Archives: 11th June 2001

By now, a growing number of riders had decided that we were seeing a little too much of the Interstates, and not enough of Route 66, although much of the original road still existed, and was often a quieter and more enjoyable ride.The two Canadians, Theo Meester and Dirk De Jong, persuaded us that it would be worthwhile leaving at 7am to ride some of the older roads. (This must be a first … John persuaded to leave earlier than he has to in the morning!)

On the plane, Brigid had noticed that a lot of Route 66 landmarks seemed to be dedicated to a certain ‘Will Rogers’. Neither of us had any idea who Will Rogers was. Now was our chance to find out. We stopped at Claremont, OK, at the Will Rogers Memorial Museum.

Will Rogers, a quarter-blood Cherokee, turned out to be a big film star from the silent era, and also a celebrated home-spun philosopher, satirist, writer, and pioneer aviator. When he died in 1935 in an experimental aircraft, moments after takeoff, the world
mourned.

In Catoosa, OK, we stopped briefly to see the Blue Whale.This strange fibreglass creation was once a successful water park in the early days of Route 66.The attraction was rather lost on us, as it has been neglected for many years, and the ‘water’ is now just a stagnating pond.

We ate lunch in the Rock Café (in existence years before the Hard Rock Café), in Stroud, OK. Like many of the traders along Route 66, the Café has seen some lean times in recent years. But now, thanks to a resurgence of interest in Route 66, business is booming again.The Café is quite small, so when Pat and the rest of the Rally caught up with us, we moved on.

Because we were keen to stick to the old Route, we missed the Cowboy Hall of Fame, but we did stop at the Round Barn in Arcadia, OK, the significance of which (we are ashamed to say) was lost on us, as it was closed. We by-passed Oklahoma City, as there were demonstrations surrounding the execution of Timothy McVeigh (the Oklahoma City bomber).

We stopped at the Best Western motel in Clinton, OK, for the night. One of the other attractions we accidentally missed, was the Route 66 museum across the street from the motel.The literature indicated that the museum closed at 6pm. As we arrived at 5.55pm, we decided it was already too late to visit. It was only later that we discovered that it had been open until 7pm!

Appropriately enough for a Sunday, we got a little lie-in this morning.We left St. Louis at about 8am, bound for Miami, OK. first stop of the morning was in Rolla, MO, where, curiously, the town had erected a half-size ‘replica’ of Stonehenge … ‘as it would have looked, complete’.The whole thing was a bit surreal.It wasn’t entirely clear why it was there at all.The text on the plaque appeared to be an explanation of ancient Egyptian water-sculpting techniques!

We followed a lot of the original Route 66 road through Missouri, including Devils Elbow, a unusually twisty section of road: fun for modern day motorcycles, but hell for your average Model T. In its day, this part of the road claimed many lives.

We crossed a corner of Kansas, where we stopped at Rainbow Bridge, Riverton (another historic Route 66 river-crossing), for ‘a Kodak moment’, before entering Oklahoma.

We stopped for the night at a Super 8 motel in Miami, OK: heart of America’s ‘Bible Belt’.Thanks to Brian Husbands (who thoughtfully provided a couple of cases of chilled beer on our arrival), the significance of this was lost on most of the riders until dinner time.

We dined at the Best Western restaurant across the road from our motel. There was no alcohol on sale, due to it being Sunday, and the arrival of the Rally had, by all accounts, caught the restaurant rather on the hop. An embarrassed waiter was reduced to listing the menu items that were still available, rather than those that were ‘off’!

As it was Brigid’s first visit to the States, Theo Meester suggested the oddly-named Chicken-Fried Steak (which was exactly what it claimed to be – beef steak in breadcrumbs, with white sauce), and iced-tea. (Curiously, Chicken-Fried Steak usually appears under the ‘chicken and fish’ section of restaurant menus.) The ‘steak’ was edible, if not very exciting, but the iced-tea got the thumbs-down from both of us (again, exactly what it claims to be, cold tea) – a shame, since it seems very popular everywhere here. (Cold tea in itself seems a bad enough idea. What makes iced-tea even less appealing is that it often appears to have been ‘stewing’ for some considerable time in a ribbed plastic jug reminiscent of school dinners.) Thanks, but we’ll stick with the root beer.

In fact, the only sports bikes on the Rally were ours. We left the Fairfield Inn at about 5.15am – just before dawn – make for the start of Route 66 on Michigan Avenue, Chicago “…
before rush hour”. We soon discovered one of the first truths that would endure for much of
our trip. Sometimes the best photos are the ones that you just can’t take.

It is very difficult to put across in words the feelings generated by the sight of 50 or so motorcycles (chrome gleaming), riding in near perfect formation, as far as the eye could see, silhouetted against the Chicago skyline in the pink and orange hues of the early morning sunrise.

