Triumph Around the World E-Book

Robbie Marshall

• Herausgeber: Eye Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Eye Classics
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 520

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

Robbie Marshall had it all - love, children and a successful business. So why did he trade it all in for the saddle of a Triumph Trophy and an out-of-date world atlas? Robbie knew that if he did not indulge his desire to explore, he would regret it for the rest of his life. After shipping his Triumph motorbike to the United States, Robbie kick-started his life on a journey that would take him across five continents and around the globe. Despite witnessing a gangland execution, sleeping rough, getting imprisoned and mugged, Robbie had the time of his life. Triumph Around the World is one hell of a ride.

Leseprobe

This Eye Classics edition first published in Great Britain in 2011, by: Eye Books 29 Barrow Street Much Wenlock Shropshire TF13 6ENwww.eye-books.com

First published in Great Britain in 2001

Copyright © Robbie Marshall

Cover design by Emily Atkins/Jim Shannon Text layout by Helen Steer

The moral right of the Author to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

The paperback edition of this book is printed in Poland.

ISBN: 978-1-903070-66-6

For Sasha and Chantie

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

LETTER TO CHARLES

BEGINNING, THE OLD BILL AND THE GODS OF SUNDARAJ

THE FAT LANDS

IN SEARCH OF SUNSHINE

LEGLESS IN CALIFORNIA

NO HABLO ESPANOL

ONE BIG POTHOLE CAN RUIN YOUR ENTIRE DAY

THE THIN BIT

THANK YOU GOD, WHOEVER YOU ARE

BIG MAMA MAFIA

A BULLET FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

THE LONG YELLOW LINE

THE BIG BLUE BIT

BUSES AND BACKPACKERS

“ON THE ROAD AGAIN”

WIZARD OF OZ

ANOTHER STRESSFUL DAY IN HUMPTY DOO

NIT NOY MAO FELANG

MY CHRISTMAS CRACKER

GUNS, ROSES AND THE ROAD TO MANDALAY

TIGER, TIGER, BURNING BRIGHT

GOA WAY

NEAR DEATH NEAR DELHI

A DISH-DASH TO DUBAI

ASSAULT ON MOUNT SUSAN

SEA SORE

IT’S MAY, SO THIS MUST BE AFRICA

“FOLLOW THE STONES”

ADDIS? ADDIS? WHERE THE FUCK IS ADDIS?

DANCING IN THE STREETS

THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF A LIFE

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

When my Dad says in this book that he was experiencing “the most rewarding event of my life” I do not think he could have realised how inspiring his story would be to others.

Its appeal transcends many levels and not least is the draw for those that appreciate motorbikes and, specifically, British bikes. The motorbike that became his best friend, without a doubt, made the trip what it was. He did not choose a Triumph Trophy for no reason.

The travel and road of discovery that created the book will enthral and excite all ‘arm chair’ travellers and those that have been privileged enough to hit the long, lonely and dusty roads of the world (and the wet and cold ones too). Open minded people that leave everyday life to seek out new places and experiences will completely relate to things that happened along the way to a sometimes lost and lonely man exploring the world.

Weaving all the scary, fantastic and eye-opening exploits together is the love story that was in his life at the time. He had no idea if his relationship could stand up to his prolonged absence while he had a mid life crisis on a big blue motorbike. What he did know was that if he did not indulge the need to explore he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Another remarkable aspect to an already epic journey was the decision Robbie took to film the whole trip, unaided by any kind of support crew or back up. He was an original in the travel documentary genre. Always the pioneer, never the follower. Always an ordinary man accomplishing extraordinary things.

~ Sasha Marshall

Dear Charles,

Someone has to share the trials and tribulations of an ignorant old hippy attempting to fulfil an adolescent dream of riding a wholly unsuitable motorbike around the world. It may as well be a ten-year-old boy, who has not watched enough television to form a distorted view of our fantastic planet. This is it kid, straight from the hip, a blow-by-blow account. The fun, the fear, the pain and the joy of 51 weeks on the road without a map to guide me, or tent to keep me dry. The journey was not about destinations, but the travel in between. Arriving is just something that happens.

When people asked me where I was going, I said “England – the scenic route.” When they asked me how, I just said “one day at a time.” It was difficult, demanding, often dangerous, and very lonely listening to the wind alone with your thoughts – hour after hour. The adventure was not a statement of masculinity, moral fibre or even achievement, just the best education on offer, and the most rewarding event of my life.

