Tag: USA

Epilogue

We arrived at Whistler, a little bit north of Vancouver, three weeks before we were due to fly home.

We had a lovely Airbnb overlooking this park and we rested and contemplated our next move. Susan wanted a photo in front of the Olympic rings because she thought she deserved a gold medal for putting up with me. Oh, she’s got such a sense of humour!

So what’s the best thing to do in these circumstances – when the big journey is done, when the goals have been achieved, when we’ve smashed our way through the Yukon and Alaska, when you’re now ready for some rest and relaxation?

Well, you go on a motorcycle holiday of course!

So we left Canada and headed back down to the USA and the Oregon coast.

Our first stop on the Oregon Pacific Byway was Astoria and that’s where Susan and I had serious problems with our relationship. I’m being very open and honest here.

Now, I know what you’re thinking – such an arduous journey over the last four months was bound to raise underlying tensions, bring frustrations to the fore and cause life defining relationship ruptions.

And who was the root cause of this trouble, you ask?

Well, it was Big Bad Dog Susan of course!

I know, I know, I see you rasing your eyebrows – you’re not bloody surprised!

So what happened? What happened? Tell us what the Big Bad Dog did to rupture your relationship?

Well this is not an easy story to tell and I choke up trying to write this! Please be patient with me whilst I explain (quiet sobbing).

It all started when we stayed at a most wonderful Airbnb hosted by Trish and Thaddeus. Delightful.

At the end of our stay, Thaddeus, a flight instructor, offered to take us up in his light aircraft over the Columbia River. Susan was excited to go up in the plane and her enthusiasm was palpable.

Note: if it’s not got two wheels I tend to be a bit more calm about transport options.

Just look at the Big Bad Dog grinning with Thaddeus before the flight.

So let me tell you, let me tell you this – when Thaddeus asked who was sitting in the front, Susan’s enthusiasm boiled over so much she shouted ‘ME!’

She even raised her hand! Hear that! Like at school – me, me, me! Bloody teacher’s pet!

I was lost for words. I was stung into inaction. I was overwhelmed with despair as I quietly, meekly, climbed into a half seat at the back that was only big enough for a small child!

Do you realise the implications? Has the story got meaning for you?

Yup, you’ve got it – I had become the bloody pillion passenger!!!!

After 12,000 miles of being in command, lion of the road, looking forward to the horizon and beyond, scanning for adventure and danger, with only the road ahead and Susan behind, here I was looking a this …

I’m sitting in the back with my knees around my ears like a big seething toad.

Then it got so much worse!

Yes, that’s Susan flying the bloody plane!

Sorry for swearing again but it was quite an emotional time for me in the pillion seat and Susan flying faster than a motorcycle.

Honestly, it was terrifying. If I had I known she was going to fly I would have worn my boom boom jacket and my lovely helmet!

Thaddeus even asked her if she would like to land! Well I nearly bailed out there and then! Thankfully, Susan passed back the controls and we had a safe landing.

After the flight, we had a couple of hundred miles on the bike down the Oregon coast. It was a very quiet journey with huffy hot pants back in front.

Susan is, of course, very empathetic. Well, that’s another way of saying she knows how to get me out of a huff – she bribes me with beer!

So for the next two weeks we toured Oregon and it’s countless local independent breweries. Yes I did say two weeks! This wasn’t a huff I was going to give up easy once I had worked out a way to milk it!

In Eugene, we hit the colourful hotspots.

I bought a ‘reasonably’ expensive 3 year old experimental American whiskey after the salesman gave me 15 free tasting shots of whiskey. Some were so strong that by the end I genuinely was having trouble speaking because my lips were numb.

Then we hit a backwater bar with a ‘cowboy’ teuchter band.

Now I appreciate it’s not the correct thing to say but there’s really no way to describe better – not one person in this photo is the ‘full shilling’!

Other patrons, outwith the photo, were too risky to photograph.

I highlight the lady on the left with the cat ears who winked at everyone, the guy in tie dye shirt in the centre who didn’t stop dancing even when the band had a break and the guy that confused me for a while – the black haired guy with the two tone jacket in the photo.

In Scotland we call would call him a ‘jakey’. Oh I know it is a ‘bad’ word to use but it’s an effective and efficient adjective in this instance.

He had his worldly possessions in bags at the side which meant he could do multiple clothing changes during each song.

Now I like to keep track of the zoomers when I’m in a zoomers situation. You can imagine my concern when my attention was distracted and the black haired guy dancing with a stick vanished and a baldy with a tie dye t shirt appeared. Suddenly I’m minus one zoomer and plus another zoomer.

To explain I was distracted by the red haired mother (dancing in the photo) giving her three year old daughter a lager ice cream float.

It was only later I noticed his switching clothes and wig trick. Yup his thick black hair is a wig. Tricky old zoomer.

The music was great. The people were colourful and a bit edgy but, as long as you didn’t stare too much, it was a great place. Kind of like a Weatherspoons in Glasgow where the standards have dropped even further. Yes I know, hard to believe, but there is such a place and that place was here!

Another day, in a town called Bend, Susan and I peaked. This town has the most (30) breweries per head of population in the USA.

We were only there a couple of day but managed 7 different breweries, including the simply magnificent Crux Fermentation Project. Please don’t make me drink beer in Scotland again!

Susan was a trooper. Brewery after brewery. We rebuilt our trust and talked beer and motorcycles. Nobody mentioned flying. Nobody!

Bend, in particular, was great as the weather was perfect. Honestly, being with Susan that couple of days was nearly as good as being out with the guys! Well done Susan!

We did go to the seaside. Susan likes the seaside. I knew if I kept milking it too much my fun would be curtailed and so we endured the seaside. And the best thing I can show you about the seaside is a photo of me.

Seriously, the Oregon coast was lovely and the the roads were motorcycle heaven. What a great motorcycle holiday.

We ended our holiday in Leavenworth. What an interesting town.

Established as a logging town with a freight railway but seriously declined when the railway rerouted in the 1930’s. There was almost nothing left, no lumber mills, no employment, no stores and next to no people.

Then someone had a bright idea – let’s have a Bavarian-Alpine theme town!

The idea came from a guy, who had a cafe in town, and who had served in Bavaria during World War 2. Since then tourism and employment have boomed.

It’s an extraordinary place.

There’s a city order that states all buildings have to have a Bavarian theme. The pubs have imported German beer and German food and even the McDonald’s looks like a chalet!

Tacky yes! Authentic definitely no! But it works in a cheesy sort or way and the tourists flock to it.

After Leavenworth, we crossed back into Canada and are now in Vancouver.

Today was a sad day. The bike has been handed over to the cargo courier.

So let’s finish with some stats for the stats people.

You people who can’t deal with numbers, please just scroll back to the photo of me for a few seconds.

