THERE'S A NEW MEXICO ??

Yes, there is, and we'll get there shortly. But first, I must admit to being quite concerned about riding across the plains, mainly because of the potential for being hammered to pieces yet again by the weather. I went through Oklahoma City on the Interstates, then made it as far as Hinton, about 40 miles west of Oklahoma City, before I got sick of  being beaten up by the trucks, and being buffeted by the strengthening late afternoon winds. The overnight weather report indicated thunderstorm activity coming in from the west, right through the area I was aiming at. So I decided an early start was the way to go. I was on the road at 7 am, (hey, that's early for me these days) with the intention of getting as far west as I possibly could before the weather turned nasty. That meant the I-40 and cruise control set on 120kph indefinitely. At one stage, all I could see in any direction were wind turbines, and you know where they put those! Push on with all haste. This took me into that narrow rectangular bit at the top of Texas, through Amarillo and on to Tucumcari, New Mexico, where blue sky suggested the tactic had paid off. Here is some of the vibe from one of the small towns.

Getting a little distance, man. Getting a little distance. Thanks for the memories guys.

Close enough.

Tucumcari is Route 66 Central. Big crowds of Harley riders, lots of dilapidated motels and gas stations and other buildings. In most places this would be a sad by-product of progress. Here, its the whole point, or so it seems to me. Decay has become a mantra, and Route 66 is now famous for just being famous. Like Paris Hilton! There is no inherent value here as far as I can see. But whatever floats your boat.

Enchantment. And Chillies. And Bullet Holes. Welcome to New Mexico. Although the locals will tell you it ain't new and it ain't Mexico.

It's like Havana along Main St. Lots of the motels have old clunkers like this parked out the front.

Yeah, right! When he was a baby.

Got the idea? Right then. Route 66. Tick.

Now that I had blue sky, I decided to head south on some very minor roads. I had noticed a small note on the map pertaining to the grave of Billy the Kid, at Fort Sumner. Righto, why not. More wind turbines, and hardly any other traffic, and quite good roads too. On the way, I was actually rewarded with the sight of a road runner, as it ran across in front of me. Meep meep. And speaking of dilapidated, this really is a ghost town. Not much is left in Taiban, NM.

Meanwhile, just outside Fort Sumner, in a small cemetery lies one William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid.

 Apparently, the headstone kept getting pinched, so now the whole lot has been caged up.

Again, not much of a reason for being famous, is it? Like Ned Kelly. Just another crim. And who knows if he's really down there anyway? But it got me there, didn't it? Not much to see, but least it was free. So onwards to the State Capital of La Villa Real de la Santa Fe de San Francisco de Asis. That's Santa Fe to most people. Fortunately.

Santa Fe is really different. In fact its called the City Different. For a start its 406 years old. I enjoy the fact that while the British and French were squabbling over the East coast, (well before it became a seabord) the Spanish had already conquered most of South and Central America and Mexico, and were already well established in this part of the country. And it shows.

Particularly in relation to the buildings. There are strict controls on development here, including height limits. Buildings have to conform to strict standards, with little scope for variation. As a result, there is no discernible downtown area because there is no high rise construction to divulge its whereabouts. Most dwellings look the same and are of uniform colour. This in itself has social implications, as there is no possibility for wealthy people to outdo their neighbours by building McMansions. And there is no forest of advertising signage that blights the landscape of just about every other city or town in the entire country either. Some could argue that its bland and boring as a result. A lifeless, beige town run by dictatorial bureaucrats. Possibly. But being a bit of a contrarian, I like the place because its different. And if you don't go for that, then go somewhere else. You have plenty of choices.

There is also quite a different vibe here, a laid back and relaxed feel. Lots of galleries, restaurants, nature trails, all drawing on the Spanish, Indian  and the old West heritage. Very refreshing, I thought. There is more to life than rows of fast food joints, motels and gas stations stretching to infinity.

MOVING RIGHT ALONG.