Every day is a school day on the road. Every day the senses are bombarded with new sights, sounds and smells, just like being a newborn child seeing the world for the first time. Nothing was familiar except the throbbing heart of a British legend. I could have taken a horse. Some said I should have taken a horse. At least there would have been something to eat in times of hardship.

Where the idea came from, or what fed the passion, is a mystery, but it turned into a manic obsession, and now it is over. The only challenge left is to do it again. I hope these words will illuminate, entertain and make you laugh, but above all else inspire.

Never let anyone tell you the world is small. It is absolutely huge, and out there for the taking.

~ Robbie

BEGINNING, THE OLD BILL AND THE GODS OF SUNDARAJ

It was about eight in the evening, and the fat guy’s uniform was under pressure, fighting back the blubber attempting to escape between stretched buttonholes. He was probably tired and I was not doing too well with explanations of why I had no return ticket.

This was to be my first lesson in tolerance of officialdom. Every country exists on its own rules that have no apparent reason, but those rules are theirs, and being middle-class British is not a licence to avoid scrutiny. People queuing patiently behind the white line started twitching as the officer’s plump fingers rested on a USA visa, complete with photograph. My unrehearsed monologue was thankfully overheard by fatty’s colleague in the next booth. “No shit! A Triumph huh? I got a Harley. Let the guy through.”

Someone once said, “a sure sign of the male menopause is when a man leaves his wife and buys a motorbike,” and who was I to break the stereotype mould? The combination of bike and travel was too much to resist, and if I did not grab the opportunity, I would have become too old and feeble to even try. We all find valid justification for not fulfilling dreams, but the time had come to stop making excuses and gird the loins for action. My time of reckoning had arrived, and it was terrifying!

The only thing more ridiculous than an old man in love is an ageing nine-stone hippy attempting to ride a wholly unsuitable quarter-ton motorbike around the world. I was both those things, and by the time I stepped out into a watery June dawn it was too late to bottle out. “Go West, you degenerate old fool,” my girlfriend Marian whispered lovingly into my ear with a final kiss. I took her advice and headed for New York.

The plan was to depart this green and pleasant land riding a 1200cc Triumph, to explore some of the wildest and most remote parts of our fascinating planet, and capture on film a diverse patchwork of cultures and traditions. I had never been a motorcycle fetishist, although I had enjoyed them through my youth before becoming an art student, husband and father all in a few weeks. Bikes had had to take a bow while my wife and I got better acquainted, resulting in a second daughter whilst I was still a student.

Two decades passed before the trappings of wealth allowed me to indulge in another passion: aviation. After a particularly bad hang gliding accident in southern France, I decided I needed an engine, so I qualified to fly microlights. This meant I was able to take off from one of my fields behind the house, provided my wife’s racehorses and children’s ponies would move out of the way. I spent Sunday afternoons flying the Sussex Downs until a bad take-off had me flying through the roof of a neighbour’s barn. Striking a concrete wall at 55 mph can be very painful, but I was fortunate enough to escape uninjured. The investigating officer was there in minutes riding a booming Moto Guzzi motorcycle. “So, where’s the fatality?” he enquired to a man in flying suit and helmet. “That would be me,” I said, feeling a little confused. “Nice bike, can I have a go?” The officer declined my request, which was probably a good thing, as I had already escaped death once that day, but said his machine was to be auctioned the following week. I bought it as a mate for the Bultaco, which I kept for thrashing round my fields. My suppressed passion for road bikes had been rekindled, and as for the hole in my neighbour’s barn, it turned out to be the best conversation piece ever.

I had just turned forty, and after twenty-one years of marriage my wife and I had separated. Marian took a chance and moved into a little Brighton home with a man sixteen years her senior in search of adventure. Now the silly old bugger wanted to circumnavigate the planet on a motorcycle.

The romantic fantasy was so much easier to handle than the reality. I was giving up my business and hard-earned career for this shit-or-bust endeavour. My trusty business partner Steve and I had sweated blood to make a success of our advertising agency, but in spite of aggressive competition, it was all working remarkably well. My biggest and most enjoyable client was Honda Motorcycles. Not only did I get to design their literature, but I also had the chance to ride some fabulous machines for photo shoots. Bruno Tagliaferri had run the marketing effort, but was snatched up by Triumph with the rebirth of the historic marque. We had stayed in touch, and after deciding to fly the British flag around the world, I approached him for some help. “But Robbie, I get a dozen requests like this every day. If I gave everyone a bike there would be none left to sell.”