Miles done this trip: 12,606

Hotels, motels, Airbnb : 66

If we add South America:

Grand total North and South America miles: 22,925

Grand total hotels, motels, Airbnb: 125

Grand total border crossings: 26

(okay people who hate stats and have been staring at the photo of me instead can now return).

So, in North and South America we have nearly circumnavigated the world (earth’s circumference at the equator is 24,901 miles).

The co-pilot and I have obviously got some unfinished miles.

See you on the other side.

Arrivederci amigos.

Long Way From No Hope

Ten days biking from Calgary to Anchorage. One days rest. Nine days biking to Hope. This is no way to treat an old man.

We thrashed it down the Alcan Highway. We thrashed it down the Stewart – Cassiar Highway. We thrashed it along the Yellowhead Highway. Roads that we had already travelled. They weren’t easier the second time.

The bike performed well though it could do with a wash. I kind of look the same – splattered dead flies and mud. Susan is fine and clean – she hides behind me and laughs when she hears flies the size of small birds bounce off my helmet.

Susan suffers in another way. The gravel and sand roads are her nemesis. I think she’s getting better although I’ve now had to ask her to stop breathing. Yes I know it’s cruel but it sounds like a cross between a heavy breathing phonecall and an express train over my intercom helmet!

In the evening she’s exhausted – nervous exhaustion. I’m exhausted – symbiotic exhaustion. I go to sleep dreaming of a whooshing in my ears. It’s not easy being me!

When she’s not whooshing in my ears, I keep Susan’s spirits up with junk food. Just look at her happy wee face. Susan has some kind of chicken salad sandwich whilst I’ve got the only Subway sandwich a biker should have – meatball marinara!

Here she is again at a petrol stop. I think she disinfected her hand after touching my handlebar – she thinks my gloves smell of dead Moose! I don’t disagree. It’s just a pity my hands smell the same.

So we reached Hope, less than 100 miles from Vancouver.

Chainsaw aficionados recognised the wooden sculpture in the last post as Sheriff Will Teasley (actor Brian Dennehy) from the movie First Blood, starring Sylvestor Stallone as Rambo.

Here’s a wooden version of the main man himself. The real wooden version can be seen on your TV.

So First Blood was essentially about Rambo walking into a small town and coming into conflict with a small town sheriff. It’s a classic movie of our times. Oh really? Yup, a classic!

The movie was filmed in the quaint mountain town of Hope and Susan and I have been here before – 11 years and 1 month ago.

Since that time we have referred to the town as No Hope. Sometimes Susan calls it Tantrum Town. Yes, there’s a story and that’s why we have returned.

First, let’s have a couple of photos of me.

Just to clarify, that’s me incorporated into a wooden carving – it’s not all wooden! Well maybe just the heid! I will give you that!

Here’s me 11 years ago! Amazing isn’t it? The wings look older but I’m just the same. You never know I could possibly be Marty McFly.

11 years ago we were starting our tandem journey from Victoria Island to Newfoundland. We set off with all the confidence in the world for our marvellous adventure.

Coming out of Vancouver and into the mountains we struggled. I cannot emphasise enough how we struggled.

After a few days we made it to Hope and Susan needed a day of rest. We had our day of rest and wandered the town taking photos for our marvellous adventure.

The following morning we left Hope with hope. We were rested, we were ready for our marvellous adventure.

Ten minutes out of town we reached this corner.

The photo doesn’t show it but it’s a bit of a slope. Just a bit. The newer lighter concrete wall wasn’t there at the time and, right at that spot, we faltered, and stopped. We were knackered. We couldn’t go on. And it was bloody cold and raining!

One of us had a tantrum and boy did they shout and moan. They even blamed the rain on the other person. The other person remained calm despite being presented with reasoned logic why it was their fault it was raining.

We were never going to bloody cross Canada on our marvellous adventure if we couldn’t even make it out of No Hope!

Now this was THE pivotal moment on our journey to adventure land and all our subsequent travels. We genuinely thought we would have to give up and if that happened then the rest would never have followed. Everything was about to fall like a train of dominoes.

So what is the one thing that separated our success from failure? Attitude! Our attitude was wrong.

We had no shared experience of such an undertaking and no understanding of the commitment. Our confidence, built on a flimsy platform of hope and a marvellous adventure, had disappeared.

We didn’t know how to cope in No Hope.

We decided to gave it another try. We pushed on, soaked and freezing and made it to the end of the day. We didn’t get to our intended destination – nowhere near it. But we got up the following day and did the same. The next day ……. you get the picture.

That day was a lesson that’s taken us through all our adventures – ‘just keep moving!’. Don’t contemplate the enormity of the task or journey ahead or how bad it is or how bad it could get – just keep moving!

Of course, we’re now on a bike with an engine. The physicality is not the same as the tandem but, as any motorcyclist will tell you, it’s the most satisfying but exhausting way to travel.

Panama literally feels like it was years ago. It’s difficult to explain. We’ve crammed in hundreds of places and destinations, gone through countless experiences. Neither of us can comprehend that Panama was only 3 months ago. We’ve lived a hundred ‘holidays’ since Panama.

It’s not for everyone but please never take my motorcycle away.

Now, without getting too sentimental, I’m going to get sentimental. Because of this story I’ve unburdened onto you, Susan and I decided this was the official end of this particular adventure.

It all really started here. So let’s finish this journey here.

10,998 miles.

We have another three weeks left before we fly home so we’re heading for Whistler then the Oregon coast.

So for now I’m going to leave you with a beer photo of me. Yup you’re getting bang for your buck photos of me today. You damn lucky person!

And in true Rambo style I ordered a pint of ‘First Blood’ at the excellent mountain brewery.

Looking like Rambo. Well perhaps not. At least the beer was excellent – nicest pint of red beer I’ve had.

Of course, at the end of another grand adventure, I’ve got to acknowledge that I was part of a team.

I couldn’t have got through this without you.

Until the next time.

Skol.

Long Way Up

Our route to Alaska was always going to be a long and winding road.

We had a break – the weather was settled and so we decided to go through to Anchorage with no rest days.

2,250 miles from Calgary in 10 days motorcycling. Doesn’t seem so challenging? Well, it’s 10 days over demanding roads, with a motorcycle carrying two old people. It was going to be tough at my age – I’m no spring chicken!

We left Jasper on the road we had previously cycled into Jasper. Yeah, yeah more memories!

We stopped on the road and tried to recreate a photo I had taken 11 years ago. That’s Mount Robson, the most prominent mountain of the North American Rockies.

We pushed on through Prince George and up the Stewart-Cassiar highway. The sun shone and we made good progress.

We kept up to date on the situation with our original planned route – the Alcan Highway. It closed for five days and whilst now open it continues to be affected by smoke. It’s not an option for a motorcycle.

