The Journey Retold

This is an abridged version of "Route 66 – the journey never ends"… coming to a church, but probably not to a cinema near you, as often as you look interested enough to hear about it…….

5 blokes, 5 new Harley motorcycles, 1 USofA, 7 states, 3 time zones and a great adventure! This is the story of our momentous trip along Route 66, the highway which stretches for 2500 miles from Chicago to Los Angeles.

Sunday the 5^th April and as you were celebrating Palm Sunday back in Fulwood, we were standing bleary-eyed in the check-in queues at Manchester ready to begin our big trip. We’d started planning for this over 18 months before – principally so that we could both celebrate becoming middle-young!

We arrived in Chicago later on Sunday to find a cold, steely-grey city expecting snow. Spring had definitely not arrived and we went out for dinner in a basement Italian restaurant run by Chinese people (you fill in the gaps) toasting each other about the trip to come.

We had arranged to pick up our bikes on Monday, before setting off properly on the Tuesday. The only problem here was that as I rode away on the bike I had chosen months before, I realised, a) it was too small, b) that it was very uncomfortable and c) it wouldn’t go very far between fill-ups. An hour later, John and I had returned to the hire place and I was now sitting on a bigger, fatter Harley which looked and sounded like an aircraft carrier. Just as well that Wendy is very understanding!

We covered our first 1000 miles in four days, riding across huge open plains in Illinois and Missouri, whizzing through small and generally quiet towns and over the river Mississipi at St Louis.

To escape the rain, we stopped one morning at a biker’s bar just off the main road. This was a place which served beef and beer, where the heat came up through a big metal vent in the floor and where pictures hung of bikers who, unfortunately, had ridden the road into the next life. Our barmaid was Angie who appeared surprised to see any customers at this time of the morning, but chatted to us in a friendly way. Respecting the spirit of the place, we ordered coffee and looked disappointed when she told us that she didn’t have any cake!

We passed quickly through the ranch lands of Oklahoma and Kansas before being welcomed into Texas by a torrential thunderstorm. I got lost briefly whilst taking photographs before guessing at the route the others had taken and catching them up apologetically. As the evening drew in, we arrived at Amarillo. We still do not know why Tony Christie would think any one would want to go there. What a dump!!

We covered our final miles in Texas quickly and as we crossed the state line into New Mexico, the road climbed until the landscape opened up into a series of gigantic plains, stretching for miles on either side. The soil was turning a yellow, arid colour and whilst there were clumps of a gorse-like bush all around, you could tell we were moving into a new stage of the journey.

Riding was difficult at times in some very strong headwinds, not helped by the friendly American truckers who think nothing of overtaking you at 75mph+ when you are cruisin’ along in the inside lane. To add insult to injury, we were asked for ID in a Pizza Hut in Alberquque – to prove we were over 18.

In the next few days, we moved on through Arizona, marvelled at the Painted Desert, slept in a wigwam and took a detour up to Monument Valley in which John Wayne made most of his films. Another dramatic day ensued as we travelled in a dust storm from Monument Valley across to the base of the Grand Canyon where to our joy and delight, it began to snow. "Awesome" is now an overused word – but not in the case of the Canyon.

After a night spent in the unreal city which is Las Vegas, we began the final stage of our journey from Arizona and into California. The sunshine state did not disappoint, although at one point, its roads did! We took a wrong turn, which immediately became apparent as John in front quickly came to a halt in a cloud of dust. One 15 mile section of Route 66 was in the worst repair of the whole trip, with shuddering ridges in the road and loose chippings, spiced up by the sun setting directly in our eyes. I was composing my complaint to Arnie the Governor as I went along!

That didn’t seem to matter as on the following day and after a combined total of 3200 miles, we rode onto Santa Monica pier in Los Angeles. The sun was high in the sky, the sand was white and we took lots of pictures. The Mother Road had been very kind to us and the trip was over.