Otherwise known as the Mother Road. Been done before? Yes. Is that a reason not to do it? No.
WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY: David Goddard
As so often it all started over a few ales after a disappointing result at Kingsholm (the home of Gloucester Rugby). To cheer ourselves up, fellow Gloucester supporter Terry Freeman suggested we ride Route 66. Without too much thought and through the noise of the bar and a slight haze, I agreed. The next few months were spent gently raising the subject with our respective wives and eventually, both gave their blessings.
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We would end up swapping our Honda and BMW for a couple of Harleys (Road King and Heritage Softtail) before taking two weeks to ride over 2700 miles from Chicago to Santa Monica along as much of Route 66 as was still rideable.
They were mostly long days in the saddle and it wasn’t all easy cruising, thanks to indifferent surfaces and inclement weather. Climate and scenery ranged from the heat and humidity of Illinois, through monsoon rains of biblical proportions in Missouri and Kansas, then on across the dry blue sky vastness and monotony of Oklahoma before the hot, dry scrub and desert throughout Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, gradually turning to pure desert in Nevada and California.
Then there were the ubiquitous trucks, mostly travelling well over any speed limits as they thundered past, oblivious of those in the right-hand (i.e. inside) lane, especially during the tropical downpours with barely any visibility, making the Interstate a scary place to ride. Crossing the USA on a Harley had its challenging moments.
Big Rain, Big Steaks
Our first morning, armed with maps, guide books and wide eyed anticipation, not to mention a slice of naivety, we rode from our airport hotel at O’Hara into Chicago. We were immediately engulfed in 30 miles of rush-hour traffic – welcome to motorway hell, American style! We eventually found the start of Route 66 at the junction of Adams St and Michigan Ave, then spent the next three hours attempting to navigate the old road out through the city. This was a big mistake, and we finally became geographically embarrassed (all right, lost) somewhere in downtown Chicago. Fortunately, we were rescued by a local cop who suggested that we shouldn’t be there and escorted us to the relative safety of I55 and onward to Joliet, our first day’s ‘breakfast’ stop (not that it was breakfast time anymore). Bit of a scary start.
It was just as well that friendly cop helped us out of Chicago, because the first day was a long one of 352 miles zig-zagging on and off of I55 to places of interest, and we arrived at our hotel in St Louis well after dark. We were welcomed by the spectacle of a dry thunder and lightning show in the distance – little did we know that this was a sign of things to come…
The next two days through Missouri, Kansas and parts of Oklahoma were damp to say the least. A tropical storm tracked across America right along our intended route and the rain was of biblical proportions, turning the roads into long black lakes of standing water. Good though it was, our wet weather gear managed to keep us warm, if not dry. It was the only time we experienced spitting out rain water which had been forced up our noses.
Our plans to visit places of interest were abandoned and progress was instead interrupted by frequent exits off the Interstate to find temporary shelter under bridges and gas station canopies. It was at one of these stops on the outskirts of Joplin, whilst refuelling, topping up with coffee, consulting maps, wringing out socks and shirts, that we had a chance conversation that directed us on to a section of the original Route 66, circa 1927, which took us on to Tulsa. It was still raining but at least we were spared the wall of grey water as the big rigs sped by. Instead, we rode along the pleasant, narrow tree-lined winding roads of small town America. This was countryside the Interstate had left behind, with semi-abandoned settlements and rusting farm machinery.
Oklahoma city to Amarillo was a 362-mile slog along I40, only broken up by a visit off the Interstate to El Reno and on to Texcola along the original ‘66’, again passing through many small dilapidated towns/villages.
It was all worth it. As the sun set below the far-off horizon, we arrived at our overnight accommodation, the Big Texas Motel and Steak Ranch, Amarillo, home of the 72oz steak. If you are brave and/or hungry enough to actually eat one of these within an hour, it’s yours for free. We gave that a miss and stuck with ordering 18oz steaks and a few beers. A great evening surrounded by cowboys and roughnecks, without a hint of gun fire.
Cross the Divide
After crossing the halfway point, for the next few days we kept off the Interstate where possible, seeking out as much of the Mother Road as we could find. Riding along under the big blue skies, the far-off horizons and never-ending prairies of Texas and New Mexico, cowboy country, was a real joy.