On the third day we reached accommodation which was a little bit of luxury for Susan. I did say she was high maintenance!

The following day we crossed the border into the Yukon. Absolutely bloody marvellous wilderness! Love the Yukon.

The Yukon is, of course, famous for its gold rush, also known as the Klondike Gold Rush. In 1896, the idea of striking it rich led to over 100,000 people abandoning their homes and families to embark on a life threatening journey across treacherous, icy valleys and harrowing rocky terrain.

Less than half who started the trek actually arrived. Many gave up, many died. Those that made it found that reports of available gold were greatly exaggerated. The Klondike Gold Rush made some men wealthy beyond their dreams but most ended with nothing but broken dreams.

On our first night in the Yukon, we stayed in another chalet at Nugget City. More compact and bijou than luxury. I should say, Susan’s obviously not high maintenance all the time!

Met a lovely couple in the restaurant. Both retired. He was in the RCMP and she was a nurse. How often does that happen? All over the world policemen marry nurses.

Where was my nurse? What happened to her? All I got was a nursemaid!

The scenery in the Yukon was bleak and outstanding.

On route, we’ve seen brown bears, black bears and even a blonde grizzly foraging by the roadside. Once we had to stop whilst a brown grizzly slowly walked down the road centre line like he owned the place. Then we came across a very rare Canadian Lynx crossing the road with a menacing nonchalance. Wonderful.

We stayed in another chalet before crossing the border into Alaska.

And I drank another beer.

Honestly, I’m going to suffer going back to Scotland where the beer quality and choice is second division compared to what I’ve grown accustomed to since landing in Panama.

The scenery and beer are outstanding, the roads are not.

Most of the roads are paved but there’s long sections of gravel and mud. Susan hates gravel roads. Hated them in South America. Hated them in Central America. Hates them in North America.

Whenever we hit a gravel section the tension on the bike is palpable. I can’t keep the bike from slipping on occasion and this adds to the drama.

The permafrost destroys roads and, even where they’re paved, they can be treacherous. Potholes, dips, drops, undulations, subsidence, gravel pits, cracks, sand and mud are a nightmare for the motorcycle. Warning signs of danger for motorcycles are common along the road.

Sometimes, for a few miles, the road is wonderful but, suddenly, it can become very different and we’re braking hard, weaving and bouncing. When the bike comes down with a loud bang we ride along wondering if anything is broken.

Throughout the day, the road is an ever evolving challenge. You can’t take your eyes off the surface for a second. It’s pretty exhausting.

I’ve said it before and I will say it again. Susan is unbelievably brave on the back. How she copes with the bike hard braking, bouncing and slipping all over the road is unbelievable. Nobody else I know could do it!

Okay I know, I accept – nobody else would bloody want to do it!

So here’s a photo of Susan at the Alaska border. Fresh from a 20 mile mud and gravel section. Still smiling!

We were back in the USA!

Here’s me doing my crucifix impersonation.

Great, easy border crossing and the roads in Alaska are a significant improvement. Thanks America!

The Americans look after their roads (including roadside forest management) better than the Canadians. And Canadians if you’re going to retort you have a huge country and can’t afford to maintain the roads properly then give a chunk of your country to the USA. I’m sure Donald will take it 🙂

Helped by the settled, sunny, warm weather, biking through Alaska is simply magnificent.

As we approached Anchorage, the last 30 miles were four lane freeway. Oh how we flew into Anchorage.

Susan wasn’t happy we were flying faster than anyone else but, after 10 biking days on treacherous roads, I wasn’t going to take it easy today.

We finished with a flourish and then went for beer, of course!

Tomorrow is for the old man resting. The next day? Well it’s back down the same road of course.

We’re not hanging about in Anchorage. It’s a bit of a dump, if I’m being honest, but we knew that before we arrived.

We thought about taking a few days on the bike and explore the peninsula but I’m fearful the weather changes. This is North America and when a bad weather system comes in it can be devastating. I can’t contemplate riding some of these roads in very bad weather.

Also the forests are on very high alert for fire all along the Alaskan road and into the Yukon. If a forest fire arises we’re effectively stuck. There’s one way in and one way out for us.

So need to make progress whilst the weather is fair and the forests are calm.

It’s not a time for two exhausted old people to sit and nap in Anchorage.

It’s time to move. Again!

The Wild West Meets Scotland

From Buffalo to Cody we detoured over the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway in Wyoming. Motorcycle heaven. Outstanding scenery. Outstanding roads. Outstanding weather.

We stopped for a couple of days in Cody (established and named by William F. ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody) and checked into a nice motel to provide us with a ‘theme park’ experience.

Unfortunately, on the way to the pub, Susan and I got into a bit of an argument – she found alternative transportation for our trip and wouldn’t get out.

I had to resort to threats. Sorry guys! – sometimes even us metrosexual guys have to resort to unmetrosexual like conduct.

I proposed towing her in a traditional carraige – the local historic museum had a few spare that were available for reasonable cost.

Yes, I know the photo doesn’t really look like much of a historic town. Well it was and you know me – I always deliver!

Let’s start with with something impressive to demonstrate I know what I’m talking about.

This is Curley’s (Bull Half White) cabin where he lived with his wife ‘Takes A Shield’. What great names Native Americans had. So descriptive! I mean you certainly know not to leave your shield lying around when Curly’s wife is about!

Susan and I realise we now have adopted Indian names – ‘Clif Bigheid’ and ‘Susan Bigdug’. You see how us travellers easily metamorphosise ourselves into the local culture.

By the time Curly was 12 he had killed a buffalo and received his own horse. By the time most Scots lads are 12, they’ve completed the latest video game!

Ah, perhaps I should explain who Curley was?

Well, he was a Crow scout for Custer and the 7th Cavalry at the Battle of Greasy Grass. He was on the outside of the charging circle of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors and managed to escape. Well, that’s Curly’s story!

Okay, I’m listening, I hear you – you hadn’t heard of Curly and you’re quietly singing to yourself ‘that don’t impress me much’.

Well look at this!

‘Oh-oh you think you’re something special’? you ask.

Well, yes I do because look at this …..

Only the bloody table where the ‘Hole in the Wall’ gang played cards!

Yes, yes I know, I’m playing a blinder.

And whilst I’m on top – how about an original wanted poster for Kid Curry!

In terms of delivering on cowboy history I think I’ve knocked it out the park again!

If you don’t know about these infamous characters then you were probably not raised on a diet of cowboy movies and television series. I feel sorry for you.

I could show you more. I could tell you more, but I don’t have time and you don’t have the patience. I’ve got to move on and ramble on about another Wild West character.

Let’s talk about Bill.

We visited the Buffalo Bill Centre of the West, a museum affiliated to the Smithsonian Institution. Proper culture stuff. Yes, yes I’m not all about beer and beer and ……. well beer!

