Have you ever wanted to ride a Harley across the states? Have you ever wanted to ride down the strip in Vegas on your cruiser? Have your ever wanted to ride Route 66?. In the March of 2006, someone “made my day”. Click below to read my Amercian Adventure.

I was scheduled to attend a 3 day HIV/AIDS conference in Orange County, California, and it being my first trip to the States, decided to take a few days R&R, by hiring a bike and doing a little touring around Southern California.

Firstly: the bike. USA; It’s just got to be a Harley Davidson, in spite of the fact I’d never ridden a cruiser before. A little advice from one of my biker mates and the model, A Heritage Softail, was the preferred choice.

Problem 1: I couldn’t find anyone to hire me a H.D., from LA to Costa Mesa. EagleRider, a Harley franchise, could only hire me a BMW. Finally I tracked one down at a place called Temecula, 30 miles South East of Orange County.

Problem 2. When I landed in Ca., the weather wasn’t up to much and barely above average for here. Not only that but the route I’d planned,; up the coast to Monterey, then across to Sequoia in the Sierra Nevadas. Checking the weather forecast the days before my ride, wet and windy weather was blowing in all up the California coast and the Sierra Nevadas would be blanketed in snow. Didn’t have any winter riding gear, and even so came here to ride in the sun, not their winter (We do winter better than them). So a hastily arranged plan ‘B’ was considered, little more adventurous, but doable.

My church here in England is in a little town called Prescot on the outskirts of Liverpool, so what better than to head for Prescott Arizona (setting for the Steve McQueen film Junior Bonner), then a nice little trip down Route 66 and then up to Nevada, The Hoover Dam and Las Vegas. Sorted.

The conference finished Saturday, so after church on Sunday afternoon, the bike was booked. Packed my bag, scrounged a lift and headed for Temecula to pick up the bike. The Bike hire place were great. I brought my own gloves and neck warmer, but hired the obligatory open faced helmet, and a ‘Marlon Brando’, type leather Jacket. The whole package cost me a measly $280.

It was around 4pm by the time I got things sorted, and even though the weather was overcast, was quite mild. There were two routes I could’ve chosen to get me to my first stop, Palm Springs. The first would have been all Interstate Highway; I15 then I10, a total of 140 miles. The other was over a small range of hills (lots of nice bends) on a main highway for about 70 miles. Wanting to get used to my new steed, I decided to go the shorter route and see a bit of scenery.

Setting out from Temecula, was nice and easy. The Soft Tail was a nice bike to ride, took me a bit to get used to, changing gear (up) with my left heel instead on my toes. The road wasn’t too bad either, starting off I was afraid to lean this big squat bike, but pretty soon I had enough confidence to flick it around (a bit). The road surface was decent and the bends sweeping from left to right. I was having such a good time that I failed to notice 3 things. 1. The climb 2 the change in temperature and 3 the darkening skies. It was only when I started to see bits of dirty white stuff clinging to the rocks and undergrowth and said to myself, ‘They’ve had snow here’. That soon changed to ‘They’ve still got snow here’ to ‘And it’s coming down again!’

By the time I reached a little place called Anza the snow at the side of the road was a foot thick and still coming. Mercifully the roads were still clear. My feet and my hands were freezing ( I managed to put my lightweight overtrousers on before I set off). Pulling in at the only fuel stop on the road…the fuel was for me not the bike, hot chocolate to warm up my insides, a few of the locals came to gaze at this crazy Brit riding a Motorbike in these conditions.

One guy, a Harley nut, named Al, pleaded with me to turn back. My choices were Turn back all the way to Temecula (50 miles) and then the Intersate (140miles) and travel almost 200 miles for me to get to 20 miles from where I now stood. ‘MMM’ To carry on with another 10 miles of snow, 3 or 4 miles till I reached the summit then 7 down the other side before I lost the snow line. I gave Al my decision, I was going to carry on. Shaking his head in disbelief, he gave me his card with his mobile number on, and said if I get stuck or come off, to ring him and he will come out and get me….nice bloke Al (met a few nice folk on my adventure).