He had a very good point, and if Triumph were to get involved, they would have to do it properly. Bruno did not have a sponsorship budget and, frankly, without any proven track record, I was a bad risk. He must have seriously doubted my chances of success and could do without the blood of an Englishman on his hands. After some frantic negotiation, I did buy the bike at a slightly reduced price, provided I promised to disappear into the great blue yonder, and leave him alone.

Preparation was practically non-existent as business had to be wound up, farewells had to be said and, except for the odd visa, I was at a loss to know what to do.

An immaculate Triumph Trophy squatted in my front garden looking sleek and sexy. I only took it out on sunny afternoons to show it off.

Voluminous panniers were lined with foam rubber to protect a laptop computer complete with printer, two hi-8 video cameras and stills cameras. The rucksack was half-filled with support equipment: the mother of all transformers to recharge batteries, spare video tape, film, paper – there was so much of it. Tools, spare parts, a ball of string (essential piece of travel equipment) and a bag of fake Swiss Army knives (useful bribes) left just enough room for a couple of T-shirts and spare knickers.

Being a hideous coward when it comes to the cold, I was disappointed that a flimsy sweatshirt was the only warm item I could find space for in my bulging rucksack. I also adopted a “no map, no tent” philosophy only because space was at an absolute premium. Besides, getting lost occasionally could be fun, and even if I could not find the popular destinations, surely the compensation would be finding locations off the tourist route. A compass was all I needed to find a rough direction and Marian’s 1978 school atlas would tell me more or less which country to expect next. She was only thirteen when awarded it by The King’s School, Peterborough, but the world had not changed too dramatically since publication.

It did cross my mind that getting wet at night and sleeping under the stars next to the bike would be a lot less fun, but I planned to avoid cold wet countries. I would leave the Northern Hemisphere in midsummer and a few months later be at the bottom of the Southern to catch theirs. Foolproof. It most certainly was not a macho statement. In good weather, a tent creates more problems than it solves. Erecting and dismantling takes time, and a rapid departure may be called for occasionally.

With all this weight on the back, I made several experimental rides to establish balance and stability. On one such ride, I followed a young police officer who was probably in nappies when I passed my test but was riding with far more confidence. On impulse, I wrote to the chief constable in the hope that a little extra training may increase my life expectancy.

The result was PC Bill Clemence giving up his own free time to put me right on a number of riding skills. There was something very reassuring about following a day-glow yellow BMW through Sussex lanes. Periodically we would stop for a cigarette break and an assessment of my progress. He would laugh, then wrinkle his brow over many points in my riding style. Just because you have been doing something for a long time, it does not mean to say you are good at it. Bill’s efforts were very worthwhile, increasing my confidence in the bike and ability to control such a massive machine. He gave me a bright yellow, reflective over jacket as a parting gesture, hoping this would prevent me being knocked off on unlit roads at night.

An important but time-consuming part of preparation was saying goodbye to friends. This included a brief trip to Hamburg to see my sister and her family. Some years previously she had adopted two remarkably beautiful Tamil boys, one of whom, Sundaraj, had returned to India to search for his parents. During his quest, a Hindu priest blessed a small medallion to keep him safe while travelling. It became his most prized possession and had never left his neck until that blustery day in a Hamburg flat. It was not much to look at. A slim copper-coloured coin an inch across with a Hindu God etched on either side. He made no ceremony of handing over his charm to protect me in hostile places. His dark, laughing eyes did not reveal the wrench it must have been to place this token into my hand. I was a little concerned that he thought I needed such a valuable charm to keep me safe, but good luck and protection are not commodities to be rejected at any time.

The one sensible decision I did make was to have a finite start and finish point, or there would be too much of a temptation to keep going until the money ran out. For a decade, I had been visiting the Le Mans twenty-four hour race and did not see why a little thing like a round-world motorcycle trip should make me miss a favourite event, so it became a logical choice. Friends would be there to wave me goodbye, and be there again to pour beer down the dusty throat of a travel-weary old biker on his return. This was the theory, and I would have a whole year on the road before discovering the reality. From Le Mans, I planned to ship both myself and the bike to the United States, which was potentially very expensive and logistically tricky. Luckily, another old client came to the rescue. Derrick Lellow of JE Bernard Global Freight became an invaluable friend. He is the kind of guy who, despite always being frantically busy, invites people to take advantage of his fantastic knowledge, and in his methodical way he came up with a list of all JE Bernard Global Freight’s worldwide sister companies, even faxing some to warn them I may need help. This cumbersome document was going to be a pain in the arse to carry around, but any kind of introduction, especially where I did not speak the language, was potentially useful. He also arranged transport for the Triumph team to get to New York, but for reasons of cost and convenience, we had to depart from Heathrow, which would mean returning to the UK after the Le Mans race. This proved to be a blessing in disguise, for while travelling to Central France, the Triumph’s clutch started slipping badly.

