WTF, California? We will get to you, once I cross the state line, but WTAF???
Today was a long day. I enjoyed much of it, but it seemed longer than most. I was ready to get going by 7, as per my usual routine, but only got to my evenings motel after 4:30 in the pm, which constitutes a long day. The miles and ridiculous heat contributed too.
I slept OK, and woke up just after 6ish. I did the usual shower/packing routine, and took my stuff to the bike to load it. I had reluctantly parked the bike in the motel car park, so it would be within sight and reach if needed. RI say reluctantly, because the car park was covered with large-chunk gravel, and I was concerned about the bike slipping on me. Big Harley cruiser bikes are not the most stable off the paved bits.
I decided to get the bike off the gravel first, then load up, as my bag sits over the passenger seat and it heavy, so it would destabilise the bike a bit. All was good, until I tried to gently move my bike back so I could ride it off the gravel surface. The wheels dug in to the gravel and I couldn’t move it. I was sweating and swearing as I tried, but couldn’t shift it. Fortunately (for me, not so much for him) a fellow motelier came out of his room at just the right time, so I enlisted his help to push me and the bike backwards until I was clear enough to gently drive it off the slippery surface. He did his part well, and I was then able to load up and final get going – but it was not an auspicious start to the day.
My mood did change pretty quickly though. From Seligman all the way to Oatman, the old 66 is in wonderful shape, and you don’t go anywhere near the motorway. I bimbled along happily, at sensible speed, and enjoyed the quiet scenery. Breakfast was at Kingman, at a wonderful, 50’s-style diner. Kingman is another town that markets itself heavily on the Route 66 thing, and a number of the establishments fit the theme.
Breakfast was decent, and having eaten, I spotted a motor mechanic next door. On the mornings ride, I had noticed that my GoPro camera started point skyward – something was loose on the fixing. The camera did its job well, but captured an hour of blue sky – which is not very helpful. I walked over to the mechanics shop, to see if he had the right-sized nut to fit the screw that held the arm that supported the camera that lived in the house that Jack built. Happily, he did, and I went on my way having re-inserted the said screw, tightening the nut significantly with my LEATHERMAN Multitool.
Directly across the road from the diner was Kingmans Route 66 museum. Many towns along the route have one. This had a drive-through photo-op, so I queued up, and waited patiently. When it was my turn to drive through the route marker, a young German girl offered to take pics for me – she had just driven through herself, and took pics of her partner. She was very precise and bossy (German!), and ordered everyone around, moving some Argentinian guys out of shot, waiting for some randomer who was walking by to get out of frame etc etc. With all this, her photo’s were ordinary. Still, I appreciated the help.
Kingman had one other curiosity that I noted. It seemed to be the capital of Trump land. A lot of shops had Trump messaging all over them. I saw a guy on a three wheeler dragging a massive flag around, which was black with white lettering, proclaiming: “Fuck Biden”. I think when the messiah comes, it will be to Kingman, Arizona.
The road out of Kingman continued the mornings theme of “quiet and remote”. I passed a sign which said “Mountain pass ahead – trucks over 40 ft, turn around here”. I was looking forward to a good pass – this trip is not one crafted for twisty roads. About 3 or 4 miles further on the road, long before the mountain pass began, I came across a curious scene. A large truck had obviously ignored the “turn around here” offer, but had decided somewhat later to turn around. However, there was not enough room for him to do so, and so he had jack-knifed and become stuck, completely blocking the roadway.
A young and sanguine State Trooper was there, and said that a few bikers had passed by and had squeezed along the sand behind the truck and managed to get through. He told me that about 10 times a year, the same occurs, where a trucker ignores the signs initially, then gets compromised when they decide to turn around at a later, unsuitable spot. No car would get through, but having walked through the suggested escape route, and verified that the sand was not too treacherous for my bike, I decided to try myself.
I drove slowly and deliberately, and got through fine- so tooted a farewell blast, and left the Trooper to scratch his head and watch as the tow truck attempted to shift the huge truck. I am sure they must have managed, but it looked a tough task.
After a few more miles, I stoped at the Cool Springs Station, which sits at the eastern entrance to Sitgreaves Pass. A wonderfully eclectic souvenir store, built from the remains of an old gas station. It was a veritable mine of typical gifts that you find in all the Route 66 stops – plus a major wall dedicated to Trump hats, posters, postcards, pins, badges, stickers, t-shirts and more. I think this whole area is very excited about the orange guy.
I left the gifty place, and quickly got into the mountain pass. It was pretty enough, with lots of curves (191 curves in 8 miles, I later learned). But, bear in mind, this mountain pass achieves an elevation of 3,580 feet. So not much actual mountain. It was very pleasant though, fun to ride, and decent views. At one point there is a little area, which has a great view looking west, at which many people have created small memorials or shrines to loved ones who have passed on. It was moving to walk around and look at the memorials and messages. I chatted to some French bikers who were touring Route 66 in a West to East direction. Well, chatted is a strong word – I speak no French and they spoke almost no English. But we all enjoyed the chat.
A little while later on the ‘mountain’ pass I crossed the 1,000 mile mark of my present tour.
The far end of the pass brought me in to Oatman. Oatman is kept to look like a real old western town, with wooden boardwalks and a single line of shops and saloons on either side of the rode. The town hosts a bunch of wild donkeys, who come and go as they please – but getting fed by tourists pleases them a lot. They looked very cute, and it is easy to see why folk buy feed and keep the burros in the manner to which they have become accustomed.
In one of the shops, I saw and heard more pro-Trumpery. It seems to be all over this part of the world. The shop-keeper was loudly telling someone that her friends business had failed because “Biden, but just wait til the next election”.
As the faux “Wild West” show was about to start, I saddled up my own hoss, and headed outta town to evade High Noon. The final 20 miles or so of old 66 went through real wild desert, and I rode with another biker through the heat of the day – it was exhilarating while also kinda other-worldy. We saw no other vehicles during those 20 miles.
Unceremoniously, the old 66 dumps you back on I40, the Interstate motorway that accompanies much of 66. I had not been on the motorway at all today, so was OK to get some fast miles done. Almost immediately, the motorway crossed the Colorado river, and introduced me to California – the final state along Route 66. I was in need of fuel and a pit stop, so I took the first motorway exit and stopped at a local fuellery. Pulling up to the pump, I almost fell off my bike.
Gas (petrol to those who speak English) is about $3.29 per gallon in the civilized world in which we live – namely Colorado. It can be a bit more expensive off the trodden path, but that is the ball-park. The pump to which I was now riding up was offering gas at $6.79 a gallon. That is more than DOUBLE what we pay back in gods own state. I mean, WTF?
Then, as if to prove a point, I checked the temperature. it was 37C (99f). WTFF? Extortion at the pumps and heat that would melt a monkeys bum. Come on guys, get serious here. Who can live like this?
California did not cease to disappoint. The old 66 road was either very gravelly, or undergoing roadworks, so I had to stick to the I40. The heat was oppressive, even riding at 70 mph, and so I just got my head down and drove the couple of hours it took to get to Barstow.
Riding the last 15 miles or so on the old road before I got to Barstow, it suddenly ran into a dead end, and I had to retrace my steps. That will teach me for expecting good things here. Coming in to town, I realized that the sleepy, small towns that I have been used to for the last few days are coming to an end. I am on the last leg of the journey, getting into LA tomorrow – so I need to brace myself for the hordes of unwashed humanity. Not thrilled at the idea, but looking forward to completing this leg of the journey at Santa Monica pier some time tomorrow.