It is 5.45 am when I take a last look at the comfy houseboat on the Norfolk Broads. Steve is there with his old Skoda to drive me to Norwich railway station. I'm going to miss the boat, but even more so this young mechanic hottie I shared it with.
I take the 6.30 am train via Diss, Colchester and Ipswich to Liverpool Street station. At every station more commuters join the train on its way to London. Grey Monday morning faces, passing through grey suburbs - with me being most likely the only exception, being on my way to yet another long journey under much sunnier skies.
I follow the rush of people down into the underbelly of the London underground. A train for Victoria is waiting, already jam-packed with people. Who in his right mind would want to go through this dreadful commute every day?
At Victoria trains leave about every 15 minutes for Gatwick airport. More grey suburbs, but 40 minutes later I am at the airport. The Northwest Airlines DC-10 takes off with 30 minutes delay. The friendly conductor in the cockpit tells us that the jet stream is against us and that this will prolong our flying time to at least nine hours.
At 1515 hours local time the plane touches down at Minneapolis. It is snowing like mad outside. My seat neighbour has a new-fangled word for this; apparently the conditions are caused by the El Niño effect.
At 1645 hours my connecting flight leaves from the domestic terminal two miles away. As usual the custom officers get suspicious when they hear how long I want to stay in the US, so it's 1615 hours by the time I am through with customs. I do a sprint to catch the connecting bus to the domestic terminal. The bus driver does 60 mph on solid ice. He explains to us terrified foreigners that his shift ends after this ride and that the snow ploughs clear his parking lot for his shift end, and if he isn't there on time his car will be snowed in again. Welcome to America.
Arrival at the domestic terminal is at 1635 hours. All pax are still waiting, the plane is just docking. Entering the aircraft at 1638 hours - and the plane blocks off on time at 1645. Ten minute turnarounds are certainly unheard of in Europe.
My seat neighbour has an Arizona guide which I borrow. My original plan was to buy one myself in Minneapolis, but the delay in customs prevented that. I quickly note down the phone numbers and addresses of a few motels near the airport. Touchdown in Phoenix is at 1900 hours local time. I try a payphone at the airport, but somehow I get no connection. I give up and ask a lady at the next payphone on how to operate these things; I am told that one must not dial the area code if one is within that area. Okay, first lesson learned, and two minutes later I have a room booked at a place on Van Buren street.
The airport is called 'Sky Harbor' a first indication that these people here have a severe problem with their spelling. I suppose this all started with the declaration of independence, however it is quite unlikely that I can convince them to revoke that declaration in spite of the undeniable advantages of replacing the presidency with a monarchy.
The next stop is the Budget Rent-a-car place within the airport. A Pontiac Grand Am with fully comprehensive insurance is 65 dollars per day. The rental guys give me a map of Phoenix that looks like the Times crossword puzzle on steroids; everything is rectangular. But while driving into town I quickly realise that 2.8 million city dwellers in Arizona need about as much space as all of London; and everything is indeed rectangular, there never is a bend in the roads.
It is 75 degrees Fahrenheit outside, with a mild breeze going - just perfect and exactly how I imagined this "Sun Valley" to be.
I check into my motel, pick up diner at grease world and buy a bottle of Chardonnay at a nearby liquor store, thus ending this long day exactly 24 hours after waking up on the Norfolk Broads.
A cop is frisking a Latino outside of my motel when I leave my room this morning. Yes, he knows where the vehicle licensing department is. An hour later a patient licensing officer explains to me in detail all the possible pitfalls of registering a motor vehicle in the state of Arizona. Fellow bikers may find this information useful; any vehicle has a "Certificate of Title" on whose backside the previous owner can 'sign over' the vehicle to the buyer. So far similar to a British V5 document.
The potential pitfall: the title may contain a 'lien' - yes, these people really can't spell, they mean a 'loan' - against the vehicle, meaning it is held as collateral against a loan. If a "lien" is on the title, then a "lien clearance" must be attached to it to confirm that the loan has been fully paid, otherwise the new vehicle owner inherits the loan obligations with the newly purchased vehicle and the licensing department will refuse to issue a new title.
