I leave Conroe after 10am on Interstate 45 North, but after a few miles I turn eastwards onto Farm Road 150 into the heart of the forest. It's like Switzerland and the temperature rises quickly into the high 50's. From Lake Livingston onwards the grass remains always green, there are no more brown, dried out areas. And it turns wetter with every mile I make eastward. Highway 190 rolls through more forests towards the Louisiana border. The "historic markers" here date from around 1820 as compared to the 1840's in the West of Texas or the 1870's in Arizona. Not a single one I have ever found that mentioned any feat or any achievement carried out by those Americans that came to the country about 25000 years before those guys celebrated on these markers did - the possible exception from this rule is shown below (found a couple of days ago in New Mexico):
I am criss-crossing now between the Rayburn and the Toledo Bend reservoirs, continuing eastwards on secondary tracks and farm roads. This is great motorcycle country. My destination is a hill-billy hideout called Hemphill. Have they lynched so many here that the name got stuck, I wonder?
Maybe 1000 inhabitants, a few shops (liquor, guns... - you've guessed it) and a notable decrease in Stetsons paired with an equally notable increase in non-white folks.
The Louisiana border runs through the middle of the Toledo reservoir and a vast bridge spans the water. The ground turns ever more wet and for the first time I smell that sweet, rotting smell of the famous Louisiana swamps. It is impossible to explain that unique odour in words, but Chanel would certainly land a flop if they'd try replacing No. 5 with it. Here is an impression of this countryside:
Highway 6 continues through the woodlands to a place called Natchitoches. Even after listening to the Natives saying that name multiple times I still can't really pronounce it myself. Outside a burger forge (next to guns, pawn etc.) I have a chat with some High School kids and soon find out that the place is famous for its Elite High School and its university. There is not much going on in this Hill-billy country town, so the kids have developed a fierce rivalry between the High School and the university populations and pranks are played on each other as a regular form of extracurricular entertainment. That these kids are plotting their schemes next to the town gun shop makes me somewhat concerned, but I soon discover that firm rules of engagement exist and grievous bodily harm may only be applied to an extend allowing the victims to sit class next morning.
I am also told that the only visitors to this place are rich parents coming here to check on the academic achievements of their offspring, seemingly a well dreaded routine from the viewpoint of the kids. Consequently only a rather up-market "Super 8" and "Days Inn" motel are available. There is however a possible compensation for this in the form of a party going on tonight at the "Yesterday" bar in town. Incidentally the (rich) kid throwing the party is the centrepiece of this motley congregation I am presently with and he invites me on the spot to join in.
So by 8 pm I join a group of young Yanks at the bar from all over the country for another dose of the American Way of Live.
Quite a few of the kids have been abroad and some have even done more than the usual "Europe in 5 days" tours (...what, Wednesday? This must be Paris then). I manage to have a few quite educated conversations with some of them, which due to the dismal general education level is something of a rare occurrence in this country and therefore the more so enjoyable. Asked about my opinion of the U. S. I remark that to me it seems that only 10 percent of the people in this land have the brains, and that the other 90 percent are a herd of sheep permanently shouting "America is great". Surprisingly my opinion is readily seconded by the majority of the kids.
Tomorrow I'll be among the sheep again, so I enjoy the current company and the free Corona beer.
The Honda's rear tyre is as smooth as the surface of the Louisiana highways. But the weather is dry and stable, so I will tweak a few more miles out of it. That's not really a very smart decision, I admit, as I'll have to replace it soon anyway and I won't be able to use up the new tyre during my remaining time in the United States. But with the good weather I can't be bothered to shop around for tyres in this hill-billy outback area.
Via Alexandria I travel on Highway 1 to New Roads, a few miles north-west of Baton Rouge. For me the towns most poignant feature is the False River Airport; 5000 feet of runway for a village of just 5000 inhabitants. Imagine that in Europe. The countryside is flat as a pancake and the living standards of many people out here are abominable; greyish wooden buildings, peeling paint and ramshackle cars from the 1970's are lining the roads. Rubbish is fly-tipped in many places. Then add to all that the permanent smell of the rotting swamps all around. Not the finest of neighbourhoods, I suppose.
But for biking the area is excellent and the temperature reaches up to about 60 degrees. A few miles beyond New Roads I reach the Mississippi. Other than in the old song that river is not wider than a mile here, because this far South it has already split into several smaller arms, but I'm going to cross it in style anyway; there is a free ferry service provided. I suppose if they'd charge for it, then many of the local people probably couldn't afford to cross the river.
After continuing my ride on the far side, the border to the state of Mississippi is soon reached. If anything then the desolate state of many buildings is getting even worse out here. The black population is more numerous than ever and the average age of cars on the road peaks at 25 years plus. This countryside with its Shantytowns reminds me more of the lesser parts of Soweto than of the "Land of the Free". It is obvious that the American dream has most carefully circumnavigated this entire region.