Here’s Bill. What a dandy!

Oh, I know it’s a photo of a photo. Best I can deliver cause he’s deid.

Here’s his coat.

Yeah, yeah it’s only a blinking coat and you’re still reeling in awe having seen the card table so let’s move on with the story.

Buffalo Bill, born in 1846, was a buffalo hunter, US Army scout and pony express rider. His marksmanship, courage, endurance and knowledge of the land made him a legend in his own time.

It should also be recognised, he was chief scout for the U.S. Cavalry throughout much of the government’s attempt to wipe out indigenous resistance to settlement of land east of the Mississippi. So he wasn’t a saint.

His exploits made it into newspapers and dime novels of the day and transformed him into a Western folk hero. He even formed a partnership with an author and they produced a stage show, dramatising the west.

For many years, Cody performed during the winter and scouted for the army in the summer. The lines began to blur between the two when Cody famously wore his theatrical clothes into battle.

In 1883, Cody organised his famous Wild West Show, a spectacular outdoor entertainment with a cast of hundreds, featuring cowboys, Native Americans, along with recreations of buffalo hunting, the robbery of the Deadwood stage and the battle of Greasy Grass.

Buffalo Bill’s relationship with Native Amercans changed and his Wild West show offered them an alternative way of life that allowed them to earn money. A cynic may say he exploited their destitution brought on by his summer job.

Lakota Sioux warriors became a centerpiece of the show and, for a time, even included Sitting Bull and other warriors who had fought at the battle of Greasy Grass.

The show played through the USA and toured Europe, including a performance in front of Queen Victoria.

In 1893 alone, three million people attended the show and, by the end of the 19th century, Buffalo Bill was one of the most recognised people in the world.

Surely he wasn’t recognised in Scotland? Oh, he surely was!

Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show first visited Glasgow in 1891-92. It ran for 3 months, staged in a 7000 seated theatre in the east end.

The most famous of the Native Americans in the show, at that time, was Kicking Bear who was the last Lakota Sioux warrior to surrender to the US Government.

Kicking Bear was a familiar figure in the streets of Dennistoun and one of his most well known photos was taken in a studio in Bellgrove Street.

So the Wild West Show in the Wild West of Scotland? What could possibly go wrong?

Well, George Crager, who toured with the show as a Lakota Sioux interpreter, sold a famous ‘Ghost Shirt’ to Kelvingrove Museum. Yup, if you’re going to reset stolen goods where else in the world would you go?

Ghost shirts are sacred to the Lakota people and thought to be imbued with spiritual powers. On a winter morning, on the banks of Wounded Knee Creek, a slain Lakota Warrior was stripped of the one item that was supposed to protect him from death: his Ghost Dance Shirt.

It became part of a collection assembled by George Crager and this looted artefact found its way into a Glasgow museum.

Fast forward to 1998 and, after a six year campaign, Kelvingrove Museum agreed to return this Ghost Shirt, stained with the warrior’s bloody, to his descendents.p

That’s not all that happened in Wild West Glasgow.

Crager also hit the headlines when he was assaulted by Lakota Sioux warrior ‘Charging Thunder’.

Jeez, even the wee neds fae Glasgow would think twice about upsetting a guy with that name!

Charging Thunder obviously lived up to his name and hit Crager over the head with a block of wood. And what did the Glasgow polis do? They did what they’re best at – they ‘gied him the jail’ and, subsequently, Charging Thunder was sent to Barlinnie (prison) for 30 days.

Nowadays, ‘Charging Thunder’ would claim diplomatic immunity and get out of jail or, alternatively, he would have a 5000 flag waving march in Sauchiehall Street proclaiming injustice and his innocence.

On the second visit to Scotland in 1904, the Wild West Show came back bigger and better than ever. It performed at numerous venues in Scotland to an estimated 500,000 people at a time when Scotland’s population was around 4 million.

They travelled in their own trains, extending to three quarters of a mile long and in Edinburgh they played for a week at an 18,000 amphitheatre in Gorgie.

Before the show, it was written that the participants collectively represented men who had served in almost every major conflict waged throughout the world since 1861.

So that’s Bill Cody and Scotland.

I could tell you more but, at your age, most of you will have dozed off by now. And you know what they say – always leave them wanting more.

Or as I always say – leave them with another famous coat!

Worn by Annie Oakley, greatest sharpshooter of the West. Now there’s a story!

The Greasy Grass

We had a good few days sitting about Buffalo doing nothing much apart from walking to the local ‘historical’ bar. They call any bar ‘historical’ in these parts if it’s over 100 years old.

At least this pub had bullet holes in the walls and I had a drinking partner looking over me.

There was a multitude of stuffed animals in this bar including a huge moose heid and a standing grizzly bear. I like stuffed animals on walls. Susan doesn’t.

We left Buffalo and my stuffed animal friends and headed north to visit the site of the ‘Battle of the Greasy Grass’.

Where’s that? you most certainly will be asking? Well let me enlighten you once again.

It’s the site of the Battle of the Little Bighorn. You know the one – Custer’s Last Stand. Where the 7th Cavalry were defeated by the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes in 1876.

The Battle of the Greasy Grass is what the plains Indians called it and, as they always say, the victors get to write history, then I think it’s only appropriate we give it its correct name.

We stopped for lunch at the trading post run by native Americans and we each had an ‘Indian Taco’.

That’s deep fried bread with chilli and stuff. Delicious. Bit more calorific than a Scottish deep fried pizza and I’m not sure how Susan mentally coped with it. That said she certainly stepped up – there’s a real man in there somewhere!

So what happened at Greasy Grass?

Well the Native Americans were being persecuted, their ‘agreed’ lands appropriated and treaties ignored. Bad duplicitous white man.

The US Government, under President Ulyssses S. Grant, then ordered the Sioux to leave the South Dakota Badlands (their home) by the end of January knowing they wouldn’t be able to make the trek during the harsh winter. The government planned to use this as an excuse to expand hostilities. Really bad white man.

When the subsequent US campaign against the Native Americans began in mid-May, a large group of Lakota Sioux, Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes had already converged for a meeting called by Sitting Bull. An estimated 2,000 warriors and their families gathered on the banks of the Little Bighorn River. It was a huge encampment.

The Native Americans were no doubt wondering what to do next when along comes Custer and his 650 men of the 7th Cavalry.

George Armstrong Custer gained fame during the civil war (he was on the right side) and in post war conflicts with Native Americans. He was capable, experienced, vainglorious and eager for more battle glory.

Custer didn’t scout the camp properly, didn’t listen to advice, and was unaware of the true numbers of Native American warriors encamped there.

He split his forces into three battalions in an attempt to prevent any American Indians from escaping from either side. He wanted this to be a complete victory.