I need some dollars, so I visit a bank at a nearby supermarket. I am told that they only change foreign currency at the main branch downtown. So off I am into town. While the lady at the bank fills out a plethora of forms for me to sign I borrow the local Yellow Pages and write down the names and addresses of a few motorbike dealerships in the vicinity.
The next port of call are those motorbike dealerships I noted down at the bank. I wonder what type of bike I should get for myself? Dennis H. & Peter F. did their tour on Harleys. I once drove one. It rode like a Bavarian brewery horse with a colic and had a triple brake system; a main brake consisting of two large cylinders of about 600 cc each and two emergency brakes: a front and a rear disc system. But only in emergencies did I get any real deceleration out of those. Fellow Englishmen are advised not to comment about this brand of motorcycle in this way while US bikers are present. The result for you could be comparable to the siege of Yorktown in 1781.
A BMW then? Hmmh, dear reader, have you ever driven one? I once rode an R80GS. Every gearshift produces a sound orgy comparable to your local scrap yard during an earthquake force 9 on the Richter scale. There is an artificial neutral position somewhere between third and fourth gear and the suspension system is a direct copy from a 1972 Cadillac Fleetwood Eldorado. If you ride it on the North Pole you will appreciate that the cylinders are positioned right in front of the foot pegs. I rode mine in the Karoo...
Dear BMW riders whom I have met all over the place, keep on reading as no further assaults of mine will be aimed at your pride & joy from here onward. Fellow Englishmen are advised not to comment about this brand of motorcycle in this way while in Germany, especially while in Bavaria. The result for you could be comparable to the battle of Dunkirk in 1940.
Some Japanese cheese & butter alloy, that will do. Reliable it has to be. I don't want to waste time with replacing broken bits. The second dealership I visit this morning is rather posh and specialises in ATV's, but also has about 100 motorbikes for sale. I notice a 1985 Honda CB 450, here in the US called 'Nighthawk', with a 1986 tax sticker and only 8600 miles on the clock. The old tax sticker means that the previous owner either drove the bike untaxed or that it has spent the past nine years in storage. I remember the image that South African beamer owner showed around to demonstrate his disgust about Japanese bikes:
Unfortunately some kid is just testing the Nighthawk, as apparently it just came in this morning. I wait. The kid vanishes after about one hour, but has paid 100 dollars deposit on the bike.
I have a chit-chat with Kevin, the salesman. After placing one hundred bucks as a deposit and signing a zillion forms that I won't sue them if the Honda explodes under my bum during the ride I am allowed to test her myself. Hmm, a slightly unstable idling and the small engine needs quite some revs before it bites. Yeah, but the agility and the low weight is exactly what I want.
Back at the dealership a wad of Yankee dollars persuade Kevin to think about his commission rather than the poor kid's deposit. There is a "lien" on the title, but the clearance is attached to it. 2000 dollars pass over the counter and I get a full service for free. Hand-over is agreed for lunchtime tomorrow.
I am in festive mood and buy a selection of beers to see what the United States have on offer here. That turns out to be the worst decision I have made so far during this journey; the stuff is so weak, it's like making love in a canoe - it's f*****g close to water. And they don't do South African Castle or Windy anywhere. With luck you may get some European Imports. I suggest you buy Mexican Sol or Corona or Japanese stuff. My selection of well known US brands ends in the toilet of my motel room. I'd give ten bucks for a cold Castle from Zim.
I call the rental company and arrange for the return of the car tomorrow, then watch the 'Weather Channel' on channel 42 of the TV.
American breakfast at a 24 hour diner. This nation will exterminate itself through over-indulgence. $1.99 for sausage, bacon, eggs, pancakes and some sort of mashed potatoes, called 'hash browns' here. All that is washed down with a weak brown juice they call "coffee". I don't know what is in that juice, but it certainly is not coffee. Just in case any of my North American readers want to know how real coffee is made, here are the instructions:
And a warning to fellow non-US bikers about the use of the word "Yankee"; for us from the Old World any US citizen is a lost colonist and deserves this title ever since our foggy island was used as an unsinkable aircraft carrier by the US Air Force in World War II (or maybe since the Yorktown battle...). The use of that title in areas of the US which were members of the Confederate States of America during the Civil War may achieve unexpected results. I have seen GI's from Texas in an English pub staying perfectly calm when some unfavourable comments were made about the Yankees general sexual prowess, only to take offence five minutes later when someone suggested that a Chevy Blazer is superior to a Tahoe. The Tahoe is built in Arlington, Texas.