Then on to the high plateaus, red sandstone cliffs and mountains around Santa Fe, before finally taking a day off in Albuquerque. Here we spent the day enjoying the sights of the old town and visiting the excellent natural history museum. Then after a ‘plastic’ hotel breakfast it was back on the bikes, heading south then west again though the aridness of semi-desert to Holbrook and beyond. Rarely seeing a living soul, we pottered on enjoying some wonderful riding along original stretches of R66 through the desert scrub. We crossed the Continental Divide at Thoreau and on to the ‘badlands’ of Arizona which are huge, desolate and majestic. Indian country, though the feel and architecture is very much Hispanic.
We underestimated the time and distance to Williams via the famous meteor site, and arrived at the south rim of the Grand Canyon well after dark, chilled to the bone, and then took ages to locate our hotel. Oh, for a satnav! However, the local micro-brewery beer, a dustbin lid sized pizza and the liveliness of Williams made up for it.
Next morning we had another early start for a dash along I40 to Seligman for breakfast at the Road Kill Cafe (a must). Three thick slices of eggy toast topped with eight rashers of bacon, maple syrup and a scoop of double cream. Indulgence and bit of a heart stopper yes, but a must, though I did shift the double cream to the side of my plate. Terry stuck to his eggs and bacon.
Well laden, we set off on to one of the longest unbroken sections of the old road. Continuous wide-open scrub land and high rugged sandstone cliffs made for great wilderness riding. It was a Sunday, so plenty of Harleys passed in the other direction, all giving the ubiquitous hand greeting. There were hardly any other vehicles, though we did see a goods train that seemed to go on forever. At Kingman we turned north for Las Vegas, and about 50 miles out the traffic density began to steadily increase. Then we hit the madness of the city itself, classic five lanes of ‘fender to fender’ purgatory. It was a relief to park up the bikes, dump our kit, shower, get into tourist garb and head to the Strip for some rehydration.
We had a manic day in LV. I soon lost all of my $5 gambling allowance and we played along a hustler in the HD bar, until he realised that we were not interested in a timeshare in some glass tower. After home pressies and a stroll along Fermount Street, we’d had enough and were glad to be on our way early next morning for our last day’s push from LV down to Santa Monica.
Again we were riding through an arid moon landscape but this time south on a packed I15. Having had enough of the traffic at Barstow we headed off into the desert for our last stretch of true Route 66. A couple of hours later we rejoined the madness at Victorville for the Interstate freeway and final miles. With much relief we found our hotel, parked the bikes, threw our kit in a pile and went in search of a watering hole. After a wander along the cliff top overlooking a foggy beach we ended up having a few beers and a fine meal (with vegetables!) at the Ye Old Kings Head (the Americans’ idea of a traditional English pub – Ed).
Riding the Mother Road was our first time riding Harleys on American roads and at times it was scary, but most of it had a grin factor of 10. The sights, sounds and history of Route 66 had made it the ride of a lifetime. As for the people, some were weird, some wonderful, but all friendly and interesting. Would we do it again? Yes, but take more time and leave out the dull bits. Terry and I shook hands at the End of Route 66 sign on Santa Monica pier, bade farewell to the Harleys and caught a plane home to Blighty.
■ Thanks go to Complete North America and Eagle Rides for all their assistance and guidance in putting together a memorable trip, brilliant.
Uppers & Downers
Highlights:
■ The vastness and diversity of America.
■ Impressive meteor site between Holbrook and Flagstaff.
■ Riding up through the forested twisty I80 from Flagstaff to the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
■ Any road off the Interstate.
■ Painted desert and petrified forest NP near Holbrook – beautiful.
■ Intimidating deserts of Nevada and California.
■ Interesting people from all parts of the world.
■ Towns away from the Interstate, lost in time.
■ Steak at the Big Texas Steak Ranch, Amarillo.
Downsides:
■ Interstate highways – tedious but sometimes unavoidable.
■ Poorly signed Route 66, sometimes progressing from black top to dirt track and once ending in a corn field.
■ Six-lane freeways into Las Vegas and Los Angeles – scary.
■ U turns (lots of those).
■ Spooky overnight in Tucumcari, New Mexico, the motel surrounded by abandoned properties
■ Denny’s fast food – never trust a cafe that has pictures of food on the menu.
