bang bang and back up again. At Shave Cross I’ll go on to Broadoak. That’s where I’ll leave the cycle route and drop down to Symonsbury on Broadoak Road. It’s hereabouts that many people think the author described the hideaway's location but it’s down a hollow way track, so I’ll give it a miss and pop into West Bay for a cuppa. There’s plenty of places to choose from and ample bike parking, and a kiosk where tea is 50p a cup for bikers. From West Bay I often head out towards Weymouth on the B3157, and if you haven’t ridden it, it’s a must. The speed limit’s an ideal Royal Enfield Bullet 50 mph; the views before Abbotsbury down to The Fleet and Portland are breath-taking. 

Today though, I’d be heading north, bypassing Bridport towards Beaminster on the A3066. The Enfield will ride well on it, taking the bends at 50-55 mph in top, hitting its sweet spot and actually feeling quite smooth for a big single. Turning right onto North Street it all starts to get a bit tricky and the lanes become anonymous with few signs. The idea is to head for the Fox Inn near Corscombe to the east of the A356. In 1976, Peter O’Toole starred in a television film adaptation of Rogue Male (I got the DVD off Amazon as soon as I’d finished reading the book) and several scenes were filmed in the area, including one outside The Fox Inn. We’ve been there before, the Enfield and me, so hopefully I’ll find it again. Then it’s south and a short hop via the A356 to Rampisham, another location used in the film and one we’ve also been to on our runs through the lanes. Like at the Fox Inn, I’ll stop a while and try to work out if the place has changed much since the film was made.

There are other villages mentioned in the book within easy reach but by then, if I haven’t already stopped for a stretch, I’ll probably be getting to the stage where I’ve had enough of the Enfield’s single saddle for a bit and head back to Beaminster on the B3163. Rogue Male can wait for another day. Beaminster’s not the easiest place to find somewhere to park up in, so I’m going on to Axminster just over the border in Devon via Broadwindsor, the B3164 and then the B3165, eventually cutting across to the town on one or two of the maze of little lanes that run off the B road. Motorcycles are not charged in the South Street car park, so it’s here that I’ll stop for another cuppa at one of the many cafes - there’s even the River Cottage Kitchen, for the more discerning palette.

I’m nearly home now but I’ll make a short excursion to join up with one of Peter O’Toole’s other characters, T.E Lawrence, who he played in the 1962 film, Lawrence of Arabia.  Coming out of Axminster I’ll head west and after a short, unavoidable stint on the A35,  I’ll go south from Kilmington through Whitford to Colyton. Shortly, I’ll be back on the A3052 in Colyford not far from where I started. There’s an old garage near the tramway crossing that’s now a cycle shop and café with the most beautiful set of 1950s Avery Hardoll fuel pumps you’ll see anywhere. It’s said that Lawrence often filled up his Brough here and although these pumps are from a later decade. If you can get to them when there’s not too many cars about, they make for a great photo. 

At the end of Rogue Male our hero skinned a dead cat and made a catapult out of its pelt. When the nasty foreign agent tried to get to him, he let him have it, straight between the eyes. I’ll ride back up the hill towards home, lockdown a thing of the past.    

   

  

  

  

The Mother Road. Part 7, Nevada and California

We only popped into the state of Nevada. EagleRider had booked us a night in Loughlin, from where we would ride on to California and the final leg of our 2700 mile journey along The Mother Road. Temperatures in the Mojave desert had reached 100 degrees Fahrenheit by the time we made our way from the old gold mining town of Oatman in Arizona - now a new tourist mining town - and into Nevada. Signs along the side of the road reminded us that we were still in the real world, despite having just ridden from a place that looked straight out of a cowboy film. And like almost everything else on Route 66, these poetic versions of the modern gantry’s, watch your speed, hinted of an age where the individual contributed more than the corporation. 

If daisies are your favourite flower – keep piling on the miles-an-hour. 

He carried on driving, as the train neared – death didn’t draft him, he volunteered.

A world without you in it? – carry on at a mile a minute.

Whereas Oatman's brazen attempt to extract money from the visitor was hidden behind history – something practised the world over, from Sydney to Sidmouth – Loughlin was hiding nothing. Our hotel, a large multi-storey thing with multi-storey parking, had a foyer that squeezed in a reception desk amongst rows of slot machines and a restaurant between casinos. The whole ground floor flashed, rang, clanked and chinked… and stank of cigarette smoke.

