19/06/2009 by Brigid.

The El Rancho is billed as a former “home of the stars”, as many westerns were made in the area during the 40’s and 50’s and numerous actors had stayed there. The bedrooms may be a little on the small side by today’s standards, but the hotel retains a lot of its retro charm. It also serves good steaks and Mexican dishes, and has a bar of its own. Not staying in the ‘official’ Rally HQ hotel (the ghastly Red Roof Inn) meant that we were pretty well free to choose our own itinerary for the day.

I was concerned that Mum would be worried if I didn’t call again today, so borrowed John’s mobile and left him to order breakfast. It was a beautiful morning as I sat outside in the sun, listening to birds nesting in the eaves of the hotel. It was quite warm compared with previous years, but there was still a pleasant cool breeze.

We blew through the Painted Desert but stopped in Winslow, Arizona. The Eagles’ famous ‘corner’ has been reconstructed after a fire last year, and it was now cordoned off with a police escort awaiting the main group. Again, very impressive organisation from George for his first year as Rally Master. I put some postcards in the post and posed with John for the obligatory photo, with the bronze statue, in front of the mural of the girl in the flat-bed Ford. We then speeded on to Flagstaff to sort out Joanne’s spectacle issue and had lunch while waiting for the new glasses.

The Gallup to Kingman day is one of my favourites of the Rally. The next stop was in Williams, Arizona, for a chocolate malt at Twisters. Then we joined I-40 as far as Seligman, where John had hoped to get Angelo Delgadillo to cut his hair. Here we met up with fellow stragglers, Willie and Jim (”the Irish”), Mark and Cathy, and Karen and her group.

Karen has been riding as much old road as possible due to Ed’s nephew, Mike, having the ropiest bike on the Rally. At speeds over 60, it develops an expensive-sounding knocking, so they have been keeping off the Interstates, with occasional comical consequences.

Today’s adventure began when a stretch of road they believed to be original Route 66, turned to gravel. They stopped and asked a police officer whether they could ride through. Reassured, they ignored a couple of warning signs, and found themselves in a flooded underpass, which was supported by scaffolding. The bikes, including Mike’s ancient Goldwing, made it through, but Bill’s trailer was simply too wide to pass between the supports. Determined not to be outdone, the four of them, Bill, Dave, Karen and Mike, unhitched the trailer, tipped it on edge, and carried it through. Sterling stuff, you might think. However, a few hundred yards further on, the gravel road petered out and became dirt … Reluctantly, they came to the conclusion that this was not Route 66 after all, and so began the painful process of retracing the 16 miles or so to where they had started.

We arrived in Kingman around 6.15pm: earlier than usual, but just slightly too late to join George for his night-time ride to the ghost town of Chloride.

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19/06/2009 by Brigid.

We really needed to catch up with some housekeeping this morning, so opted to stay behind while the rest of the group rode to Sandia Crest and/or Santa Fe. I went to reception to ask whether there was a Walmart or similar store in town.

The receptionist replied, “You’ve heard of the middle of nowhere, well, we’re on the outskirts … “

So, no hope, then, of recharging our phone card and, thus, no hope of calling mum today. We did our laundry, had breakfast, and set out to do a bit of shopping in Santa Fe, 100 miles down the road.

Our only real goal for the day was to eat lunch in Madrid, setting for the biker comedy, “Wild Hogs”. We decided to follow the old road, as per the itinerary, and ended up in a biker comedy of our own making. It has to be said, there are a few gaps in George’s itinerary.  Probably all very well, if you are travelling with the main group, but a little confusing otherwise. The trouble is that so many of the alignments of Route 66 are now little more than dirt roads, it is sometimes difficult to judge if you are going the wrong way. The sign, “DANGER – Active railroad – Look both ways”, probably should have given us a clue. Nevertheless, we ended up riding about a mile along a nice stretch of gravel road, before we finally admitted defeat and turned back.

By the time we actually arrived in Santa Fe and started to look for parking spaces, our enthusiasm for shopping had waned, and we were getting hungry. There were ominous clouds building, so we donned our wet weather gear.