Set off from Anza, marginally warmer on the inside, however my fingers and toes are still searching for some benefit. Travelling along (roads still relatively clear) I noticed lots of SUV’s & 4×4’s parked up at the side of the road. Families, presumably from the valley below (Desert Springs) making snowmen, and building them on top of their oversized vehicles.

I was still climbing, snow still falling and the light was fading when I reached the crossroads at the top of the pass. Ahead I could make out 4 vehicles all in different positions on and off the road, getting closer I could see one of them had lost it on the corner and the others couldn’t or didn’t know how to avoid the collision. The IAM ISPGA (Information, Speed, Position, gear and acceleration) system, was never more driven home than on this road. Smooth as you like, no brakes or sudden switches in direction I wafted past the pile up. They were too busy to notice the Crazy Brit on a bike, thinking Crazy Yanks in their crazy tanks, as he swept past.

I’m now in full headlight mode, and the bends are sweeping again. Now I am dodging great clumps of snow in the centre of the road. After a few miles the snow on the side of the road is beginning to recede, but these big dollops of snow continue to litter the centre of the road. I then catch up with a Huge SUV, with the remains of a snowman still clinging to its roof, and losing its grip every time the driver turns into another bend. Still I’m enjoying the bike again and can feel the temperature rising with every bend. The lights of the Palm Spring suburb of Indian Wells stretch out before me and I’ve lost the heavy cloud and can even see some stars. Lovely sight, not just because I’ve come through a potential danger spot, but I feel good about my riding and my journeys only just begun.

With the roads signs warning of ‘ICE ON ROAD’ and ‘SNOW CHAINS ADVISABLE’, well behind me, I descended to the resort town of Indian Wells. Hands and feet still cold I pulled into the first eatery I came across. One of the many faceless, fast food joints, however this one was advertising ‘Fish & Chips’, I kid you not….no mushy peas though. Rode the Harley into the car park, parking it next to a group of impressionable Mexican looking youth. They asked me a question, but I couldn’t understand a word so just smiled and locked the bike. Inside it soon became clear English was not the preferred language of choice. I could have been in Barcelona or any provincial Spanish town, however, I thought, the menu was in English so they must understand it. Sure enough a few minutes later I’m sat down to eat my fish & chips and go over my plans for that evening. The original plan was to pick up the Interstate (10) and make the Arizona border that evening, stopping for the night at a town called Blythe. However, my gloves were wet as were my socks (and feet), and whilst it was warmer than Anza on top of the mountain, it wasn’t exactly tropical. So my idea was to ride till I felt uncomfortable and find a place for the night.

Indian Wells was a busy little place, with a lot of traffic on the roads (I later found out there was an international Tennis tournament on that week). I am still getting used to the heavy bike on busy streets, with strange road signs and traffic light systems. Making my way to the motorway junction, a police patrol car pulled alongside at a set of traffic lights, and its two occupants eyed me suspiciously. Bikers travelling at night must be a cause for concern, I thought.

Seeing as Interstate 10 is one of the main arterial roads in the USA, starting in California and going all the way down to Florida, via most of the southern states, I thought it would be like the M1 or at least the M6. It was virtually empty, ok it was 8pm, but I have seldom seen a ‘B’ road in the UK this sparsely populated. Empty, dark…and not very warm. Needles to say I didn’t travel very far before I pulled off in search of digs for the night. I was now on the outskirts of a town called Indio, riding along, eyes peeled for the welcoming glow of a motel light. Pulling in at a fuel stop to ask for the nearest hostelry, getting off the bike, the cold had reached my loins. Bursting for a pee I dived into the most disgusting toilet imaginable, beggars can’t be choosers. On emerging I was hustled for a few dollars by a shifty looking Latino who emerged from the shadows. ‘Got a few dollars for a drink’, asked the man. To anyone else, this could be a threatening situation. Please remember I work in one of the toughest areas of Liverpool’s overspill. This guy was a pussycat compared with some of the great unwashed I contend with regularly. ‘I am a pastor from Liverpool, England’, I replied. ‘I never give money for drink because I know what it can lead to, but I will pray for you’. ‘Will you pray for my woman’ asked the man. ‘Sure I will’ says I. ‘Then how about a couple of dollars for some smokes?’. We both laughed, so I gave him a couple of bucks and he disappeared as quickly as he came.