Once in Chicago, we were all allowed a few minutes to get our pictures before getting on the road. All the riders took turns offering to take photos with other people’s camera so that everyone ended up with a photo posed beneath the historic ‘Start Route 66’ road sign.Then Pat Evans, the ‘Rallymaster’, donned his yellow helmet and the Rally was officially on the way.

This brings me to the second truth of the trip (at least where the Rally was concerned). Never take your eyes off Pat. Woe betide anyone who is not ready to move once that yellow helmet goes on!

The scheduled stops at the Launching Pad Drive Inn (home of the ‘Gemini Giant’), Wilmington, IL (for fuel), and Funks Grove (for maple ‘sirup’?!) gave us all an opportunity to chat to the other riders. We tried corn dogs for lunch at the Cosy Dog Drive Inn (Springfield, IL), and Brigid developed a taste for root beer.

Outside St. Louis, the Rally took a side trip off I-270 to look at the old ‘Chain of Rocks’ bridge, which used to carry Route 66 across the Mississippi River.The bridge is now maintained in part by private donors whose names appear on small plaques on the central span of the bridge. (Brigid cynically suggested that the plaques bore the names of those who had jumped …)

To us northern Europeans, the weather was already becoming uncomfortably warm, so once installed at the Red Roof Inn (St. Louis, MO), we set off in search of a couple of lighter jackets. Seeing the general American disregard for ‘safety clothing’, John was worryingly keen to shed his crash helmet. Along with the two denim jackets, we bought a few bandanas (large handkerchiefs to fellow Brits – only unlike the cartoon British holidaymaker, the American version is tied at the back of the head – not knotted at each corner!). We refrained from going totally native, however, choosing to wear our jackets and helmets during the long daytime rides, shedding them only for short evening trips.The bandanas soon proved their worth, as they could be soaked in iced water (thanks to Ed and Karen York whose trailer was equipped with an icebox) to provide much needed relief from the heat of the midday sun.

We parked up at the Fairfield Inn, Willowbrook, on the outskirts of Chicago, in sunshine, shortly after lunch. A few other bikes had arrived, and we both soon realised that ‘sports’ bikes (anything that isn’t a Harley or heavy-duty cruiser) were definitely going to be in the minority on the Rally.

Brigid, in particular, began to feel self-conscious about her meagre 650cc single-cylinder engine. But, as usual, both bikes aroused curiosity, and the other participants (worryingly equipped with top-of-the-range Harleys and Hondas) were all friendly and encouraging.

We used the afternoon to equip ourselves with 2-way radios, and post home various unwanted items. Then we met up with the others for a chicken dinner in Del Rhea’s famous Chicken Basket restaurant across the road from the motel.

We had made the decision to try to reach Chicago by Thursday night – leaving ourselves a full day to explore the City before meeting up with the rest of the Mother Road Rally participants on Friday evening. Our mileage chart indicated that the shortest route would be 546 miles – a pretty marathon day’s run, by anyone’s standards.  However, a quick inspection of the map suggested that using the Canadian route would shave a good few miles off the journey. This fitted well with our plan to see Niagara Falls en route.

Much has been said about the Niagara Falls, but as with all spectacular attractions, we thought that the descriptions were probably exaggerated. The plethora of tourist traps (all claiming to be the one and only ‘official’ authority) on the road did nothing to change this opinion.

We could not have been more wrong. For a couple of miles, as we approached, a cloud of white mist, thrown up be the Falls, was clearly visible. Despite the sun, the air was pleasantly cool and damp. On the Canadian side, the commercialism was vastly reduced, and the full magnificence of the Falls could be truly appreciated. As Londoners, we were amused to find red double-deckers in use as tour buses – complete with original route numbers!

After an hour or so, we headed out of town on the QEW, bound for Windsor (Detroit). We stopped for gas and lunch at a service station in Dundas, Ontario, moving on as quickly as we could. Within about 30 minutes, John signalled that he wanted to pull off the 401. The mileage of the last few days had taken its toll, and he desperately needed to rest. We stopped at the next motorway service station, and John dozed with his head resting on folded arms at a restaurant table.

Within minutes, John was woken by the sound of a British voice enquiring about the Triumph parked outside. The owner of the voice turned out to be an ex-pat, until recently working in Kentucky, and a big fan of Triumph motorcycles. He was in the process of moving back to Canada, but kindly invited us to look him up if we were passing Kentucky, and perhaps ride with him in the Smokey Mountains.

Wherever we go, both bikes generate interest from fellow bikers of all ages, but the Triumph particularly seems to spark enthusiastic appreciation.

We crossed the US border at about 4pm. Realising we were unlikely to make Chicago, we decided to stop at Kalamazoo (as in “I got a gal in …”) for the night, leaving us a short hop of 140 miles to our destination.

Another fine day saw us heading cheerfully north again, bound for Niagara Falls. The 460-odd miles to Buffalo, New York, were mercifully uneventful, and we arrived at our motel at about 8pm.