This was a huge tactical error when faced with an overwhelmingly superior strength enemy as his battalions were unable to support each other.

Of course, his batallion took the centre position, the position where he could get most glory.

The 7th cavalry engaged the Native American encampment thinking it would be an easy victory. They were eager for battle and thought it would be a rout.

The first action was the battalion, under the Command of Major Reno, flanking the village and opening fire on warriors, women and children. The soldiers were charged, defeated and retreated.

The other battalion, commanded by Capt. Benteen, was still approaching Little Bighorn and too far away to assist. Everything had started too early in a effort to stop any Native Americans from potentially escaping.

Once Reno retreated to a defensive position, the Native Americans turned their attention to Custer and his 210 men.

Custer’s Last Stand lasted under an hour as they tried to defend the high ground above the village. They were all killed and the only accounts of this ‘stand’ were from Native Americans. They said the soldiers fought courageously to the end.

The stones mark where some of them fell. It’s not widely known that Custer’s brother fought and died by his side.

Only a single, badly wounded horse survived from Custer’s batallion. Oh, I know some of you will be more concerned about the horse so I can tell you it subsequently lived a long life and was a bit of a celebrity horse.

Personally, I would like to have seen the horse’s head stuffed and on the wall in a ”historical’ bar I could visit. Wouldn’t that be great? Susan would disapprove.

The outcome of the battle, though it proved to be the height of Indian power, so stunned and enraged white Americans that government troops flooded the area, forcing the Indians to surrender.

Here’s a photo of the memorial stone at the 7th Army mass grave. Over 200 soldiers and scouts from at the ‘Last Stand’ lie here. Custer was reinterred at West Point Cemetery.

Let’s not forget Native Americans who died that day protecting their families, their freedom and their way of life.

Indian battle memorial outlook looking up to the mass grave of the 7th Cavalry.

Historians debate the pre-European population of North America and whilst disease and famine played a significant role, the American Indian Wars fought by European colonial empires against various Indian tribes has been characterised as genocide.

By the close of the Indian Wars in the late 19th century, fewer than 238,000 indigenous people remained. A sharp decline from the estimated 5 million to 10 million living in North America when Columbus arrived in 1492.

This was done in the name of civilization?

‘When we show our respect for other living things, they respond with respect for us’.

Arapaho Proverb.

Cowboys

The Black Hills of Dakota are motorcycle heaven and Sturgis holds the world’s largest motorcycle rally each year.

Thousands of bikers attend (official figure cite around 450,000) but nobody really knows because they don’t count them properly. In reality it’s nowhere near that number but it’s still pretty giganormous.

On the day we visited it was quiet, ghost town quiet.

Well, apart from these guys staying at our roadside motel (there’s a few more bikes in the car park you can’t see).

We unpacked and Susan relaxed in our room, located right in that dark corner beside the bike guys.

We had been allocated a room on the upper level but asked for a change to the ground floor to save me carrying the panniers upstairs. After I saw our new room allocation I wanted back on the upper level but didn’t want to ask for a change again just because I was a namby pamby.

They were all dressed in club leathers looking cool, hard and menacing, with most of the emphasis on menacing. A couple of the guys had t shirts with text that doesn’t need Susan to censor it in this blog. I’ve bloody censored it myself!

I thought I’d better introduce myself, front up and pretend I’m not namby pamby.

First, I gave myself the once over check to make sure the flashing light on my boom boom safety jacket wasn’t visible.

Then I made sure my zip was up and they couldn’t see my padded motorcycle pants.

I then breathed a sigh of relief I had stopped Susan, that morning, from sponging down my bike gear because they needed a ‘good clean’.

I looked like I had travelled. I looked dusty and in need of a good ‘sponging’. There’s no way they’re getting to know I’m a namby pamby.

We talked bikes, the weather, our route and beer. A good biker conversation and I think I pulled off the deception.

When I got back to the room, Susan said her usual ‘ooooooh you’ve been making biker friends again, that’s nice’. We laughed. I didn’t tell her who they actually were until after we left the motel.

You see these guys belong to what is commonly called an ‘outlaw biker gang’ by the department of justice. They’re one of the top ‘outlaw gangs’ in the world and their club history is as bad as you could possibly imagine.

Oh, I could tell you a story or two about our conversation but I won’t. Oh, I could tell you who they were but I won’t. Some things are better left unsaid.

One guy told me he had ridden 1900 miles in 24 hours straight. To be honest, I believed him. If he told you the story you would say you believed him whether you did or not. Trust me you would!

So to be safe, I’m saying nothing until I’m at least 48 hours riding away from these guys and I work that out as 3,800 mIles!

The next day we visited the Sturgis Harley Davidson shop and ‘Big Dog’ sat on her motorcycle throne. Nice.

Then we set off for Deadwood where Susan reciprocated with a photo of me.

Yes, I know – she set me up to look like a dwarf from the Lord of the Rings sitting on a normal sized chair!

Oh the guy looking over my shoulder is Wild Bill Hickok. He was shot and killed in Deadwood in 1876 whilst playing cards. It’s rumoured the cards he was holding included two black eights and two aces – now known as the ‘dead man’s hand’.

Here’s his grave.

I won’t tell you his story, interesting as it is. Instead, I will tell you about this colourful character.

Martha Canary was born in 1856 in a ‘rag tag’ family. She was left an orphan at aged 11 and had to survive by any means, following railroad, military or gold camps.

It’s most likely she earned her nickname ‘Calamity Jane’ because everywhere she went calamity ensued. Along the way she became an alcoholic, swore like it was her first language and joined in on most any dangerous opportunity.

She joined a military expedition and because women were not allowed on such expeditions, she dressed as a soldier. She gained notoriety for this act and was subsequently popularised through regional and national newspaper articles, dime store novels and books. In these days, everyone in America wanted to read stories of the ‘wild west’. Through these exaggerated publications she became larger than life.

It’s been rumoured that she had a romantic relationship with ‘Wild Bill Hickok’ and they were even buried side by side. Whilst they were acquainted, anything more is just a fanciful tale.

Whilst the many tales of her exploits were colourful, it was undoubtedly a hard life. Aged beyond her years, she died of pneumonia at age 47 in 1903.

She would be astonished to know we still talk about her and, as one of the great wild west characters, her memory will always live on.

Deadwood is another great place to visit. It’s full of cowboy stories and tall tales. Nothing is real for the old Deadwood was burnt to the ground several times and washed away by floods in other times.

The saloon where ‘Wild Bill Hickok’ was shot isn’t the place where he was shot but they will still charge you $10 to show you a backroom where it happened.

It’s all a bit of a ‘disneyesque’ creation – fun for a day or two but it’s soon time to move on.

Up in the morning and what did we see.