The ‘Best Western Date Tree Hotel’ was just half a mile down the road, where, after a nice hot shower, packing my boots with toilet roll (To dry them out), and putting my socks & jeans out to dry, I retired to a lovely warm comfortable bed for the night.

6.30am Monday morning and a bright, beautiful day beckoned. Turning on the T.V. to get a weather up date, I viewed with horror the 23 inches of snow that had fallen in Prescott, Arizona overnight. My intended morning destination covered in a blanket of white. I’d had enough snow riding on this trip already, thank you, so Prescott was removed from the itinerary. I was determined to make Las Vegas that night, so another route had to be planned, that would avoid snow (or any kind of bad weather). Balancing the map whilst consuming a light breakfast, surrounded by a coach load of young tennis hopefuls in the breakfast bar, I worked out a plan. Sorted.

My plan included missing out a large section of Interstate 10, and cut through the foot hills of the delightfully sounding ‘Chocolate Mountains’. Firstly, I needed to fill up, my first fuel stop since leaving Temecula. I hadn’t thought too much about this exercise. (a) I didn’t know the range of my tank (b) I didn’t know how much it held…and (c) I had such a palaver getting the fuel nozzle to work. It appears you have to pay for the fuel before its dispensed. Not knowing how much it held or not fully aware of the low cost of petrol, filled it up on $3 of the $10 I gave the cashier, and they’re not used to handing money back.

Tanked up, engine warm (as well its rider) set of towards the track of the beckoning sun. The first place on my map was a town called Mecca, being a good Christian, thought I’d better check this out. What a dump! I’ve travelled to a number of 3^rd. world slums, and this must rate alongside any of them. Whether they were Mexicans or native Indians, I don’t know, but It felt strange riding a 2006 Harley Davidson amongst rusting hulks of pickups and tin shacks, barefoot kids and depressed looking adults, and the pock marked road tested the bikes suspension to the limit. The road from Mecca to the Interstate was a twisting stretch of partially laid tarmac through a red sandstone canyon. I had seen the place a thousand times in John Ford westerns, and half expected an Indian raiding party to descend from one of the bluffs overlooking the twisting, snaking road. Once again I had really locked into this bike, zipping through the canyon, dipping into the bends. Perhaps getting carried away a few times when the running boards scraped the ground. Don’t think they do ‘Hero Blobs’ on Harleys. Anyway, it all added to the excitement of the ride. All too soon, I reached Junction 168 of the Interstate, which was now a great deal busier than last night. My next stop would be ‘Desert Centre’, marked as a service area and my turn off to Highway 177 and a trip through the desert. I 10 was like motorways anywhere else, you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, miles upon miles of boring tarmac. It was on this stretch I could open the bike up (a bit) and before long caught up with a group of other bikers (Harley riders). It was whilst riding with this bunch that I learned the ‘Bikers Signal’ I was to use many times over the next day or so. Holding an out stretched left arm, slightly downward, palm open, to signal. I had been riding with this bunch for about 10 minutes before I twigged. I thought they were signalling an overtake. Doh!!

The sign for ‘Services 1 and 49 miles’ appeared alongside ‘Desert Center next exit’. I looked down at my fuel gauge which was just dipping below the half way mark. This would be a good place to stop, have a bite to eat and ‘Gas up the Bike’, I thought.

‘Watford Gap’ or ‘Keele Services’ this was not. As I pulled onto the vast expanse of dusty hard ground that housed a few isolated buildings, I thought I’d missed the turning for the real services. There were even the obligatory tumble weeds blowing across the plain featureless ground.