It was good to finally reach Steve and Vicci's place in Hendersonville. I had been looking forward to a return visit since 2012, although the recent circumstances have taken the shine off just about everything. At least I got a chance to reflect, and catch my breath a bit, and to just chill out with friends and enjoy this beautiful part of the country and some of what it has to offer.  As well as kicking around some ideas for seeing other good bits of the US. Oh, and drinking all Steve's Bushmills. (He helped). We noticed at this point that the front tyre had developed an unusual wear pattern, so I took the bike in to a BMW dealership in Asheville. The diagnosis was that the tyre had been underinflated, although I ran the pressure recommended. With a bit more air in the tyre, I decided to monitor what happened during the long run across the plains to New Mexico, and deal with it then. So reluctantly, I saddled up again, bid farewell to my wonderful hosts, and headed for Georgia, where I had planned to catch up with Bobby and Kim, the couple I met in Big Fork, Montana earlier in this voyage.

The ride started out nicely, and I followed US64 most of the way. A good bike road, with nice scenery. I noticed a lot of people doing some white water rafting along a particularly attractive river valley on the way through. I have since learned this was an Olympic venue during the Atlanta games of 96. However, the weather finally turned on me. I thought it might have been a passing shower, so didn't bother to suit up, because it was still oppressively hot and humid. So I got wet, then it really started to bucket down. I stopped and put the wet gear on, but it was too late. By the time I hit my destination of Tunnel Hill, I felt like a drowned rat, but it was still hot! I was probably just as wet inside the suit due to the humidity as I might have been without it! And I had a bit of trouble locating their house. The GPS just would not cooperate. I think this area must be like the Bermuda Triangle. But I eventually stumbled into their driveway, thanks to a phone call and not my GPS. I recovered immediately when I saw where Bobby keeps his beer. He has a fridge, which contains a full size 18 gallon keg. What a setup! Pity I couldn't have stayed a bit longer.

I reluctantly headed for Harrison, Arkansas, where the plan was to check out the Ozarks and the reputedly good bike riding in the region. Bobby directed me southwards via Huntsville, Alabama, and scenic it was. Until I noticed a very dark sky in the direction I was heading. I thought about chickening out and finding a motel, but didn't think I'd covered enough distance at that point. Anyway, no guts, no glory! It would have been a wise move, as it happened. Just as I entered a causeway and bridge across a large lake on the approach to Decatur, Alabama, mother nature unleashed a furious assault. Day turned to night, literally, as my GPS went into night mode, and I was blasted by sheets of torrential rain propelled horizontally at me with hurricane like force. Visibility was down to about 15 metres, and I actually thought I was going to get blown into the railings or into oncoming traffic. The sound of thunder and the flash of lightning when its literally right on top of you is something I would not care to repeat. I felt genuine fear, but had no option but to push on, and I managed to make a right turn at the end of the bridge and looked for somewhere, anywhere to stop. Meanwhile, there was so much water on the road, I had my feet knocked off the pegs by the bow wave I was creating. I felt sure I would drop the bike, or get shunted from behind. I cannot recall seeing such a downpour, possibly only a torrential monsoon dump in Malacca (which I witnessed from the comfort of a bar). I found a gas station and hid under the canopy until the worst of it was over. Here is what the back end of the storm looked like, some 20 minutes after I emerged.

Having been scared witless, and gotten a good soaking, I had by then had quite enough, but as it had now cleared, I pushed on in an attempt to perhaps dry out to some degree. I got as far as Corinth (AL, not Greece), found a motel and started to dry my gear properly. Even my maps were soaked.

The following morning, it was raining steadily again, with dark sky in all directions. Great, here we go again, three days in a row! I decided to go straight through Memphis, keeping to the Interstates. Even then it was demanding, its a big, spread out city, with a lot of merging traffic. Watch out for black guys driving dilapidated wrecks with bits hanging off. They just don't care! I had several near misses, and was bloody glad to finally get across the Mississippi into the relative safety of Arkansas.

The countryside changed almost immediately, I think it is safe to say. From forested hills to flat but productive looking cropping country. Legumes in this area, and I even saw rice crops in flooded, low lying paddocks. Hope its sustainable and that the farmers aren't just after a quick buck. Judging by the amount of rain dumped on me, I'll give it a cautious nod of approval, for now. I also got a reminder about some of the other weather related hazards around here.