It’s 0c and the snow is falling. Thankfully the roads are clear – a local explained it’s because, at this time of year, the ground has retained heat.

We thought about staying another day to let it pass but there was a heavy snowfall predicted later that afternoon. Tomorrow didn’t look too good either.

Our planned 170 miles journey that day to Buffalo would lead us to a lower altitude and, hopefully, a few degrees warmer and no snow.

We would like to have waited until mid morning when the temperature rose slightly but the forecast said we had gale force winds in Buffalo at noon.

So we got on the bike.

I made a mistake trying to look after Susan and gave her my fleece top. We look after Susan when it’s hot and we look after Susan when it’s cold.

Yes, I see you shaking your head – thank you for sympathising. My life on the bike is indeed a bloody thermometer nightmare!

Awwww nice guy. Awwww daft guy!

The ‘feels like temperature’ in Deadwood was -7c standing still and I don’t know what it became when riding on the interstate.

I had three tops, boom boom vest, down jacket and my motorbike jacket on. It wasn’t enough. Susan on the other hand tucks in behind ‘big boy’ and is sheltered from the storm. If needed, she puts a hand down near the exhaust to warm.

I couldn’t see for the sleet snow sticking to my visor and our old Wyoming friend, high cross winds, battered us again.

I wanted to make good time and get to Buffalo without stopping before the wind peaked at noon but I had to stop after 90 minutes. I was frozen.

We came off the interstate when we saw a Maccies and nearly fell off at a junction – my arms and legs wouldn’t work fast enough because they were frozen stiff. I held the bike upright, only just, and saved us another £100 to recharge Susan’s boom boom jacket. Nice one frozen stiff man.

Once inside Maccies we warmed for 15 minutes and got back on the bike. No time to linger, only another 100 miles to go before noon.

It was a dual carriageway interstate with a mean elevation of around 5000 feet. The road had sheets of water coming off the mountains and, as it was quiet, and I rode in whatever lane had the least surface water. I had to.

The cars and trucks were all understanding. Not once did I get flashed or tooted for sitting in the outside lane for miles when the inside was ‘clear’ of traffic. Thank you Wyoming drivers! I’m not used to such understanding in the UK.

As the road went over the mountains, it’s bleak and miles from nowhere. We climbed through arctic snowy landscapes but, thankfully, the roads stayed clear of ice and snow.

We missed our noon deadline and suffered the consequences. Gale force freezing winds hit us. They really hit us!

It was terrifying at times. I really don’t exaggerate. But we keep on going because there is no other option.

Each time a hard journey like this happens I say to Susan that will be the worse day we have, it can’t get any harder than that. Then along comes a day like today.

When we arrived at our cheap motel, I sat in the motel room whilst Susan made me a coffee. I couldn’t stop shaking from the cold. I trembled all over.

Here’s Susan with my coffee looking cosy in my fleece.

Susan was mildly amused when she noticed I looked purple. No I wouldn’t let her take a picture – there’s was no way I was getting the name ‘big purple heid’!

That evening we went to the historical saloon in town. I got chatting to a guy at the bar and he said we had just missed hail the ‘size of softballs’ on our road that day.

Sometimes, when you think you’ve been unlucky with the weather you don’t know how lucky you are!

Wyoming Wind

From Manitou Springs we headed north to Boulder, Colorado.

Short journey and so I took the opportunity to visit people who can help people with worries about motorcycles.

The problem I didn’t mention was a starting problem. Twice over a week the bike wouldn’t start first time. That’s pretty unusual.

It meant everytime we stopped in the middle of nowhere I was wondering whether the bike would start. That’s a little bit stressful. Believe me.

Without getting technical I suspected it was to do with either the clutch or stand switch. Ten days we lived with this issue, wondering if and when it would reoccur.

Well I say ‘we’ but Susan was quite chilled about it. She delegated the worrying to me and wasn’t even fussed about the bike getting checked in Boulder. Good approach – ‘ forget all your worries and your strife’.

She wasn’t quite so happy that we were taking less and less breaks in our riding. Several hours without stopping was quite commonplace by now. We often stop in the back of beyond and whilst Susan looks at the scenery, I wonder how long it would take a tow truck to get there.

So when the guys at this garage, who are BMW specialists, told us they couldn’t find an issue, we were reassured. So it’s all fine again. Except maybe it isn’t. You see as far as I’m concerned, we haven’t explained what happened?

Oh, and whilst I’m getting bike issues off my chest I may as well tell you about the other.

We have a fuel filter, which is basically a perforated filter bag, inserted into the fuel tank and retained at the tank nozzle area. This was done before South America because the fuel can be dirty especially in places like Bolivia.

All fuel served in South and Central America is by attendant and some can be less than careful placing the fuel nozzle in our tank. Gradually, they knocked the fuel filter into the tank. I didn’t think that could happen but it did. I don’t know when it happened and only noticed the first time I had to fill the tank myself in the USA.

So now we have a 9 by 6 inch filter bag with plastic nozzle floating randomly inside our fuel tank. I’ve had a peer into the tank and can’t see it. All I can see are electronic switches inside the tank – that’s not reassuring!

Boulder, our destination that particular day, is another lovely place to visit. We had two great days doing tourist things. Susan looked at interesting geology ..

And I bought a bottle of single malt whisky ….

… made by a Scot, trained at the Arran Distillery and distilled in Boulder using Scottish imported malt in stills imported from Scotland. Nice.

I drank as much as I was allowed by Susan in two days, poured the rest into a plastic water bottle and then it was time to head north.

We decided to join two planned days of motorbiking and complete 350 miles to South Dakota, on mixed roads, in a day. Ambitious plan.

Unfortunately, the weather also had plans for the day – gale force cross winds, gusting over 65mph! Jeezo!

We waited until 10am to leave our motel as the weather advice was for the wind to reduce in late morning. It didn’t.

My insides were uneasy at the thought of what was to come. I had memories of our experience in South America. It’s one thing to deal with a bike and yourself, it’s completely different feeling when you’re fully loaded and responsible for the safety of another.

Also when two up and with a top box the surface area for the wind to hit high up is increased significantly. If only Susan was disproportionately skinny and 7 stone it would be so much easier.

Personally, I think part of our ‘baggage’ problem occurs because she’s got too many snacks and biscuits and cream bars and muffins and porridge and peanut butter satchets secreted in her bag and jacket. Oh please don’t think I’m being flippant and making this up! She even carries plastic bloody spoons to eat the porridge!

Yes of course I moan and say it’s ridiculous. Yes of course she does what she wants and replies – ‘what the big dog wants ……. Damn!

So we set off on our journey with trepidation and were absolutely hammered by the wind. The roar in our ears and the force on the side of the bike were relentless.

The first 90 miles were on the interstate and it was frighteningly turbulent. There was no consistency to forces on the bike and it was difficult to handle and impossible to keep in a straight line.