The ‘Gas Station’, looked like it had shut down years ago, its ancient pumps covered in fine dust and the ‘Desert Center café’ was all 1950’s diner. Not retro 1950’s but the real deal. This place was in service when John Lennon first met Paul McCartney and suggested starting a skiffle group, and apart from the shabbiness, it hadn’t changed a bit since, both inside as well as out. Enjoyed my Coffee and Blueberry Muffin, took a few pics and rode over to the Gas station. There were four decrepit pumps and all bar one had a tatty sign which read ‘Empty’, and they were all marked ‘Regular’, the Harley needed premium. Went into the Kiosk, sat slouched in a chair, this old guy in baggy jeans, grubby T shirt and a faded, moth eaten Baseball cap with the words CAT across the front. ‘We ain’t got no premium’, he said without moving from his reclined position, ‘And them bikes need premium’. ‘I’m heading down the 177’ I said, ‘How far to the next gas station that sells premium?’ ’30 or 40 miles, you’ll easy get there,’ he said, waving me away dismissively as if I disturbed his peace

My map shows a place called Rice about 45 miles away, and a place called Vidal Junction around 70. Its now 10.30 in the morning and I want to get to Lake Havasu for lunch, so I’d better get a move on. Highway 177 takes me across about 80 miles of desert and setting out from Desert Center, I can see it is aptly named. A Barren, featureless wasteland unfolds before me as far as the eye could see. Most of the time the road was as straight as an arrow with the odd dip and slight bend to break up the monotony. The mountains looked nice though, and you don’t see Joshua tree Cacti on Saddleworth or Bodmin moor. Every now and then a car would appear towards me, like a dot in the distance looming bigger and bigger, also every now and them I’d do an overtake of some old Chevy type pick up, not so much an overtaking manoeuvre, I could offside a mile before I reached him, and stay out for a mile after.

I could gun the bike down this road, motorway speeds and beyond were no problem for the bike or the surprisingly smooth road surface. Checking my fuel gauge, the needle looked sad as it pointed at the letter ‘E’, and no sign of civilisation, but thought, ok, so I’ll check out the reserve. ‘Rice’ the place on my map turned out to be a road junction and railway siding with a few old wagons, and that was it, no buildings, no people and certainly no gas station, and I’m a little concerned. I do not fancy running out of fuel in the middle of a desert. The fuel light is now on, so I slow down to conserve precious gas. I figure the optimum speed and minimum fuel consumption for a 1400cc Harley is 50mph.

The light is now flashing, which tells me I am exhausting the reserve. The dots in the distance turn out to be yet more railway wagons, but as I get closer they look recently used, hope of civilisation, before I know it I am at Vidal Junction. A town? This is a main junction for Highways 177 and 95 and comprises of 3 buildings. One a curiosity store, one I haven’t a clue what and one a gas station.

Have you ever taken the top off a fuel tank and the vacuum left by expelled fuel, slurps in fresh air? I swear this bike was panting for breath. For a place with not a lot to offer, there were a lot of people around, including a bloke from Stockport near Manchester, he said he was just travelling around. There were only two pumps at this gas station, and neither of them had premium, what the heck, I’d put paraffin in if I had no other choice. The big fat guy sat sunning himself outside the kiosk/store reckoned he was a Harley mechanic and said a bit of regular would do it no harm. Took a picture of the curiosity place before moving on; next stop Arizona and the Colorado River. With a full tank, even regular, I can now enjoy the bike again

The landscape is starting to develop features like sweeping bends and rolling hills, enough to move the bike around a bit. Heading towards a place called Earp and then on to Parker Dam, a smaller version of the mighty Hoover a few hundred miles up river. Small townships and trailer parks hugged the winding, twisting river, everyone of them having some form of Leisure facility. The road was ideal biking territory, dips and bends and the odd decent overtake, the Softail did everything I threw at it (within reason).