Anyway, I need some bike kit and an insurance policy. I pick up the trusted Yellow Pages and call the first insurance company listed. They quote $56 for six month. At that rate I don't bother with a second quote and just drive out there to fetch the policy. They won't accept any cash and explain this to me with security risks. I guess the monthly hold-up is due today. They send me to the Circle K store next door where they draw me a "money order" for a fee of 69 cents. The Circle K apparently isnot due for a hold-up this week.
Back at the licensing department on Jefferson Street there is a long queue of people waiting on rows of chairs for their turn. Ah, like the good ol' times back at our local vehicle licensing place in Alexandra. That's going to take hours. I add my name to the list on the counter. 16 names are still ahead of mine. They have a cafeteria in the basements where vending machines offer refreshments.
I'm back at the queue after about 30 minutes and only two names remain ahead of mine. Now, that is serious! A country with an efficient civil service? No wonder they think they are top nation. Maybe it's true. Well, I'm here to find out.
Less than an hour after entering the building I leave it again with a title in my name and a brand new tax sticker valid until 1996.
I also buy a cheap Chinese tool set for 15 bucks (hoping that I'll never have to use it) and some chain grease at a hardware store. The salesman there tells me that most bike and bike equipment shops in town are around Care Creek road, so that's where I'm heading to next. I know exactly the kind of helmet I want; the type used by the evil cop in "Terminator II".
All our lives these people bombard us with their Tinseltown rubbish, so who can blame me for ensuring that my US journey is up to my expectations? Let's see if the picture fits. I find the helmet, it's actually called "HJC - FG II" and is 'Made in Korea'.
I fill up the Pontiac. Fuel goes for one dollar per US gallon. The rental guys drive me out to the dealership where my shiny Honda is waiting in the yard. I put my new tax sticker on the plate and go for a brief test ride out of town.
I take an easterly route out of the city. A sign tells me that I am entering the Salt River Indian Reservation. Civilisation ends immediately and the bungalows of the rich give way to shacks and mobile homes. Even the road deteriorates. The difference to Soweto is that the dwellers of these shacks all have a pick-up truck parked outside. So this is where the invading Yanks have deported the Native population to. The difference to South Africa does not seem so great here.
The road changes to a gravel path and I reach a dead end. The shacks are evenly spread here, each at least a quarter mile from its neighbour. Even the slum dwellers need ten times the space in this country. If one would do that with Soweto, then the Highveld would be full!
A pack of wild hounds appears and begin to fight with each other about who is having me for supper. I have to kick them to persuade them to change the menu. Two kids, both about 8 years old and armed with stones come around the nearest bush and shout at the dogs. The pack disappears quickly. They obviously have a high degree of respect for the marksmanship of the pair. The kids look exactly like I imagined them to be after a lifetime of watching John Wayne shooting them galore; long black hair, dark-brown skin and quite some embroidery attached to their clothes. They drop the stones and smile and waive at me. Hey, that wasn't in those movies!
Looking around I see quite a few people watching me. This is an ordinary weekday, but the number of able bodied males around here apparently regarding me as the highlight of their day would point to a considerable employment problem with the Native Americans. The kids walk back to the 1950's streamlined aluminium trailer they obviously live in. A man with a beer can in his hand shouts at them. I make a mental note that Native Americans since the European invasion have obviously developed a liking only for a limited assortment of White Mans inventions - among which are Pick Up Trucks, air conditioning and weak US-made beer. Nine to Five most certainly is way off the list.
The guy with the can comes over and asks what I want. I tell him that I'm a bit lost and whether there is a different track back into town. I give him my map. He unfolds it and then needs about 3 milliseconds to find the exact spot of unmarked brown desert where we currently are. He points into the desert towards sundown and tells me that if I ride into that direction for about four miles I will find another unmarked track. Follow that westwards and after three miles I'll hit a tarmac road to Scottsdale.
That information proves to be absolutely spot on!
I'll make a mental note to reclassify Native Americans as possibly the only people in this land able to read a map or give precise directions outside of towns.