There I was, attempting to ride this thing across half a dozen continents, and it would not even get me halfway across France. For my sins, I had a very heated telephone conversation with an unsuspecting Mary at Redhill Motors in Brighton. Her boss Tony Brown was responsible for preparing the Triumph for its ordeal, and I wanted blood. The mother of all hangovers did not help the tense ride back after the race, as an overloaded bike struggled to climb any gradient towards Le Havre and a ferry home.

Predictably, after profuse apologies for my irrational bad temper, Tony found the fault – and it was all mine. While replacing a damaged clutch lever, I had dropped a little brass bush, preventing the clutch functioning properly when hot, and Mary was added to my growing post card list in compensation. Thankfully, I did make amends, as Tony Brown was to have his patience severely challenged some nine months later in the teeth of severe adversity.

THE FAT LANDS

Sitting in Heathrow Airport waiting for my flight, staring at the virgin notebook which was to become such a big part of my everyday activity, a trembling pen etched its first words indelibly onto bleached paper. “This is most definitely the first day of the rest of my life.” The words were harsh – threatening, not reassuring, with a promise of fulfilment. “This is the start of what will probably be the most outrageous adventure I am ever likely to undertake. Must phone Marian to say goodbye – I love you – and please …” So much to say, but it had already been said before with a touch, a kiss, a look. No promises were ever exchanged. Had there been any doubts about our future together, I would have been riding back to Brighton, not sitting with a trembling heart, waiting for British Airways to swallow me up, then spit me out into the unknown. She was singularly the most important thing in my life, yet after only four years together, I had left her in the home we had made together for a different adventure. We planned to meet up in Bangkok for Christmas – if our relationship was strong enough to stand six months’ separation. The Gods of Sundaraj would protect my body but not my soul. A last cigarette before boarding. A cursory glance at a gleaming steel Zippo lighter given as a farewell gift by my business partner and most trusted friend, Steve. The straightforward inscription was to the point and so typical of Steve. Robbie – trip of a lifetime. The feeling of trepidation was crushing as dusty bike boots shed their last grains of British soil for an alien world.

New York greeted me with a thunderstorm worthy of a Dracula movie where sheet lightning conveniently illuminates the screen just long enough to catch a glimpse of a vampire’s face. In this case it was a sullen black taxi driver’s face I was staring at through a curtain of rain. “The nearest cheap hotel please” was not, I thought, an unreasonable request to a cab driver. “Any one in particular?” came the reply. “No, I’m a stranger in town, and if I knew of one, there would be no hesitation in asking for it.” Being driven around a strange town always seems to take an eternity and I could not wait to lose myself in the bright lights of The Big Apple, a name that is still a mystery to me for a filthy, dangerous mass of high-rise buildings. We pulled up outside a neon sign claiming to be The Jade East Hotel, Jamaica, a part of town only exceeded by the Bronx in its undesirability, or so I was told. The fare came to eight dollars, so I handed over a twenty and asked for ten change. “Ain’t you got any smaller? I don’t carry that much dough at night.” I ran into the hotel for some change, then asked the driver if he could give me a hand with some of my luggage. In an attempt to reduce the size of the bike crate and save some money, all my luggage had to fly with me and not the bike. Two thirty-six litre panniers, a heavy rucksack and a bulging shoulder bag. “No, sir. I never get out of my cab on this side of town.” He nevertheless thought it was okay for me to struggle back and forth with just about everything I did not need.

It may have been the cheapest hotel around, but it was still sixty-seven dollars a night. The Russian owner showed surprise when I said I may need a room for a couple of days. Later I discovered rooms were generally rented by the hour. It must have been near midnight by the time a lone white stranger with his head in a different time zone hit the dark unwelcoming streets, but I was keen to have a look around, and the rain had reduced to a persistent drizzle. The menacing-looking Russian with almost-black, piggy eyes told me of a bar still open a couple of blocks away. He started to finger the handgun stuck in his trousers when he realised a guest was about to walk the streets. He offered to phone me a cab, but I reassured him the British enjoy walking, especially in the rain. I caught a glimpse through the rain-streaked glass door of the rather sinister figure making the sign of the cross. He had already checked to see my room had been paid for in advance.