Lake Havasu City is famous for buying London Bridge, taking it down brick by bridge from over the Thames and putting it back up again in this town in Arizona. For me, they needn’t have bothered. This part of my ride was pretty uneventful, after lunch and ‘Premium’ fuel stop, a short trip down Route 66 and up to a place called Kingman. From there it was another boringly straight Highway (93) to the Hoover dam. On the approach to the Dam, signposts warned of delays and queues. I’d seen such signs before Parker Dam but no hold ups were encountered, so thought it would be only a minor disruption. Not so, there were tail backs for a number of miles. I tried filtering the bike, but, whether it’s my lack of skill or not, these are not the must nimble of machines for this activity. A few more problems arose, (a) the air cooled engine on the bike was getting quite hot, and (b) Fuel was getting low. Eventually I made the viewing park over the Dam to let the Harley cool down and get out of the saddle I’d been sat in for the past 2 hrs.

I was able to take a nice piccie of the Dam and a kind gentleman (an Iranian doctor who I got into conversation with) offered to take a picture of me and the bike, it didn’t turn out too well. Let’s hope he is better at treating is patients than taking photos.

Back on the bike, through the traffic, over the Dam and on to Vegas for a ride down the strip and find some digs for the night. That’s the plan. Filtering through the traffic again, I came alongside Greg, riding a Harley Fatboy. Greg is a fireman from Spokane in Washington State, who takes a trip on his extended days off. A typical Harley rider (I think) Mexican moustache, ponytail sticking out from under his bandana, with well worn leather jacket and chaps. After the warning that filtering was an offence in Nevada, we rode together through the Dam’s snaking road network finding much to talk about. He was going to Vegas to stay over night with a buddy biker of his, and offered to ride together and show me the route in when we stopped for a drink once through the Dam, and fill up with gas.

Don’t know what it is with the many Americans I met, but they want to tell you their life story. It wasn’t just his tour in Vietnam, his various jobs, but his desire to buy a rig and become a trucker, it also turned out he was a Christian, and this was not prompted by me telling him I was a pastor. Decent bloke Greg, could be his mate if he lived over here, as it was we shared a couple of hours of friendship.

It was about 7.30pm when we hit Vegas, eventually Greg, pointed me to the Strip a few hundred yards ahead before he took his leave in the opposite direction. Signs overhead warned of slow moving traffic along Las Vegas’ most famous quarter mile, The Strip. Past all the usual neon lit landmarks, easing back on the bike trying to take it in, and not hit anyone in the process. Passing the billboards and big smiling face of (Sir) Tom Jones (Thought; he’s been here some years) and the effeminate bloke with the white tigers (who ate his friend) I was grinning from ear to ear. All too quick it was gone and I was at the junction of Interstate 15, my route home. I actually missed the turn and had to do a 180, it gave me an excuse to have look at the strip from the other end. I didn’t want to stop overnight in a casino, however Greg told me the chances of finding a hotel that isn’t, was like finding hairs growing on your teeth. He also warned me to avoid hotels in a certain quarter of the city where the term ‘Room Service’ takes on a whole new meaning, after all Las Vegas started life as a collection of brothels.

Heading out of the City on I 15, I decided to pull off at Junction 33 and search out, what I considered to be, a decent hotel. My definition of decent, is that it didn’t smack you in the face with neon lit, gaudy, tacky billboards. I turned into the car park of an anonymous looking building which was a hotel, what clinched it was the special ‘Bike Bays’ in the car park. Nothing on the outside said that this was anything other than a plain hotel, albeit a sizeable one, however stepping through the front door, I’m met with the sight and sound of a busy casino. Pasty faced punters sat in front of endless rows of slot machines, they even have a disabled section complete with wheelchairs. I found the reception tucked in the corner of the cavernous hall, booked my room…one as far away from the gaming as possible. After a shower and change, I looked for their restaurant, tastefully named the ‘Sundance Lounge’. Sat at the food/drinks bar where there was a bank of giant plasma T.V. screens right in front of us, just above the open kitchen range where the food was being prepared. Each T.V was showing a different sport, the one in front of me was Tennis, where Andre Agassi was struggling in the tournament being beamed in from….Indian Wells. At the side of me sat a very animated bloke, who bounced up and down like a broken bed spring every time Agassi won a point, and wailed like a banshee every time he dropped one. Didn’t take me long to realise this man had bet his shirt on the ageing American. Even sat eating a meal, I was in the middle of a gaming part of the hotel, they don’t miss a trick here. Met a nice lady, who on hearing my English accent came up to me and asked if I was an Arsenal supporter, strange question for a woman in the middle of a Las Vegas casino. It turned out her husband played football for Ajax and Anderlecht in Holland, and nearly signed for the gunners. You meet all kinds I suppose.