Our bikes were booked in for the their first service, and we duly arrived in Brockton at about 10.30am, intending to spend the day exploring downtown Boston on foot.

The station was conveniently close to Dunbar Eurosports’ showroom.  It was baking hot as we waited hopefully on the platform for the ‘T’ (the name given to the Boston metro system).  Some bemused workmen approached to inform us that we had just missed the train. Inspection of the timetable revealed that we would have to wait a couple of hours for the next. So, instead, we headed back to the main road, in the expectation of finding a bus.

Public transport, we have now discovered, is not widely available in the US, as most people own at least one car.  A helpful Post Office clerk directed us to the next station, where we had lunch and caught the train.  By the time we arrived in Boston we had only 1 ½ hours to kill before we had to return to pick up the bikes. However, we were able to replace our tattered ponchos, and buy a couple of Platypus drinks bladders in preparation for the following week’s rally.

We spent the night with Deborah and her family in Brighton.

The morning was grey and overcast, but otherwise dry. It had obviously rained overnight, as the ground was damp. There was a delicious smell of pine woodland in the air as we walked down the hill to find breakfast.

Montpelier is the capital of Vermont, but equally seems to be a ‘New Age’ Mecca. Every other store advertised ‘alternative’ clothing, therapies and jewellery. It seems the City got left behind in some 70’s time-warp! Having said that, it is a pretty place, surrounded by forested hills, and within a short distance of Killington and Stowe ski resorts.

It was now time to hit I-89 again, and return to Boston, where we were to stay with Deborah Valianti, a playwright friend of Brigid’s mother. It was thanks to Deborah that we were able to purchase the motorcycles at all, as it was she to ‘loaned’ us her Brighton address for the registration.

The sun had dried out Brigid’s electrics, and within a few miles, the speedo, tachometer and LCD displays had come back to life. Apart from the appearance of a rogue oil warning light they gave no further trouble.

We hit Boston at about 3.30pm, stopping once to ask directions to Brighton. We pulled into a gas station, where building work was in progress. We were heading in the right direction, but within ½ mile, John suddenly stopped at the side of the road realising he had a flat tyre. The nearby tyre station didn’t do bikes.  So, half an hour and many phone calls later, we eventually located a dealer in Framingham who could sort us out.

Anderson Cycle Works of Framingham proved to be some 15-20 miles away, and our trip was slow and tortuous (we had to stop several times for air and directions) – and not entirely good-humoured.

The people at Anderson’s were friendly and efficient. While the engineers worked, Jay Tonry pressed a couple of very welcome cold beers into our hands. He spotted Brigid’s Ogri T-shirt, and surprisingly turned out to be a keen collector of British bike mags– including Bike – and Hell’s Angels memorabilia! Within the hour, we were back on the road – albeit arriving at Deborah’s several hours later than we intended.

We awoke to glorious sunshine, and were pleased to have had the opportunity to dry off our soaking clothes in the motel’s laundry. After a light breakfast of coffee and doughnuts, we packed the bikes and hit the road. B*ll*cks! Just as we turned on to I-89, the heavens opened. For 50 miles, we endured the driving rain, until Brigid signalled that she had had enough and pulled off at the next exit – Montpelier.

Until she applied the brakes, Brigid had been quietly pleased that she had been able to maintain a steady 60 mph in such conditions. As the bike slowed, she understandably concerned to see that the speedo had obviously been stuck at that speed for some considerable distance. The LCD displays for the clock and trip meter were blank, and the tachometer was stuck at 4000 rpm. The BMW was obviously designed for fair-weather cycling only!

We stayed overnight at a convenient motel, about ½ mile out of town, and attempted to dry out our rain-drenched gear by hanging it over the bath. The sun came out (briefly) and we were (at last) able to relax in the sunshine for a few minutes. Alas, the sun didn’t last so we threw on the (by now) wind-torn ponchos for protection, and wandered into town for dinner.

Having spent a comfortable night in the Holiday Inn in Brockton, we awoke early, keen to put some miles on the clocks. A weekend trip to Burlington, Vermont, would easily cover the 600 miles, necessary to get the bikes serviced before our departure for Chicago on Wednesday. Horror of horrors, yesterday’s warm sunshine had been replaced with torrential rain – a quick re-think was in order.

We had no waterproof clothing, and no tarpaulins to keep our luggage dry. On top of this Brigid had only an open-face, half-helmet – and no goggles! (She stopped using open-face helmets years ago, when she switched from soft contact lenses to gas-permeables. But we figured this helmet would do until we were able to find a decent accessory shop to buy her a new full-face one.)

We literally ran from the hotel to the local Decathlon sports store, where we picked up two cheap PVC ponchos, which we used to cover the luggage. We then quickly located an excellent accessory shop and bought a new Shoei helmet.

By the time we were ready to head for Vermont, it had stopped raining, but it was already lunchtime. We were not going to be able to make Burlington, so (when it started to rain again) we stopped at Lebanon, New Hampshire, for the night.