In reality, the seedy little bar was only about three hundred yards away. The place was pretty spartan, with a few vacant wooden tables and a dozen or so drinkers sitting on tall bar stools served by bare-breasted women. The floor had been elevated on their side so skimpily-clad crotches were at eye height, and they had to lean over to hear your order above nondescript music. Local etiquette lesson one: watch what the others do before plunging in and making a prat of yourself. Most men were ordering, then stuffing a note in the waitress’ G-string, which I took to be an invitation for her to keep the change. Some took advantage by fondling the swinging breasts before their eyes, as the waitress bent over to pass a bottle of Bud. Above the noise, I’m sure the gyrating triangle of sequinned fabric framed by pubic hair said “tits are optional,” but it may have been “tips.” With unceasing eye contact, my note was thrust firmly into a waiting hand. It is not my place to pass judgement, and there are probably similar bars in Soho and Paris, but I hoped that that vile place, servicing the demands of inadequate people, was not typical. We can unwittingly dismiss or become enraptured with anything because of one experience, and I needed to see more.

By morning, the hotel and just about everything else in New York was flooded, so there was no hot water and limited electrical power. This was brought to the attention of my host, but there was no apology and a refund was obviously not forthcoming, so I phoned JFK customs to check if the Triumph had arrived. It had not. “But I was assured it would be landed on Saturday morning,” I protested. “Sure,” came the answer, “but today is Friday.” This was confusing, and I assumed Americans had two Fridays each week.

Another day before Triumph and rider could be united gave me an opportunity to explore a vibrant Jekyll and Hyde city. I hastily scribbled an avalanche of postcards in a Fifth Avenue bar over a pint of Guinness poured by a guy from Galway. Central Park was riveting, with its endless procession of roller skaters, joggers and cyclists. Everyone, from toddlers to old wrinklies, dressed for the part so there was no confusion which activity they were participating in. The North Americans do not do anything by halves, and designer uniforms are obligatory for all recreational pursuits.

After a long day playing tourist I boarded the wrong subway home. The best way to get under the skin of a new town is to use public transport, but this train was heading for the Bronx on the other side of town. Standing near the doorway of a graffiti-strewn empty carriage, on the off-chance I may recognise something and have to jump off, both inter-compartment doors swung open simultaneously. From one end half a dozen black youths with “Bloods” written on torn T-shirts emerged from the half-light. About the same number of Hispanics, all wearing colourful head scarves, postured at the other end. The train screeched aggressively to a halt to admit several oriental young men all looking like Bruce Lee in fighting mood. Their attentions drifted from each other to me, still dangling from a handrail doing my best to look very nonchalant. Another stop and a bunch of white guys got in gibbering in Russian. There I was, the stranger in town, and the only one with English as a first language. They all looked very lean and fit as if from a West Side Story set. Maybe they would start dancing and leave me alone.

The problem I find with wet leathers in a hot, confined space is that they start to steam. Increased agitation as the result of attracting so much attention was making matters worse, and by the time one of the larger black guys addressed me, I was doing a convincing impression of a geyser about to blow. “Where you goin’, man?” “Just thought I may pop out to Jamaica for a look around,” I stammered through a cloud of steam. Everyone except me started to laugh. The vapour build-up was a little like an express train preparing for departure. As the internal pressure increased, jets of mist were released from cuffs and collar. The well-built Blood moved within punching distance, extending his arm. Instinctively, I ducked out of sight behind a sauna cloud. A short stubby finger missed my nose and collided with a subway map immediately above my head. “Two things you got to learn, man. One, you goin’ the wrong way, and two, Jamaica is dangerous for a lone honky at night.” This amused the assembled company even more, and I was glad to take their instruction, exiting the train for another platform. Judging by the howls of laughter in my wake, I cannot help being a little proud of my contribution to world peace, defusing a potential battleground. Several subway trains, a long walk and eventually a taxi were required to get me back to where I started.