I'm contemplating to ride back and ask the chap about tomorrows weather. His forecast should probably be much better than what those guys from Channel 42 could come up with. Hmmh, rather not. His kids wouldn't be as happy as they looked today if in a year from now they'd live in a palace in town paid for by Daddy's vast income as star forecaster of Channel 42.
Phoenix is a big place - because everyone needs a lot of space here. And they have loads of "Pawn Shops". I have no idea what that is, so I just stop and visit one on Indian School Road.
Ah, I realise that "Pawn shop" is probably another spelling error, "Loan shark" is the name for these places where I come from. The fat, bearded blob behind the counter is an absolute Original down to the gold chains and tattoos. It's not busy, so he explains the rules of engagement; depending on which state of the US you are in, the maximum interest rates chargeable by law vary significantly. Two percent per month in Illinois, 25 percent in Arizona. So very few pawn shops in Illinois, and loads down here. So how does it work? Well, explains the blob, if one is in financial trouble then you "pawn" (i. e. take a loan out against) your possessions. Thumb rule is; first the guns, then the sporting equipment, then everything else, car and television set last. So if I get $1000 for my stuff, after a month I'll have to pay $1250 to get it back. After 12 month they belong to the blob and he can sell them at his leisure.
Sticking to my memories of Arnie in Terminator II I ask the blob what he wants for that Remington 870 pump action behind him in a display rack. Well, he wants 450 bucks, that sounds quite reasonable, and he'll throw in a box of cartridges for free. He shows me his T-Shirt; "Protect your right to bear arms". If I have an Arizona driving license I could buy the gun right away, for a handgun I would need a police certificate, proving that I haven't taken part in any of the usual hold-ups recently.
I'd rather go for a Canon camera instead and protect my right to arm bears. Otherwise these pages wouldn't show any images. $130 for the SLR camera with a 28, a 50 and a 125mm lens. Not bad. Films are sold in drugstores, so I get a few of those as well.
It's coming down in buckets this morning. I thought this was "Sun Valley"? The presenter on channel 42 talks of El Niño. That rings a bell, where have I heard of that fellow recently? It seems that in California they are having a years rainfall in a week. And the outer areas of this unusual weather reach all the way into the desert. Murphy's law. They must have cut out the bits from "Easy Rider" where Dennis & Peter rode on Route 66 in full rain-gear.
Wiser men than myself suggest to make the best of it, so I take the carburetors of the Honda apart. Ah, there is the reason for the idling problem: years of standstill have turned the gasoline (another drastic case of a spelling problem, they really mean 'petrol') into a gunky coating that will not dissolve. I clean the chamber and jets thoroughly and the engine runs and idles much smoother afterwards. I wonder what that 'full service' consisted of that Mike the salesman had supposedly carried out yesterday? Possibly another spelling problem, maybe full service in the U.S. means that they dust off the paintwork?
Not much else one can do today, so I have plenty of energy and visit a bar at about noon. I talk to a chap who introduces himself as Earl King. Given that weird name I conclude that these people here have some hidden longing for aristocratic toffs. Another argument to ditch the presidency, revoke the declaration of independence and re-introduce the monarchy.
Earl is from here and is interested in my journeys around the world. He is a hard working sales rep, but the furthest he ever has travelled is to Bangor in Maine. I know that Maine is somewhere in New England, so I fetch my pocket map of the USA and ask him to show me where that is. He can't. He's not even ever near New England. How on Earth does he get there? Well, apparently it's a few hours flight. He hires a car and would find his way around town without a map, as he's been there several times. This is bizarre. I make a mental note to reclassify the average Yank's (Native Americans of course excluded) geographical and general knowledge to that of someone who believes the earth is flat and shaped like the Pentagon.
Channel 42 has predicted sunny weather for this afternoon. They are right. US weather forecast reclassified by me to top level performer.
Time for some biking, so I head north-west of Phoenix towards Lake Pleasant. There is an airfield out here with a gliding school. Fees are staggering at the "Turf Soaring School" in comparison to club fees in Europe or Africa; introduction $45, renting a low-performance Schweizer 1-26 $20 per hour, aerotow to 1000ft $15, each extra 100ft cost 60 cents.