Welcome to Tornado Alley, the vast swathe of country between the Appalachians and the Rockies. Where anything can happen weatherwise and frequently does. I continue to be amazed at the complexity and the ferocity of the weather in this country.

Here's a couple of places that rival Concrete, Washington for the most unflattering town name in the country.

Welcome to Oil Trough, Arkansas.

Or maybe Flippin, Arkansas. The possibilities with this name are endless! And best of all, there really is a town called Dogpatch, for those who can remember the Lil Abner cartoon strip. Its on the AR7, just south of Harrison. To use an expression that gets right up my nose, OMG.

I noticed this sign on the way into Harrison.

Get the picture? Well, how about this next one. Hmmmm.

It didn't take me too long to realise I stood out like you know whats in the Ozarks. I wasn't driving a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on it, I wasn't riding a Harley without a helmet and any protective clothing, I wasn't a member of the NRA, and I still had all my teeth. But I did kinda talk funny.

And it doesn't take too much imagination to see where the design for State flag came from.

Today I actually went through some towns that didn't have a McDonalds. Yes, amazing but true. Those poor deprived people. Mind you, often that created some space for the second tier junk food providers like Sonic to get a toehold. But nevertheless, the riding was indeed pleasant, the countryside scenic, and the weather was kind to me. Interesting motel I stayed in too. When I checked in, I noted that the manager was Indian. As in Ghandi, not Geronimo. No surprises there, people from the subcontinent are well represented in the motel and gas station industries. After completing the formalities, he asked me where I was from. Then he added unnecessarily "I am from India" with a slight head wobble. I thought "No kidding, Gunga Din". It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Over the next day or two, we had several wide ranging conversations about cricket, the Commonwealth, Indian food, doing business in the US, good ole boys, Islamic nut jobs, etc. He was an intelligent and articulate man, and I really enjoyed our conversations. I think he did too. But I felt that life might be difficult for him in this neck of the woods.

And as for some of the other guests, hoo boy. I was checking my tyre pressures when a guy wandered up and started chatting. I have no problem with that, I enjoy it and it happens a lot. But this guy was one of those people that asks a question only as a prelude to telling you his entire life story,  in excruciating detail, of course. He was a long term resident of this particular establishment. And of course he knew all about tyres, and motorcycles, and travelling, and everything else. A regular encyclopedia. Turns out this guy was a direct descendant of somebody who came to America on the Mayflower. So he said. Right about then, I decided I had to make an urgent phone call. Later that afternoon, I overheard the same bloke telling another hapless guest that he was related to Custer. Maybe he was all those things, but I made damn sure the door was locked that night. All part of the experience of being a fly on the wall of life, readers.

The following morning, I headed west yet again, bidding farewell to the rolling green hills of the Ozarks, and into Oklahoma for the first time. My goal was somewhere near Oklahoma City, and my route followed the backroads as much as possible, after I got through Tulsa on US412 that is. While humming the old Gene Pitney song, followed by Eric Clapton's Tulsa Time, then back to Gene again. There's a song for every occasion! This route put me on part of the old Route 66 between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Let me assure you it was quite unintentional. I was just trying to avoid the I-40, but there it was in all its glory.

What's the big attraction with dilapidated motels and gas stations? Can somebody tell me? Please??

THEN WHAT HAPPENED ?

There has obviously been a lengthy delay in posting since I was in Minnesota. As many of you will be aware, I had to return home for family reasons. Thanks to the many friends who offered their assistance and support through this difficult period. A very tough week for all concerned. Right now, I scarcely know where to start. I don't feel too much like continuing on this trip at all really, but the bike is here and the clock is ticking, so I will make the best of it.

From Minnesota, I crossed into Canada at Grand Portage and followed the very scenic road around the edge of Lake Superior, stopping overnight at Nipigon and Sault St. Marie. The latter being where I experienced one of the crappiest looking motels I've ever seen. Amazingly enough, the room wasn't bad, and the desk guy was very helpful. Then followed a long, relatively boring run through Sudbury and North Bay, and on to Ottawa. I was feeling a bit under the pump at this stage, doing a lot of miles and not much else. While I had a few days in Ottawa, I revised my plans and decided to cut out going to Nova Scotia, and heading for Maine instead.