An early morning phone call confirmed the Triumph was in customs awaiting collection. The shipping agent said he would send someone to pick me up. After nearly an hour waiting outside trying to keep out of the rain, a big yellow taxi pulled up. The enormous driver, who must have been one of the few cabbies capable of getting into an Oldsmobile and filling it, insisted he had come for me. After half a mile or so, he asked where I wanted to go. Now, let this be a lesson: never get into a New York cab outside the immediate city centre if you do not know how to get to your destination, or it could take hours. Fatman and I quickly established he had picked up the wrong ride. We pulled over so I could phone the hotel and prevent the agent’s driver taking off, should he arrive. By this time the monumental flesh-pot had got us lost and had no idea how to get back to the hotel. He stopped three times at petrol stations to ask directions and another hour elapsed before being united with Levi in an airport truck back at the hotel. En route to JFK, I started to take note of traffic rules necessary for survival.

In general, the driving standard is not far short of the British, but sensible rules like overtaking on both sides and filtering right at red lights help traffic flow. They also seem to have more patience and are better at adhering to road regulations. Levi was a very jolly Rastafarian and, like most Americans, showed genuine surprise that I did not know his cousin living in Manchester. He did not believe that London is bigger than New York and no, we do not all live in draughty old castles inhabited by ghosts.

Customs was excruciatingly slow. I had to learn to calm down and not be so impatient, but the desire to get moving got stronger with every waiting minute. The problem of shipping a motorcycle from England must have been one experienced previously in the history of USA imports. The Department of Agriculture would not sign the release until the tyres had been inspected for English dirt. What is wrong with English dirt? Under normal circumstances, this would not be a problem, but the shipping agent would not accept the crate once it had been opened. Perfect Catch-22 situation. My Swiss Army knife became red hot removing fifty-four screws so the inspector could waddle the ten yards from his office, proclaim “hot damn, it is a Triumph,” hand over a bill for $164 and leave me to repack the crate.

As a murky dusk was settling, the Triumph experienced its first taste of New York streets in conditions reminiscent of an English November. The roads suffer during hard winters and there was an inadequate budget for proper maintenance. In home-produced cars with soft suspension, it is not a problem, but dodging rain-filled potholes on a motorcycle in unfamiliar traffic was alarming. This was the initiation of an inexperienced English duo in a foreign land. Excitement and anticipation gripped handlebars through sodden gloves. The machine responded to my nervousness, twitching with every twist of the throttle. Someone told me England was basking in sunshine. Brighton had miraculously become sub-tropical. It did not seem fair, but the thought of Marian stretched out in the garden enjoying the sunshine stirred something deep down inside, and the emptiness was blurred by more lascivious thoughts of her body glistening with suntan oil.

My youngest daughter Chantie had moved in to supplement the rent, and I hoped that two such strong-minded young women were going to get on. They were closer in age than I was to Marian, and it felt weird that two of the most important women in my life were sharing a home without me there. What would they talk about on winter evenings? Chantie was prone to talking quite openly about intimate matters and Marian was not afraid to speak her mind. I was their common denominator and would have loved to be a fly on the wall when I was on the agenda – well, maybe not. I was already missing snuggling up to her warm body at night, missing the touch of her skin next to mine. The thought brought a shiver as rain penetrated not-very-waterproof leathers, and I had to shut it out – now it was time to discover America, and I was eager to find a dry bit.

Relentless East Coast rain drove me south in search of sunshine. Philadelphia, Washington DC and a host of other towns were washed away in the spray from trucks the size of office blocks doing 80 mph on Interstate highways with a 65 mph limit.

480 miles later, the clouds broke momentarily allowing shafts of evening sunshine to light the way of a novice traveller at the end of a first day’s grim riding. I needed somewhere cheap to dry out. My romantic notion of sleeping rough with the bike had disappeared with the last drenching. A friendly local directed me to an hotel and, thankfully, said a sodden crash helmet was not needed around Charlottesville. Minutes later, two cop cars and a police Harley Davidson pulled me over with the full treatment of flashing lights and sirens. Typical of the Yanks to overreact. The bike cop took his time to swagger over and inform me, “Protective headgear is required at all times in the State of Virginia, Sir.” I apologised in a frightfully British kind of way. The cop was looking at the bike registration, the gears in his brain visibly ticking over. “You from Bir-min-ham?” Well, that was impressive stuff. Most Americans had taken my accent to be Canadian or Irish, but this guy had spotted an English voice. “No,” I replied, “I’m from Brighton actually.” His face went blank for a second. “That in Alabama too?”

A brief explanation of world geography was followed by an escort, still with flashing lights, to a bug-feast nineteen dollar motel. We chewed the fat for a while and my stills camera saw light of day before he rode off saying, “Just wait till I git home tonight and tell Bobby Jo I got me an English one today.”