It was gone 2pm when we arrived in Madrid, but we weren’t the last.Doug and Joanne had only just caught up, having ridden from Tucumcari, and there were a couple of groups still eating in the Mine Shaft Tavern, the interior of which was used for the Del Fuegos’ biker bar in the film.

The clouds stayed with us for the rest of the day, though we had only the odd sprinkle of a shower. However, the wind was fierce, whipping my head around whenever I checked the road behind me, and ripping Joanne’s glasses right off her nose. Despite a thorough, and rather hazardous, search of the shoulder, we had to admit they were gone for good. So we stopped again a few miles on so that she could ring her optician for a prescription and, in the meantime, tried to help out another biker who had lost his oil sump plug. After a long and futile discussion with the two men, we donated some two-part epoxy and a spare bolt that looked as if it might fit … and left them gauping at the slick of oil that was slowly forming under the old Kawasaki. Ah well, you can lead a horse to water …

The only other stop was at the Continental Divide, where a fabulous double rainbow appeared briefly, and we were joined by a loan Spaniard riding a Harley. Having exchanged pleasantries and taken his photo – well, as I pointed out to him, no one else was going to – we were on our way again. It was about 7.30pm by the time we arrived at the El Rancho hotel in Gallup.

Donny and Rose greeted us with the news that Gary had been in surgery for six hours and was still on a respirator.  His leg had been amputated above the knee …

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19/06/2009 by Brigid.

Needless to say, everyone was highly amused to hear John’s tale of woe regarding the Tiger’s alarm system. However, in attempting to prove that it was now disarmed, John actually discovered that there was still some life in the system’s internal battery. The thing must have gone off six or more times before eventually falling silent. No matter.< This time it didn’t delay us unduly.

We were an hour or so behind the main group, which meant they had already moved on by the time we reached Sayre, where Doug wanted to take a picture outside the famous courthouse. I never saw “The Grapes of Wrath”, but a scene was filmed there.

We followed the old road into Erick, where we caught up with Pat Evans’ group. The Mediocre Music Makers had finished their show, so there was no reason to hang around. We joined up with Pat and rode on to the U-Drop-Inn in Shamrock, and then to McLean for lunch at the Red River Steak House.

We had barely sat down when Pat announced that Gary had had an accident. Details were few, but it appeared that he had broken a leg and collar bone riding through some construction. However, it soon became apparent that this was much more serious than we had initially thought. It seems that Gary and Len were riding on a stretch of old 66 when they came across a huge heap of asphalt piled in the middle of the road. Len managed to avoid it, but Gary was less fortunate and, in his mirror, Len caught sight of him catapulting high into the air, as his bike struck the obstruction.

Gary’s leg was badly broken and bleeding profusely. The emergency services were amazing and within minutes a helicopter arrived and he was medevac’d to hospital.

What little news there was continued to filter in throughout the day, with most people expressing genuine shock that something like that could have happened to an experienced rider like Gary on this ride. We rode on to the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo and ate homemade ‘Ugly Crust’ pie at the Midpoint Café in Adrian. But, try though we might to enjoy ourselves, Gary’s accident occupied our thoughts for the rest of the day.

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17/06/2009 by Brigid.

The day started promisingly enough. I made a quick call to Mum, while John looked up a list of BMW Motorrad dealers for Gary, whose bike was leaking oil. We packed up our bikes and went for breakfast, with the intention of riding with Karen, Dave, Mike and Bill.

We checked the room and John drove his bike round to reception to hand in the room keys. Meanwhile, Karen’s party pulled into the adjacent gas station to fill up. However, when John got back to his bike, he found he could not disarm the alarm. Nothing seemed to work and, naturally, as soon as he tried to move the bike, the alarm sounded. We were going nowhere.

Of course, this would have to happen on a Monday, as no self-respecting bike dealer is ever open on a Monday. I tried Datatool’s website, but succeeded only in crashing the reception computer. There was nothing for it but to call Carl Rosner in South Croydon.