After dinner, I took a stroll through this massive building, quickly past the gaming machines, and found a centre display of American Choppers. These were built under commission by those guys in California for the hotel. It’s a pity I only had one of those cheap disposable cameras, would love to have taken a picture. Past the bikes was another feature, a huge waterfall cascading down rocks on my right and a huge glass aquarium with sharks, manta rays and saltwater fish to my left. This led to the entrance of a massive department store, where you could buy everything from a toothbrush to a speedboat, including an assortment of quad bikes. There was even a firing range, where you could let off a few rounds from your weapon of choice before you bought it. Amazing!! Tesco, this is not!

7am I’m checking out and the same pasty, faced punters are still giving it loads into the bandits, the blackjack and dice tables are a little quiet though. My plan is be in or around L.A., by lunchtime, that’s just short of 300 miles. Got the bike that will do it, almost a full tank, Interstate all the way, why not? After a quick piccie of the Harley in its bike bay, stuff the saddlebags with my overnight gear and it’s of to my first stop Parker. Riding out of Vegas, I notice there’s a lot of new construction work going on, this place is still expanding, especially new housing developments. I Settled in the saddle for a boring blast down the interstate. Everywhere is desert, but every now and then, at a junction, someone has put up yet another casino, just in case the punters left Vegas with some cash still left in their wallets (or credit on their cards), or, on the off chance some lucky winner might want to try his luck one more time.

Baker was a truck stop place and had my breakfast amongst a load of rig jockeys, me in my bikers gear somehow didn’t feel out of place. These trucks are something else up close, they have a semidetached bungalow stuck on the back of the drivers cab;…Is that why they call some of them Semi’s?

When it came time to fill up the bike, did my usual, I gave the cashier $10 dollars to come back for the change. The bike took $7, and when I called back in for the $3, she grinned and said that last time I opened this till for a biker he was robbing me. She also said it within earshot of the Highway patrol policeman who’d just called in for his morning coffee. Nice!

Next stop Barstow, and a little trip down ‘The old Route 66’, the Californian section. It was ok but nothing to write home about. Made excellent time to Barstow, so stopped for a coffee, toilet break and a bit of gas. By this rate I’ll be in Orange County before 12. At the fuel stop, I pulled in behind an SUV with a trailer and one of those flashy multi coloured chopper bikes on it. ‘Is that for display or riding? ‘I asked the driver, telling him I’d just seen their cousins at my hotel in Vegas. ‘Had it custom made for me by a specialist south of L.A.’ replied the man. ‘Cost me $35,000 dollars and I’ve only ridden it twice, just taking up space in my garage’, he sighed. ‘Some fella in Nevada is giving me top dollar for it, so I’m takin’ it to him, I’ll make better use of the money’. I asked him if he was a biker, ‘Nah!’he said, ‘Just fancied it at the time’

Nearing L.A., the traffic got heavy, as did the choice of Highways. My plan was to try and make the coast, do a loop down to Oceanside and then up to Temecula to drop off the bike. Didn’t quite go to plan, I certainly had enough time, but made a wrong turning that took me into a very mountainous area by lake Elsinore. It wasn’t a complete disaster though, it turned out I was riding along roads the local bikers use to have fun on. If I’d have been riding my VFR, then it would really have been adrenalin stuff, as it was I was able to put the softail through its paces. After 2 days and a little over 800 miles, I can safely say I’m riding this bike as good as most, and these twisting mountainous roads would not have disgraced some of the back roads in North Wales. In fact it was probably just what I need to finish off after 5 hours of motorway riding.

Well that’s it. I wanted see a little bit of America from the seat of a Harley Davidson, 2 days, 3 States and a host of interesting people and places. Here’s to the next time.

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