The leaden dawn greeted me with two more reasons for depression. Firstly, I had foolishly locked my crash helmet to the bike rather than taking it inside to dry out and having poured all night it was quite literally full of water. Secondly, during the early-morning bike-packing ritual, a weakness revealed itself that I hoped would not plague me the world over. One side of the cast aluminium pannier racks had sheered, so everything had to be repacked to minimise weight on that side until repaired and this was only my second day on the road. Local intelligence pointed me in the direction of Harrisonburg and, amazingly, a Triumph dealer.

The place was vast and immaculate. Got to hand it to the Americans, they know how to put on a show. Rows of gleaming bikes on a multitude of levels were dramatically lit for greater effect. No one could fail to be impressed with all that gleaming chrome. My problem of broken, badly engineered aluminium was presented to Vern, Verg and Bob who set about their task with astounding enthusiasm, while I purchased an open-faced helmet. It made me look as if I had a tit on my head, but at least it was dry. Also, the bike-handling problems were resolved with a gargantuan tank bag.

It may have impaired visibility, but it stopped the front wheel oscillating in the most disturbing fashion on corners. All tools and spares could sit up front taking much of the weight off the back wheel. Vern’s jaw dropped when he saw the amount of stuff being zipped into the multi-level bag. “You won’t need all those tools riding a Triumph.” It was a real compliment to the British manufacturer, but he did change his mind when he learned my proposed route. They made an excellent job of the repair and charged me a colossal amount of money, but it was probably the going rate.

America was going to be a massive drain on resources, but I was glad to have started there as a gentle introduction to life on the road. The population were in general friendly in a superficial sort of way and more or less spoke the same language. British media portrays the culture relatively accurately and, as I was finding out, there were helpful bike dealers should the Triumph suffer any teething problems. It was a huge gamble taking such an unproven machine, but the respect it commanded was spectacular. That badge was possibly the biggest asset anyone could hope for. Most people claimed to have known someone who once owned a Bonneville, and there were more photographs of Marlon Brando riding British heritage than there were of the Pope in Vatican City.

The repairs had cost me the best part of a whole day, but there was just time to scale the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia in thick fog and rain. One of the delights of travelling the States is that just about every town or major road is a song title. Who needs a map, with the lyrics from sixties musicians to guide you across the continent?

Lexington was a sleepy little God-fearing town in the shadow of Walton’s Mountain where everyone seems to be called Jim Bob or Peggy Sue. The pink evening glow cast a startling blush on white timber-clad houses, each with a swinging seat on broad verandas. Old men in dimly-lit bars puffed on clay pipes while sipping sour rye whisky over a game of dominoes. They huddled round squat tables in a rather defensive manner, making it clear the sanctity of the circle was not to be broken without invitation. A dripping, leather-clad stranger stopped all conversation. Dominoes in mid-shuffle fell silent.

I ordered a beer. “Where you from boy?” The barman did not move his lips, so I turned to face the source of the question. Twenty or so shovel beards all wearing funny hats stared with unblinking expressions. “I said where you from boy?” At forty-five years old, maybe I should have been flattered by the remark, but I had an inkling that the guy hiding behind a haystack of facial hair was not being complimentary. Although they had computed that a foreigner had invaded their world, my beer was poured and then paid for by someone with a bale of straw stuck to his top lip. I thanked him for the gesture of friendliness, but dreaded to think what might have happened if I had been black or Chinese.

In determined mood, the Triumph exceeded the 500 mile a day barrier to Nashville, Tennessee. The Hard Rock Cafe offered shelter, cold beer and friendly company. For the first time I really started missing friends, Marian and my children. Every day was a new adventure governed by a whim, a compass needle and a dose of total ignorance, and I wanted to share the experience. That night, my notebook revealed the first sign of loneliness.

“England and M seem a long way away. They are a long way away. Haven’t had much time to miss her yet as there is always so much to do and I’m busy getting my travelling head on. Hope she is not missing me too much. The realisation of how much I love her is a bittersweet pill as Christmas and our reunion is an eternity away. It would be wonderful to share this experience with her, but then it would be so different, as her clear, logical thoughts would prevent me making so many stupid mistakes. Such an old head on young pretty shoulders.”

Travelling alone is challenging and liberating. There is no one to blame if things go wrong, or to confer with over decisions – but nor are there arguments about which way to go with every fork in the road. We had travelled together in Southeast Asia for a month and enjoyed each other’s company, happy to jump on a bus because we liked the name of the destination. You have to be comfortable with a companion in those situations, as you are together twenty four hours a day. The penalty for travelling as a couple is not meeting so many people, as there is always someone to talk to. I talked to her while riding. Nothing dramatic, just “Look at that – mind that truck,” or “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a shag under a vast desert sky?”