We stopped at Cheyenne for a break and I wasn’t sure it was safe to carry on. But it’s amazing how a coffee and time to relax helped. Susan watched me the whole time we were stopped. Yes, you’re absolutely right – she’s wondering if I’m going to go for that plastic bottle of whisky in the side bag!

We decided to give it another try. Well, I decided.

Susan was okay about it. She just sits on the bike and doesn’t worry about it. That’s pretty calm when we’re not going in a straight line and regularly heading towards a heavy vehicle or off the road.

I’m full time struggling keeping going. But we keep going. And we keep going. Hour after hour.

Then we crossed into Wyoming. F**k me!

The High Plains of Wyoming have a mean elevation of 6,700 feet. Its vast, totally open countryside as far as the eye can see, with absolutely nothing to stop the path of the roaring wind until it hits two old ‘cracker barrel’ people on a bike.

It’s ferocious.

We can’t stop because there’s nowhere to stop. It’s just road and countryside. Even if we did stop at the side of the road we can’t park the bike. It would be blown over and we would struggle to get it up.

It takes us over eight hours to reach our destination. Oh yes, I know you’re waiting to hear me say this – we’re totally exhausted!

We couldn’t get a photo of the high plains of Wyoming but take it from me they’re absolutely stunning. Breathtaking. America doesn’t get enough credit for it’s wonderful landscape and, in my opinion, it’s unparalleled.

Our destination that night was Custer. Named after the guy who fought the native Americans and lost. More about that another time.

So no photo of stunning Wyoming. Sorry. Here’s the next best thing – another photo of me in another bar. Sweet as a nut.

This is the kind of bar I would ride for 8 hours in tortuous, terrifying winds.

Wonderful atmosphere. Wonderful food. Wonderful beer. Wonderful Susan dealing with the day.

Yes, of course there was always the option for us not to travel that day and we did seriously discuss it and start making alternative plans.

But we’re not that kind of people. If we were that kind of people we wouldn’t be here in the first place. To be honest, in hindsight we should have stayed but with hindsight we would do the same again.

Next day we went to see the Presidents. You know the guys I’m talking about – these stoney faced guys.

Wonder if there are any quart people who can name these guys without looking it up? Well, you’ve got Washington at the front (left); Lincoln at the back (right); Thomas Jefferson (second from left); and Chuck Norris at the back.

Yes, yes, you’re gonna have to look it up now!

We added a couple of heads – ‘big heid’ and ‘big dog’.

The monument was completed between 1927 and 1941 by the sculptor Gutzon Borglum and his son.

Each head is 18m tall and the sculpture was originally intended to be depicted from head to waist but a lack of funding cut them short. It’s a pretty spectacular monument in the flesh – well, you know what I mean!

So what is the meaning of Mount Rushmore? Is it just three random presidents and Chuck Norris?

They symbolise different principles. George Washington signifies the struggle for independence and the birth of the Republic. Thomas Jefferson the expansion of the country. Abraham Lincoln the permanent Union of the states and equality for all citizens, and Chuck Norris, the 20th century role of the United States in world affairs, the rights of the common man and the ‘Code of Silence’.

Awesome.

It should be recognised, however, the Mount Rushmore sculpture is in land that was illegally taken from the Sioux nation.

The US Govt seized the Black Hills of South Dakota in 1876 because gold was discovered and settlers began to encroach onto Native American land that had been agreed by treaty. In effect, the ‘immigrant’ Americans reneged on legal promises made to the ‘native Americans’.

In 1979, the US Court of Claims decided that said seizure was wrong and awarded the Sioux $17.5 million. With interest, this amounted to $105 million.

The Sioux refused to accept this ‘hush’ money because acceptance would legally terminate Sioux demands for the return of the Black Hills. The money continues to accrue interest and stands over $1.5 billion today.

Activity continues on behalf of the Sioux but recent presidents, including the superficially supportive Obama, delivered nothing.

To show our support for the Native Americans we went to see Crazy Horse. Yes, of course he got bayoneted by the US Cavalry and we didn’t see the guy himself but we did see him larger than life.

They’re currently carving out Crazy Horse from a mountain. It’s a quite astonishing venture.

Below is a representation of what the sculpture will look like.

Started in 1948, the sculpture was the inspiration of Chief Standing Bear and started by sculptor Korczak Ziolkowski who had also worked on Mount Rushmore. It’s a significant undertaking and relies on private funding. Progress is slow but continuing.

Crazy Horse, leader of the Lakota, was chosen as the subject because he ‘never signed a treaty or touched the pen’.

The sculpture depicts his left hand gesturing forward in response to a derisive question he was asked ‘where are your lands now?’

Crazy Horse replied ‘my lands are where my dead lie buried’.

Shine on you crazy diamond.

Long live the spirit of Crazy Horse.

Is This The Way?

Every night I’ve been hugging my pillow.

No these are not the words of a man who has finally broken under the relentless struggle against the highway.

When the day is dawning, on a Texas Sunday morning.

Another clue?

Sha la la la la la la, Sh la la la la la

Got it?

Final clue for this edition of pop master.

Show me the way to ….

Well I’ve handed it to you – we’re heading to Amarillo!

We left Fort Worth in the morning heat and sunshine and finished our journey in the cold and rain. This is Texas and when Texas does cold and rain it does it bigger and better than anywhere else. Even the raindrops are bigger.

By the time we got to Amarillo we were absolutely frozen. We hadn’t properly dressed for this weather and we were two chattering numskulls when we reached our hotel.

After a long hot shower we went for dinner to the place where the old people go – Cracker Barrel.

Cracker Barrel is a restaurant chain and we’ve been before during our cycling trip. I know you would definitely like it.

I like it but Susan hasn’t made her mind up yet. That’s Susan though – I swear she’s still making her mind up about me!

It’s not hip fine dining, it’s just good old home cooking for good old people. You know what I’m talking about – wholesome carbs straight from the freezer to the plate. Food that can be eaten with dentures and doesn’t need a lot of chewing. That’s what us old people like – don’t we?

You can see from Susan’s ‘distant’ expression she’s still not recovered from her freezing bike ride. What a trouper she is! On the other side of the camera I’m looking great.

And that was Amarillo. We didn’t see the town. We didn’t see Tony Christie. We were too damn tired. That’s what happens when you’re old people.

The following day was Amarillo to Santa Fe but we had to delay our start until 11am because of the weather on our road.

We were on the edge of some weather system with tornadoes, large hail and torrential rain. A local told us we were going to be ‘trapped’ in Amarillo for two days.

Show me the way outta Amarillo.

So we waited and watched the weather radar to see what’s passing over the road ahead. When it’s red rain we can’t motorbike. When it’s yellow rain we don’t want to motorbike. When its green rain we just have to get on with it.