To give them their due, the technician was sympathetic and helpful … and, to give John his due, he had foreseen possible problems with the alarm system, and had brought all the spare parts he had received when he bought it. All we had to do was to undo four screws and replace the bike wiring with the clever little box of tricks provided for the purpose. John set about digging out the plastic plugs that conceal the screws. The alarm went off. We put our fingers in our ears and let it stop before continuing. They eventually revealed four tamper-proof bolts for which a special bit would be required. Naturally, despite having each brought a fairly complete toolkit, we hadn’t got the necessary tool. Luckily, there was a good auto parts store in town …

So, with every minor disturbance now triggering the alarm, John and I put in our earplugs and dismantled the power source. The box of tricks was duly installed but … still the alarm was sounding. For the third time, we called the UK. “Ah, yes”, said Rosner’s man, “you will have to wait for the internal battery to run down … should take about 20 minutes …”

In the event, the alarm stopped after a couple of minutes and we were on the move at last. To be honest, so much time had elapsed since everyone else had left, that we didn’t expect to catch up. So, rather than blasting on, John and I calmed our frazzled nerves by exploring the day’s itinerary on our own. We followed the suggested route out of town to find a section of the original narrow ribbon road. We turned right onto South Main Street and were doing 35-40 mph as we suddenly found it. George’s itinerary warned of “some gravel”, but we really weren’t prepared to find ourselves surfing along at those speeds. The question was, “where was the ribbon road?” This road seemed to be mostly gravel with a small area of broken concrete in the centre. For a while we road along the centre, until we decided that it was actually easier to stand on the pegs and ride the thicker gravel to the side. It was only then that I noticed a narrow curb bordering the concrete on both sides. So that was the ribbon road! To be fair, it did get better further on, but we did wonder how the main group of 30 or so bikes would have faired.

We had visited the excellent Will Rogers Museum in Claremont on previous trips, but had planned to stop at the Gun Museum this time. However, time was getting on, and we really wanted to have lunch at the recently rebuilt Rock Café (devastated by fire last year) in Stroud. So we decided to put the pedal to the metal and hit the Interstate.

In fact, I-44 between Joplin and Oklahoma City is a toll road, the Will Rogers Turnpike and, as we discovered, getting on and off it in the right places can be a bit tricky. Suffice to say, we ended up taking a 3-mile eastbound detour before heading west.

After a quick snack at the much-improved Rock Café, we followed George’s itinerary through Wellston, where a bank in the main street displayed the current temperature of 99°F, and Arcadia. We pulled into the car park at the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City at about 4.45pm … and parked next to a familiar Honda Goldwing and trailer.

We found Doug and Joanne inside, taking a break from the heat. The museum was about to close. We took a quick peek at the giant landscape paintings in the auditorium, and bought a T-shirt and mug in the gift shop. Since it was now rush hour, we took refuge in Braums’ ice cream parlour for half an hour or so. Then we joined I-40 for a fast run to our hotel in Clinton, stopping just once to see the brand new Lucille’s diner, just a few miles on from the now deserted original in Hydro. It was late by the time we got in.

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17/06/2009 by Brigid.

The best way, we thought, not to get lost, would be to follow former Rally Master, Pat Evans. After all, we thought, who, having ridden The Mother Road, every year since the Rally began, could possibly know the road better …

Each year, Bourbeuse Valley Harley Davidson, the only H-D dealer with the distinction of being directly on old Route 66, lays on an exclusive Sunday breakfast of Krispy Kreme Do-nuts, fruit, coffee and juice, for the Rally participants … and each year, we have apparently been with the only group of riders to get lost and miss out. With that in mind, we hooked up with Pat and a small posse of old hands.

The dealership opens specially for the group and breakfast is free. Well, ‘free’ in the sense that you are welcome to help yourself to as much as you want. However, few people who go there leave without buying the odd extra T-shirt, quart of oil or chrome accessory. I suspect, forking out for a couple of hundred Krispy Kremes and some nice fruit, is well worth their while. And, with such a helpful team of sales assistants, it would be rude not to …

Following breakfast, Pat wanted to ride a bit of the old road: perhaps a bit that he hadn’t had the chance to see with the group in previous years. We followed a clearly-marked stretch for a while after leaving the dealer until a sign directed us across an Interstate bridge. At the T-junction, there was no clue as to which way we should go, so we turned right. Some miles further on, Pat’s voice came over the CB, “I’m not sure, but this road doesn’t look right to me”. “That’s because we’re going the wrong way”, came the reply. Unfortunately, it quickly became evident to the GPS-users, that we had already gone too far to simply turn back. The next major intersection was 40 miles on.