The weather however is still cold and overcast, no good for biking or soaring the skies, but I don't mind. A note is stuck on the wall of the flying school with today's weather; cloud base 1100ft, ceiling 7500ft, beware of icing. On the way back it starts to rain. Badly. That was not what Channel 42 said this morning. By the time I'm back at the motel I'm completely soaked. US weather forecast reclassified now to crystal ball readers.
At the bar in the evening I meet Rob from Sacramento in California. There seems to be a lot of 'passing through' going on in this place. Rob moved there from Rochester, New York, in 1990 to get away from the rain. In 1992 the house he had bought was badly damaged by the Cape Mendocino earthquakes. He rebuild it with the insurance money, a special design to withstand earthquakes. The following year it was completely destroyed by the bad fires they had that year. Rob was lucky, his insurance paid out. Lot's of others went bust. He build on the same spot, same design, but with a large cleared area around and a cistern with water for fire fighting.
Last week his house was washed down the hillside in a mudslide after the county had a years average of rain in one week. Rob has had enough of California. A country only for pioneers he calls it. And blames El Niño. I make a mental note not to like this El Niño fellow and will give California a wide berth on this journey.
The rain has stopped and the sun is drying the last puddles from the road. I buy a pair of leather saddlebags and all the other kit needed to live off the road for the next few weeks. Then it's time for some serious mileage.
The wind has blown this El Niño thing away, and it is near 70 degrees when I set off from Phoenix due east on US Highway 60. Phoenix is so big, that it takes nearly an hour to leave the urban area. Near Florence Junction I realise that the recent rains have turned the desert into a blooming paradise. That is because here a stretch of about 30 miles is grey and dull. No rain has fallen here. Then, like a cut with a knife, the vegetation returns.
In England I have a neighbour who is very proud of her Cacti. She has some that are two feet high and have taken years of patient care to grow that high. She even plays music to them. Supposedly Bach and Elgar are very beneficial. But here these buggers grow over 20 ft high like weed and the only music is the howl of the sand and the wind. Should I try a recording? I'd probably be the star of the British cactus growing community.
The ride is sheer bliss. Phoenix elevation is 1100 ft. At Florence I am at 1500 ft and from there the road climbs steadily on. 40 miles later at Oracle junction 3300 ft are passed. Highway 77 is pure motorbike country with winding roads and very little traffic. The next city is Mammoth, known for its mining history.
In spite of the time of year and the altitude the temperature is still about 55 degrees. I wonder what a furnace this is in mid-summer. Beyond Mammoth spectacular views of the Rocky Mountains open before me.
Traffic is non-existent except for a yellow school bus. What a life one has as a kid in this country! The school run to Mammoth takes over an hour. The air is crystal clear and the road curves upwards to 5000ft. The view is spectacular and unchanged from the day the first white folks came along here in the 1840's, though they probably had no eye for the beauty of the desert - they were after the green pastures of California. Someone should have told them about El Niño, maybe Hollywood would still be a shady woodland and the movie production Gone with the Wind... I have a break to enjoy the view. None of the few air-conditioned limos stops to enjoy the tranquillity of the place. Rush, rush. Then a pick-up stops and its passengers admire the place. Native Americans! Who'd guessed...
Six miles to the north and 1500ft below I reach Globe. Phoenix is less than 90 miles away as the crow flies. I have done a huge southward diversion. And every single mile was worth it. Like any small US city it has a selection of motels for the weary traveller. How to find the best one? Here is a trick I have found to work in all countries and cultures; step into the first barber shop you see and ask. Barbers always know everything about these sleepy backwater towns. As usual I am immediately warned about certain brightly lit tourist traps on Main Street and find myself redirected to the 'Willows Motel', a cosy place in a quiet side road. The Honda has survived the first serious day of the journey with honours. A slight instability of the front end is quickly cured by pressurising the front fork to 10 psi. Passing through all these little towns today I noticed a peculiar sequence in which shops are positioned when entering them; first a liquor store, then a gun shop and then a McDonalds. So one gets plastered, buys a gun and blasts away grease world? I have my diner at the Scotsman's before this can happen and end the day listening to more fairy tales from Channel 42. What a splendid start into this journey.
Below isn't the usual map with my GPS tracklog (GPS wasn't available before May 2, 2000.
Instead I have plotted the original route from my diary entries and my old paper charts.)