Just before I hit Montreal, I stopped for fuel, taking almost a whole tankful. Immediately after this, the bike started coughing and spluttering, and worse still, cutting out at low speed. I was convinced I had ingested a load of dirty fuel. My run through Montreal was truly memorable, for all the wrong reasons. I thought I would be stuck on the freeway system of a city where people spoke only French, or worse, drop the bike in bumper to bumper traffic. Anyway, I made it through to Sherbrooke, where I was able to find a small motorcycle dealership who got me sorted. A piece of rubber tube covering an attachment point for a vacuum gauge used during servicing had come off, and the engine was sucking in extra air. I thought this may have not been reattached properly after the service I had in Sturgis, but what can you do? I know I didn't take the bloody thing off. Anyway, these multilingual lads made up a workable gizmo which solved the immediate problem, and off I went.

After an unusual interaction with the US border guards at a remote border post, I re-entered the US. I don't know what these guys were thinking, but I got the third degree. Maybe they were usually bored out of their skulls, maybe they thought I was scoping for Al Qaeda, whatever! I was there a good half hour while they pressed buttons on their computer. Lesson learned. Shut up and just answer the questions. Five minutes later as I headed south, I came up over a slight rise, to be presented with the rear end of a deer standing in the middle of the road. It certainly didn't see me, not from that position, and I had visions of plunging my helmet straight where the sun don't shine, before I jammed on the brakes and stopped. Explain that to the insurance company. Even then, it just stood there till I beeped several times, before finally ambling off the road. Its probably on the front of a truck by now.

I headed to Bangor, where I stayed a few days while arrangements were made to go home. Thanks to the indefatigable Steve Linden and the BMWOA handbook, I was able to leave the bike with Dave and Janice Warner in Yarmouth, just outside Portland, Maine, until my return. They are an awesome couple, and I am indebted to them for their unconditional hospitality and support. After recuperating from a tortuous 51 hour epic return journey, I decided to take a week to mosey down to the Linden residence in Hendersonville, North Carolina. I decided to avoid the congested east coast, or eastern seaboard as they are fond of saying over here. And I notice we are now copy-catting that expression in Australia. Why doesn't anyone have a western seaboard? Or a southern seaboard? What happened to the word "coast", is it past its use by date??  But I digress.

So I headed straight across Maine to New Hampshire, and rode the Kancamagus Highway through the White Mountains, (thanks for the tip, Dave) then went across to Vermont, overnighting in Burlington. Up and across Lake Champlain by ferry, and into New York the next day, followed by a great ride down through the scenic Adirondack Mountains, on into Pennsylvania to Harrisburg. I spent two days here, visiting the National Civil War Museum. I found this to be both interesting and very moving, as was the battlefield at nearby Gettysburg. Will we ever learn to resolve our differences without blowing each other to bits? No? OK, just asking.

By this stage, the traffic was building up to levels where it was demanding to both ride and to navigate, so I searched for the roads less travelled. They are few and far between in this part of the country. So I made my way down through Maryland, into Virginia, and then into West Virginia. The latter being a new experience for me. I was advised that West Virginia has the lowest level of income per capita in the whole country. I don't know if that's true or not, but by the time I left I was prepared to believe it. Despite the beautiful scenery I saw, I also noted a lot of busted ass towns, run down houses, untidy overgrown farms, derelict factories and rednecks. A prominent Senate election poster I kept seeing said "Tired of Being 50th?" Kind of a self fulfilling prophecy, I thought. Strangely, I saw no black people the whole time I was there. Being part of an impoverished, downtrodden, disheartened underclass is a white man's job around them thar parts.

Even the gas stations look neat and tidy in Maine. Possibly because they don't look like gas stations! Well, this one doesn't anyhow.

Lake Champlain. That's some lake.

Exquisite architecture of rural Pennsylvania.

Yee Har.

Well that bit looks OK. Most of it looks OK.

I didn't say a thing. Anyway, different State.

                                   Lake Lure, NC

                                 Mural in Hendersonville, NC

                                Main Street, Hendersonville

Checking out craft beer establishments with Steve and Vicci Linden. They're all good !