We left in green rain and I was soon congratulating my ‘geniusness’ at threading the weather needle.

There was sh*t happening all around us, moving toward us, hitting the road behind us but we kept in the clear. I’m a bloody weather threading god!

Or so I thought, until big God apparently decided I should be brought down a peg or two.

So there I was, wee weather god, speeding along a dual carriageway when big God shoved a batch of weather across our path.

We were at 8000 feet, cruising along in the misty clouds, when big God played his Jack of Spades – heavy clouds rolled in over the interstate faster than you can say ‘oh dear’.

(writer’s note – Susan’s trying to get me to swear less in the blog because ‘not everybody swears’. I’m afraid you lose a little authenticity with my story but ‘what the Big Dog wants …… ‘ well you know how the saying goes by now)

Back to the story. The heavy clouds were rolling in then big God drops the temperature to 2c and throws down some hail. I mean BIG hail.

‘Oh dear’ I say to myself.

At first it was amusing to hear it bounce of our helmets but the amusement quickly faded as it started covering the road. Within seconds the highway was covered in slush.

It’s incredible how quick things change when big God plays his Jack of Spades.

I looked at the ascending interstate ahead. We had another 500 feet to a summit that I couldn’t see. The bike started slipping ever so slightly. It wasn’t good. I didn’t feel good.

Susan wasn’t talking. She knows not to talk when it’s not good. I can’t do talk and ‘not good’ at the same time. I’m a man after all and men can’t multitask.

Big God must have been smiling at my predicament. Not only was the weather crashing, so was my bottle!

But there’s always fight in this old dog, especially this old dog that’s been fed at Cracker Barrell. My carbs were high and energy was flowing. I played my Ace of Hearts.

A large ‘refuge’ layby suddenly appeared through the mist.

It was a split second decision. I braked heavily, almost an emergency stop. Susan crashed into me – that’s Newton’s laws of motion in action.

We’re in. We parked the bike and sought sanctuary in the lee of a large trailer. Yes, I had the foresight to take a photo for you.

Now, the photo doesn’t convey just how terrible it was and but here’s Susan sheltering.

I’ve named this composition:

‘She’s Not Moaning About The Bloody Heat Now’

On the other side of the camera I looked great.

Within minutes this refuge layby was chockablock with heavy vehicles, motorhomes and cars waiting it out.

We stood there for 30 minutes until we decided to leave. Most of the cars were waiting longer but then again they were nice an cosy.

The weather lessened just enough for me to consider going for it. We couldn’t keep standing there as I could see another batch of weather coming towards us over the mountains. I wasn’t going to let big God play his trump card – the Ace of Spades!

We were leaving the interstate at the next junction and, at a cautionary 30mph, we made it. What a relief!

Well it was and it wasn’t.

At this point I must apologise for heaping more of our hardship on you especially when it’s self generated. But if you will read a blog written by a dunderheid then you take the lows with the very occasional high.

So it was a relief when we went up the slip road. It was a relief when we saw a gas station with a coffee shop. It was a relief when we decided to stop and rest. Relief! Breathe!

I hadn’t felt so much relief since ‘idiot with a spanner’ got the main fuse replaced.

Pure relief quickly turned into a nightmare when dunderheid took the wrong road to the garage. We were now on the slip road back onto the interstate!

How did dunderheid manage that? Well we stopped, we peered through the mist, we discussed the road layout, we chose our road. Oh dear we took the wrong road!

I’m sorry, I’m sorry to you people that do swear. I wasn’t really thinking ‘oh dear’ at the time. My thoughts had more f’s than riffraff.

(writer’s note: riffraff is one of the few English words with four f’s. Nothing has five. Read and learn. Read and learn)

I stopped half way down the on ramp. Decisive move dunderheid.

I checked the sat nav and it said continue 5 miles up the interstate, u turn, then 5 miles back. Yeah, that will be shining bright – remember you’re talking to a dunderheid!

Obviously, the sat nav couldn’t see that big God had played his Ace of Spades and black skies were fast approaching. Listen, I’m not talking dark skies, these skies were from Hell itself. You would be scared. I was scared.

Susan was also scared but, to be honest, she was more scared about what dunderheid was going to do next!

Susan volunteers to get off. She’s so quick to bail out. She leaves dunderheid to do what only a dunderheid would do – he makes a three point turn and heads back up the slip road the wrong way.

I hear you mutter to yourself – ‘lucky dunderheid that no vehicles were coming the other way’.

‘Lucky they all stopped’ I reply!

Yes, there was a bit of chaos on the interstate ramp – dunderheid motorcycling and Susan walking, up the off ramp, but that’s the kind of thing that happens when you give a dunderheid the keys to a motorcycle.

When I got to the end of the on ramp Susan jumped on and we rode off – she’s great at bailing back in when the trouble has gone.

Haha, but I suckered her in this time!

I will give her some credit though – it didn’t take her long to realise we were going down a dual carriageway the wrong way!

It was okay though dunderheid was in control. It was the right dual carriageway and we were heading in the right direction. It’s just a minor point that we were on the wrong side of the road.

Yes there were other vehicles. Not many though and in a few hundred metres or more I saw a gap in the central reservation. Smoothly I adjusted our position and we were back. Nice move dunderheid.

In my rear view mirror, I saw big God chasing us with his black sky from Hell. We decided to forego the shelter and coffee in the garage and head onwards. It was also probably prudent we made off from the scene of multiple road violations.

We zoomed off into the distance, left Texas and entered New Mexico where the skies were clear.

Big God learned a lesson that day – he can throw hail, thunder and black skies from Hell but he’s not as fast as two old folk on a motorbike that have been to Cracker Barrell!

We reached our destination at Santa Fe, New Mehico and stayed in an authentic adobe hotel room.

Now I may have mentioned adobe buildings before. I may not have. I’m old and Cracker Barrel has only limited memory rejuvenating powers.

Basically, they’re made of mud bricks. It’s ‘traditional’ and authentic. I wouldn’t wish an adobe motel room on any of my friends who are pansies.

Santa Fe is a lovely town. It was a spur of the moment decision to stay an extra night and visit.

We got the bus into town and it was a bit of an eye opener. It’s America and people don’t get buses. In Santa Fe they do. In Santa Fe the homeless get the bus and run around all day.

I tell no lies. Susan and I were the only people on that bus with a house that night. Yes it’s a mud house but we had a house. On the bus, a few of the homeless were sleeping despite one guy playing the harmonica and singing about taking ketamine. There were a few other unsavoury characters you just made sure you didn’t catch their eye.

My only concern about this whole journey was that the driver let us on for free. I can only assume that Susan looked like one of the homeless. That’s life on the road for you!

The town itself is lovely and if you’re ever in the area then I would encourage you to visit. Please take a taxi though.