The next day again saw the temperature rise to over 100 degrees F. The route followed the line of interstate 40, deviating now and again to pass through small settlements and towns, as the desert seemed to go on and on. The land became more scrub than sand and low hills appeared in the distance. Trains, miles long and with containers stacked two high, crossed an otherwise empty landscape. Not for the first time on this trip, we started watching the Harley’s fuel gauge. A gas station with a sign on the door telling customers that complaining about the price was futile, had petrol at twice what we’d payed elsewhere, and there was even a $10 parking fee. We rode on. To be fair, the sign also told of the high cost of maintaining such a service (toilets for customers only), the only one in 100 miles of desert. The road continued straight but the surface was broken in places and we were often down to 20 mph. In fact, for a few miles it was so bad I considered riding on the verge.

Soon we came to Roy’s Café, yet another Route 66 landmark. Although no longer a proper working café, there were cold drinks for sale and, of course, souvenirs. The owner sat by the door brandishing a pistol on his belt and only left his perch to fuel up a truck that had pulled in. The Bagdad Café was next, another place with a connection to the movies, in this case a 1987 film of the same name and one it was understandably determined to cash in on. Two coach loads and several cars arrived, so we didn’t linger.

 The night was to be spent in Victorville, one of the driest places in North America, apparently, and home to some aircraft boneyards. The route had taken us away from the interstate by now and as we continued through the Mojave, a nose cone appeared on someone’s plot. The desert, a backdrop of scrub and sand and a remote bungalow with a bit of a jet airliner out front. 

Bizarre? Well, I thought so. Until we arrived at Almer’s Bottle Ranch, that is, the most bizarre sight of them all. An area of coloured bottles mounted on posts made to look like trees blazing reflected light in the California sunshine, interspersed with various other bits of… erm, old stuff. An old army assault rifle, an old vice, an old till, old hub caps, a few old metal boxes, old metal advertising signs and a decomposing jeep that looked pretty old, all stood behind a low fence at the side of the road. A lot of it, apparently, abandoned when gold mining in the area became untenable and the miners left.  We wandered through, the only people there apart from Almer himself. Every bit the ageing hippy, Almer was a quietly spoken, seemingly self-depreciating man in his 60s by the look of it, who gave the impression there was something more to the bottle collection than he let on. As a kid, his father would take him off to the desert to collect bits of debris, bottles included, so maybe it was all part of happy childhood memories. “There’s still gold out there”, Almer said, as we walked to our bikes.

Everything changed the following day. We intended to take Highway 2 across the mountains of the Angels National Forest, leaving the desert behind and dropping in to the north of Los Angeles, before reaching EagleRider by the afternoon. The weather became cool and increasingly damp. At a fuel stop before we started on the high route, anything that could be zipped up was. The liner went into my Triumph leather jacket and Sue put a fleece on below her gortex. Cloud and mist closed in as we climbed and we saw nothing of the views which must have been there. A tanker truck appeared ahead in the grey, lumbering up the slope through continual bends, its speed at times down to 15mph. Like something out of the film Duel, the rusty heap, with its long bonnet and huge wheel nuts, looked menacing in the gloom. When we eventually managed an overtake, I looked up at the driver and saw the faint outline of a face staring straight ahead. 

We climbed and dropped, weaving through the mountains but still seeing little of them. For a short while the weather broke and blue skies returned. We stopped at a viewpoint and looked down on the wooded valleys below, conifers and scrub as far as the eye could see. It was a short respite and soon we were back in the damp, low cloud, shivering after days spent in the heat of the desert. The road became slippery and bends became things to be treated with extra care. The heated grips went on. Outside Los Angeles, coming again out of the cloud, we stopped at another viewpoint and saw the city in the distance, towering out of a fog that seemed to surround it.

After a coffee stop and warm up on the outskirts of the city, we made our way in on its busy streets. It took an age to get through the slow traffic to Santa Monica. Gone were the open roads, the empty desert, the misty mountains; here were queueing cars, crowded pavements and continual traffic lights. We said farewell to Andy at the pier (and the official end of Route 66) as he had another day before he was due to return his bike, and made our way to EagleRider.

It was a sad goodbye to the Harley; I’d grown to like the motorcycle, appreciating it for being exactly what it claimed to be: a good touring companion – spacious, trusty and strong. It threw up no surprises, delivering a steady, responsive ride. It was comfortable. But, above all, I suppose, it was iconic – the American motorcycle for an American dream road. We thanked EagleRider for a seamless journey, drank their beer – I handed them the keys, they passed a couple of cans over the counter, as if some sort of anaesthetic was needed to soften the blow of journey’s end – and walked out on to the street. I'd loved every minute, every second of the trip and it was only then, standing by the side of the road, that I felt the muscles in my face relax from the smile they’d maintained for almost two weeks.

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.