By now it is 5.30 pm and it is getting dark. A look at the map reveals that Gulfport and Biloxi are the nearest places were I can evade marauding alligators and Cajun hill-billies.
However, the first two motels I check on are fully booked. I am lucky to finally get an overpriced room in a Motel 6. The explanation for this popularity of Gulfport on a weekend is quickly discovered; Gulfport and Biloxi are the gambling towns of the deep south and especially at weekends hard-bitten Cajuns burn the money saved for repainting their houses at the cities gaming tables instead. And aside from gambling and some charter fishing trips there is only an international gathering of Elvis Presley going on here. The participants are occupying several rooms. I find a ready explanation for the numerous reports of sightings of "The King"; three of them spend this evening at the motel pool, two young one's and one clone from his oversized period...
A war is waged throughout the United States. The Burger War! McDonald's and Burger King are fighting it out nationwide. Whoppers go for 99 cent, Big Macs for 95 cent. Hamburgers are 29 cents apiece, cheeseburgers cost just 10 cents more.
With those prices even I am tempted to pick my food from these Grease Kings more often than is good for me. Long live the American Junk Food, particularly if one can have three hot meals a day for under 6 dollars.
After yet another such hearty though unhealthy burger orgy I join Interstate 49 North towards Wiggins, far away from those gambling Cajuns. Then on via Highway 29 into the De Soto National Forest. This is indeed a true Biker country.
George County, Mississippi where I am now, however, is also about the most run down area I have seen so far. Living conditions I saw around Lusaka in Africa are paradise compared with what the biggest economy on Earth has on offer here. But alas, the roads are good and the lakes and swamps start looking quite pretty after two days and even the smell gets bearable. I end the day after moderate 220 miles in the outskirts of Mobile, Alabama. My proximity to urban America is unusual, but motorcycle tyres are rarely found in the deep of Cajun country. As it still is quite early in the afternoon I have some time left to sample the life in the far south.
Mobile was founded a couple of years ago (1711) by the French, who named it after a local tribe of Native Americans. As a result of the turbulent Seven Years' War Britain gained control of the town; Mobile became British in 1763. When the misguided colonists of New England decided to ditch King George and rig their own shop due to some import tax disputes a few years later, there were no resources left to defend this far outpost and the Spanish took the opportunity and occupied the place in 1780.
After the second Anglo-American war (which inexplicably again failed to convince the emerging US American nation to return into the lap of the British Empire) the town was finally incorporated into the fledgling United States in 1813.
But even 180 years of US influence have not managed to diminish the influence those three "Old World" countries had on the city. If you ignore the Mickey Mouse type replica of the old French Fort Condé, one soon is enchanted by the flair and architecture of the "old" Downtown Area around Dauphin Way and other historic places throughout the town.
Where we Europeans either bombed many of our historic places to pulp during WW II or wrecked them with the 60's and 70's architectonic catastrophes, Mobile has retained the flair of the unspoilt grandeur of e.g. Prague, featuring architectural styles from all of above mentioned nations. Even builders of more recent buildings appear to have been in awe of the various styles and have made a decent attempt to "blend in".
Even the burger forges, McDonald's and Burger King, hide their colourful dumping price adverts behind stylish facades - and their competition in the form of real restaurants and seafood places is fierce.
After two hours and a really impressive (though expensive) stew I begin to understand what US Americans call the "Southern Way".
After a good nights sleep I get up early and have the worn tyre replaced.
The replacement tyre costs me $92.50. By 11.30am I am already back on the road. The diameter of the rear wheel has so drastically increased by the new tyre that I notice the engine's lower rev's at the same speed.
Hurricane season in this part of the planet is from June to September. Presently therefore, there is no chance for one of those things to spoil the ride. So I decide to take the bike along the coastline of the Gulf of Mexico, by heading south from Mobile towards Dauphin Island. There is a ferry service to Fort Morgan.
This ferry ride allows me to continue my journey basically directly along the coastline all the way to Pensacola. After crossing Escambia Bay on the Interstate 10 bridge I continue eastwards on Highway 90, which runs more or less parallel to Interstate 10. This means that the road is practically empty, as everyone takes the faster Interstate instead.
But even this secondary Highway is straight and boring, so at Grand Ridge I decide on the spot to circumnavigate the vast Lake Seminole to spice up the ride. This artificial reservoir is fed by several rivers and about 30 miles long and on average 5 miles wide. But the trip is worth it, the scenery is grand. Highway 90 gets me on to the Northern shores of the lake and into Georgia. By now I certainly have accumulated a nice collection of Confederate States on my trip so far. Every single one of them either did throw its luck in with Jefferson Davis or at least sent troop contingents (as quite a few were no states but merely territories in 1861) to support the Confederacy.