No one worried. We all had plenty of fuel, and it was a lovely road, twisting and turning and undulating, at one point like a giant roller-coaster, through cool green forests and pretty villages proudly displaying the star-spangled banner on every street lamp. “How thoughtful of these folks to honour my Birthday”, joked Pat over the CB, “I’m truly humbled”. “Say again, Pat”, someone cracked, “You’re what? Crumbled?”

On and on we rode, further and further from our intended path, until we came to a small town called Potosi. The various GPS units had been giving conflicting information about road names, so I pulled out our road atlas – for no better reason than just to get some idea of how far we had ridden. Pat came over. “If I’m going to be asked where we got to today, I’d better know the name of the forest”. I found it on the map, the ‘Mark Twain National Forest’. “This is part of the ‘Lewis and Clark Trail’”, volunteered John. “Oh good”, said Pat, “Then I can tell people we did this on purpose … it’s a sort of ‘make-it-up-as-you-go’ tour”.

Your secret is safe with us, Pat!

We parted company after lunch. I was being just a little too slow in changing from water-proofs to warm weather gear. By the time I had stuffed my rain jacket away in its roll-bag and bungeed it back onto the seat, the others already had their engines running. We said we would catch them up but, in the event, they had a ten minute start on us, so we didn’t see them again until the Eisler Brothers Store in Riverton, where a TV reporter was interviewing several participants about their experiences on Route 66.

Then we spent a few minutes taking photos at the Rainbow Bridge which used to mark the State Line on Route 66, between Missouri and Kansas, before heading for our Miami hotel and dinner at Montana Mike’s.

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15/06/2009 by Brigid.

The alarm clock went off at 4.30am but, truthfully, we had both been semi-conscious since 3.30am. Though it was still dark, we could see that it had rained overnight. Even at this hour, there was activity in the car park as participants dried off their bikes and stowed their belongings. The promised hot breakfast consisted of hard boiled eggs, coffee, waffles and toast. I couldn’t complain that it wasn’t “hot”, but I am more of an eggs and bacon type.

At 6.30am sharp, George put on his helmet and tooted his horn and the 15^th Annual Mother Road Ride/Rally was under way: George’s first as Rally Master. This year we had a police escort to ensure that we all made it through the first set of traffic lights and on to the Interstate.

We rode with the group into Chicago for a wet photo opportunity on West Adams, now officially recognised as the start of Route 66, and stuck with them all until Wilmington. This year’s group seems enormous, compared with past years. Doug and Joanne caught us up at the Launching Pad Drive-Inn, so we let the others go ahead and trailed along a few minutes behind. Somewhere outside Gardner, we noticed we had picked up a tail. It was only mid-morning, but Jim had broken down in Chicago, found a Harley dealer 50 miles south of the city, had his bike fixed, and still managed to catch up. He stuck with us as we visited the old Sinclair filling station at Odell, Funks Grove (where I bought a little bottle maple “sirup”), and the Route 66 Museum in Pontiac, then rejoined the main group after lunch.

We temporarily abandoned the itinerary to see the Lincoln memorial in Springfield, where we rubbed the great man’s nose.  (It’s good luck, apparently.) Then we stopped again outside Chatham to ride an old section of brick road that George had added for the first time this year. After that, we hit the Interstate for the next 80 or so miles for an extremely rare opportunity to ride across the original Chain of Rocks Bridge that spans the Mississippi. There were about 80 of us, and it was quite a sight – especially for the pedestrians who thought that the bridge was closed to traffic, as we weaved around the permanent picnic tables and reproduction vintage fire truck!

Our overnight stop was unspectacular. There is nothing whatever to recommend the Red Roof Inn in St. Charles. In 2006, we opened the door to our room to find an unmade bed … This year we couldn’t open the door at all. We had to wait an age in the hot sun before the unfortunate duty manager was able to fix the lock. Even then, the bathroom was so small that you had to raise the loo seat in order to shut the door, and the alarm clock (conveniently pre-set to 6am) seemed to have no “off” switch.

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15/06/2009 by Brigid.

We were due to leave for Chicago between 9am and 10am. I set the alarm for 7am, but couldn’t sleep that long. I could already hear Doug and Joanne moving around, so I took the opportunity of calling the hospital and managed, at last, to speak to my mother. It has to be said, she did sound a bit wobbly, but seemed in good spirits and generally pleased to hear from me. So the trip is still on … for the moment. Assuming no change, we’ll do Route 66, and reassess the situation when we get to Santa Monica.

Otherwise, John and I spent the next couple of hours repacking and redistributing our luggage, losing stuff, finding stuff that we meant to pack, and generally faffing about. We grabbed a quick breakfast downtown and called into Verizon with a borrowed mobile phone to equip ourselves with a US cell number. Then it was time to hit the road. We aimed to be at Willowbrook around 4pm, and we were, despite some necessary running repairs to John’s CB antenna.

The car park at the La Quinta motel was three-quarters full of bikes. Familiar faces greeted us, and it felt like we had never been away. Unloading the bikes took an age as we fell into conversation with old friends and new. At last, we found ourselves more or less alone and realised, although we had lost an hour since Michigan, it was time to eat.

Del Rhea’s was packed. There was standing room only as we waited for a table. So we had a couple of pints of Route 66 Red and chatted with other late-comers including Fred and Mary, Joe, and Mark and Gina (none of whom are riding this year), and a bemused New Zealand couple, Brian and Barbara, who came in place of Cameron and Ngaire. With no hope of a table any time soon, Geoff Wilde suggested we eat in the adjoining dining room. A sensible enough idea: it was a bigger room and there was no shortage of vacant tables. But we were immediately shoo’ed away by a particularly officious manager, who clearly didn’t want biker riff-raff mixing with ‘quality’. However, not wishing to turn away a table of seven, he reluctantly gave in.

Dinner was rather unsatisfactory all round. We missed George’s first briefing as Rally Master, and the waitress somehow mistook my pronounciation of chicken in a basket as sautéed chicken livers. Still, we had a good laugh about previous years, as Joe did his best to scare the newbies with hilarious tales about these two equally green Brits who showed up in 2001. That was, until I reminded him that his own antics that year had given rise to the “Wally Award” …

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15/06/2009 by Brigid.

Well, I couldn’t speak to Mum this morning after all. She is out of intensive care, but couldn’t come to the phone and her bedside phone had not yet been connected. Otherwise, the news continued to be encouraging. The nurse reassured me that Mum was doing “very well”, so I passed on our love and said I would call again tomorrow.

We put a load of washing on and went out for breakfast. Joanne is now officially on holiday, but woke up feeling under the weather with some sort of infection. Not wanting to disturb her, we then borrowed Doug’s suburban and went shopping in nearby Flint.

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11/06/2009 by Brigid.

Today’s news is much more encouraging. I rang at around 10am and discovered that Mum is doing well and they are expecting to return her to a normal ward later today … which means I should be able to speak to her tomorrow.

We spent the morning doing various useful administrative things and searching, unsuccessfully, for a phone card to try and cut down the cost of calling home. Then, this afternoon, Doug took us out to his country club, and John got to play his first round of golf in three years …

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11/06/2009 by Brigid.

I think a note of thanks is due here, to Guy and Vickie, and to Theo and Alma, for allowing us to bend their ears. I don’t think we were exactly sparkling company and it is especially dull finding oneself discussing other people’s ailments ad nauseum.  But, from my point of view, it was a real comfort to be amongst friends.

There was no mobile phone reception at Theo’s farm, which was a particular worry, as I had no idea whether anyone had been trying to contact me. We left after breakfast and made a quick call to the hospital from a gas station outside Hamilton. The news was better. Mum was conscious and “doing well”, though still receiving oxygen and a little support for low blood pressure – normal, apparently, in older patients.

We are due to spend the next couple of days with Doug and Joanne in Michigan, before riding with them to Chicago to start The Mother Road Rally. Logistically, this is the first point from which we could, practically-speaking, abandon the trip, if necessary.

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