On the Eastern shore of the lake Highway 39 is a rather unusual road; for 25 miles there is not the slightest bend in it, it leads due South and you can see trucks approaching from miles away. I thoroughly enjoy myself. The day ends with a sunset just as beautiful as today's sunrise was in the hamlet of Reynoldsville.
The fortune tellers of Channel 42 are promising even higher temperatures for tomorrow.
After three weeks on the Honda, the rhythm of motel rooms, junk food and endless hours riding through the countryside has become so natural that I wonder if I ever lived any differently.
However, now being 4000 miles out of Phoenix, unless I turn North I am running out of Confederate States. Florida will be the last one I will visit on the bike. The land is flat as a pancake but today it is much warmer, around 65°F. I bypass Tallahassee and take HW 65 south through the Apalachicola National Forest.
US Highway 98 rolls through the flat countryside and I end the day at Gainesville in yet another Motel 6. After a shower I have a drink at a dingy waterhole nearby. At the bar I meet Charlie. He works as a cop at Disneyworld in Orlando. He is on his way to work after a vacation and has to be there by tomorrow afternoon. Charlie assumes that I will go and see the marvels of his workplace. I have to disappoint him and explain that I came to view the country, but am not overly interested in this type of "American Way of Life".
Charlie is unimpressed, he tells me a lot about his workplace and "you would not believe it" is an often used expression. After two hours and several beers Charlie suggests that I come there and he promises a personal guided tour in his patrol car and things no tourist normally sees. Sounds interesting enough and we agree to meet tomorrow at 4.30 pm.
It's just over 100 miles to Orlando, so I take a late start and stop soon for a lazy brunch at a Denny's junk food emporium. Then along Interstate 75 and Highway 27, where the All American Attraction of Disneyworld already covers many of the road signs.
It is early afternoon on a January weekday, so the massive parking lot is near empty and I can ride up close to the gate. A beaming black face awaits me; Charlie is as good as his word and diverts me to a supply gate half a mile down the road. He opens the gate and we put my Honda and the baggage in a lockable shed. A few minutes later I realize that I also left my camera on the bike, so unfortunately there won't be any pictures today.
We are off in Charlie's immaculate white-and-gold coloured patrol car. Disneyworld has its own guard team, a small jail and an interrogation room - it makes me wonder what these kiddies (and their parents) visiting these attractions may be up to on occasion...
We take a stroll through English Town and German Town, where every cliché that U.S. Americans may ever have heard about life in the "Old World" is exaggerated to the utmost. Full-bearded bobbies! Scotland Yard would raid this place if they'd know about it. A miniature Buckingham Palace complete with guards in pillboxes. What kind of fulfilling career must it be to earn your money staring straight ahead and do a mock change of guards every 10 minutes in front of screaming kids and obese females? But then... the same question one could ask our boys in England doing the real thing.
In German Town the animators are actually from Germany, and we have a chat with Monika who sells German 'Delikatessen' and which I believe Charlie has a crush on. I have however grudgingly to say that some of the stuff they sell here is of excellent and original quality.
While Charlie chats up Monika I have a word with a 'typical Bavarian'. Thomas is around 40, pretty fat and earns his money driving a brewery wagon & horses around and to lift kids in, give them a short ride and talk with the strongest possible German accent to them.
This Original Bavarian is from Oldenburg near the North Sea Coast, about 600 miles away from Munich. He owns a farm with his brother and has taken a year off 'to zee Amerika' on a limited green-card. Though he certainly isn't the most sensitive type around he complains bitterly about the shallowness and insincerity of the populace. He tells me that he spends most of his spare time with other Germans and that he has not made any friends among the locals. "And if you want to enjoy the famous wide open countryside of the US you are nowhere worse off than in Orlando. All swamps, alligators and tourists". One unhappy Kraut, I'd say.
Charlie's conversation must have been more positive than mine, as he is in the finest mood. Through a gate we disappear behind the Towns and emerge in a monstrous cargo terminal, totally invisible for the droves of tourists just 100 yards away. A sheer endless line of trucks awaits unloading. Thousands of tons of goods must disappear every day in this incredible black hole in the swamps. Orlando is a sizeable town, but Disneyland's acreage appears to be only insignificantly smaller if compared with the town. And the throngs of visitors work through this endless supply as quickly as it can be rolled in. I am not certain if I should be impressed or disgusted.
But Charlie's charm carries us on past the the Magic Kingdom's rear doors and then in a long drive along Bay Lake down to Epcot Center, where the bullied, bespectacled outsiders from classrooms all over the the US of A press their faces against the glass protecting the latest Gizmos and Gadgets. Their faces show pure awe amidst the pimples and I have the distinct impression that here the brains of future spacecraft engineers, weapon designers and presidential advisers are formed, who will soon send their more ordinary classmates to Mars, Wars and the White House. Ten percent decision makers, the rest just sheep following the herd. Do I indeed slowly begin to understand how this country ticks? I doubt it...
It is now after six and it is time to hit the road. Charlie strictly refuses any payment for this special treatment. He gives me his card and invites me to visit him whenever I am around here next time. For once this sounds genuine.
At a quarter to seven I am back on the road. The sun is about to disappear behind the horizon, so I pick a small private motel at Haines City, buy a bottle of South African wine and a novel (Frank Herbert's "Dune") and end the day quite pleasantly.
Another Highway, this time Highway 17, and I am rolling away from Walt's dream world, southwards through the Everglades. At Arcadia's municipal airstrip Laura and her husband (I have forgotten his name, because most of the time I was there he was airborne) operate a small commercial gliding school. This place is already a lightyear away from Disneyworld. Nissen huts, fuel bowsers - I miss this atmosphere. Laura is doing the clerical side of the business, but has clocked up a few hundred hours in gliders and has a PPL and does tugging when needed. Even in Florida it isn't overly busy at a local airfield in February, so there is time for some talking and comparing.
No, I don't have a PPL. A pity, because the Piper Cub is also available - at $32.95 an hour wet - eat your heart out, European power pilots. The Gliders are a Schweizer 1-26 (US build, you must be American to grow attached to them), Jeans Astir and an ASK 13. All in a rather dilapidated condition, but what would one expect at a commercial operation?
I stay for three hours at the airfield and then decide to continue towards Punta Gorda, a small town on the Gulf coast. I know the place from back in '82.
On my way I pick up diner at 'Sonic', where one is served in ones car (bike) by girls on roller skaters! Another scenario I have previously only seen in the Yank movies.
Punta Gorda on the West Coast is much quieter than the buzzing East Coast with its tourist centres around Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Many US citizens retire to this type of place. This shows in what entertainment is offered: Bingo Halls instead of bars...
In 1982 I was on another tour of the States. I was in this part of the country, looking for a cosy place to hang out. For a quiet holiday Punta Gorda is just about the right place; a sleepy and quiet backwater with few tourists, a couple of motels and ideally positioned to quickly get to Tampa, St. Petersburg, Ft. Myers or Miami.
It hasn't changed a lot all in all those years. From here I intend to travel around to sell the Honda. Today however I'll do one last trip just for the fun of it; around Florida's largest lake, Okeechobee, a clean 300 miles plus ride. The lake is a real beauty, near circular and measures maybe 30 miles across. Unfortunately for me the view upon the water is mostly obscured by a surrounding dyke. And on the east side of the lake I am reminded that it is still January; a chilly wind blows off the water. But otherwise this is sheer bliss and a fitting farewell ride with the bike.
At Lakeport I unknowingly drive past the last filling station for 80 miles - no warning sign! In a compartment under the seat I have recently found a manual that lists the fuel capacity of the tank as 3 US gallons. I think about that while I ride past endless cypress forests without any human life around. Highway 74 is near deserted and it may take over 20 minutes to meet an oncoming car. I ask a pensioner sitting on a bench in La Belle, a quite sizeable village - but even they don't have a "gas station".
Finally I am back in Punta Gorda. 3.02 gallons disappear without a problem into the three gallon tank. I make a mental note not to buy any future bike with a fuel capacity of less than 250 miles. The Honda is at it's limit after 150 miles - see my near mishap in New Mexico. That range is insufficient, even in the US of A.
Otherwise this was an easy day in spite of the mileage. I buy some Mother's Ruin on tonic at the town entrance (guns, liquor... you know) and spend the evening outside the motel sitting in the sun while reading the book ('Dune', remember?). Unfortunately sundown is at 7pm. I am still not used to days that feel like spring but end several hours too early for that.
The cities of Tampa and St. Petersburg are separated by Old Tampa Bay. These days that is no big problem, as three large bridges span the bay. Not a small feat, as the distance from shore to shore is five miles!
My intention to sell the Honda should probably work out, as along coastal areas all vehicles rot like hell and well kept desert bikes with Arizona plates should fetch good prices here.
After a few ridiculous offers from dealers who obviously think that all foreigners are stupid I end up at 'Barneys' on Gandy Blvd. who offers $1500 for the bike and all saddlebags, helmet and the rest of the kit. I could probably get a bit more by investing a few days and putting an ad out - but I have other plans. So I wave the trusted Honda a farewell and take a cab back to the motel.
Another journey has come to an end.
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.