IN SEARCH OF SUNSHINE

A daily routine was beginning to emerge. Up around 6.30 am with the sun. Half an hour to pack the bike and start moving somewhere – anywhere. After 150 miles or so, stop for fuel and a bum rest. This part of my anatomy was taking longer to adapt to a new way of life than the rest of my body. Generally I was feeling stronger, but my bum, after spending ten or so hours a day in the saddle, was developing painful calluses from the elastic in my knickers. My youngest daughter, in an attempt to drag her Dad into twentieth-century fashion, had given me a pair of boxer shorts which brought some relief. Also, my ex-mother-in-law had given me some outrageous flowery cotton shorts that proved to be very comfortable once the airtex lining had been removed.

An important feature of early morning stops was fat-bastard breakfast diners. Eating is taken very seriously all over the States. A Tennessee breakfast typically consists of two eggs easy over (or is it over easy?), hash browns, sausage, biscuit and gravy. The sausage is a burger and the biscuit a bun. If you ask for a burger they put the sausage in the bun. Gravy comes in a separate bowl, looking and tasting like porridge with chewy bits. Syrup and blackcurrant jelly on the side – weird, but excellent value at about three dollars. One thing I learned early on is never, no matter how hungry you are, ask for a large portion of anything. For a light snack, I went to a Blimpy Bar for a tuna roll. It was two feet long and had the girth of a sumo wrestler. If I hugged the damn thing both hands would not join on the other side. This was a week’s food for a Somalian village. Americans must throw away more than the rest of the world eats.

The bulk of each day was spent riding, stopping only for fuel and photographs. Perpetual rain was still hampering any attempt to film. No one had ever single-handedly produced a credible film of a round world tour, so I was becoming concerned my cameras were not getting any exercise. By dusk I would be searching sleazy suburbs for cheap accommodation and sustenance. For some strange reason, I was still suffering from time lag, so I would force myself to stay awake until midnight flicking through thirty or so TV channels of evangelist preachers. Drift off for a couple of hours before getting up at about 4.00 am to repack everything in the perpetual quest for better weight distribution. Another hour or so slumber before the dawn invaded once more. Marian had neglected to tell me to take an alarm clock, so the curtains had to be left open to avoid wasting precious daylight. She had also forgotten to remind me about a hairbrush, so I started most days looking like a cross between Wurzel Gummage and a yeti.

Tennessee sounded pretty dry, and Graceland Park Hotel, Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, was amazingly the cheapest way of avoiding further cloudbursts and a couple of sunny intervals offered a brief opportunity to start filming. All set up on the banks of the sleepy old Mississippi with more AV technology than Michael Palin, my first mistake was to write a script. Lacking in any theatrical skills, I soon learned the only way of achieving any kind of result was to be totally spontaneous. After about fifty takes, a bucket of batteries and a fair amount of cursing, the first few seconds of footage were making progress until an army of gardeners started cutting the grass with strimmers, prematurely ending my cinematic debut. The Graceland museum was far too expensive and American with its glitzy presentation and ‘religious experience’ setting, so I headed south once more, not putting my feet down until reaching a flooded New Orleans 600 miles away. I had not seen storms that severe outside the tropics. I had just ridden the length of the United States and been rained on every day. It was never like this in the movies, and I was aware progress on mine was not going to plan. A predominantly Vietnamese residential area offered a cheap bed and dry bus ride to the French quarter for legendary entertainment. Like most towns with a reputation for something, the famous bit is confined to a small area and gazing through a premature twilight brought on by a gunmetal grey sky, the only memorable observation was the multicultural nature of a town contained by rivers and marshes. The mighty Mississippi Delta is vast, with more of its fertile wetlands being snatched from Neptune on a daily basis.

The French Quarter is where the town gains its notoriety, clinging on to a recent history with near-Hollywood effect. Not so long ago the vast waterway was the only link with the North continent and broad riverboats still dawdle along to the rhythmic pulse of a single paddle. They linger at berth awaiting another assault by noisy tourists wishing to be transported back in time to the days of showboats and steely-faced poker players. Not even streets running with water could dampen the spirits of an ignorant Englishman in quest of fun and live music. Every bar throbbed with sensational rhythm and blues, Cajun or jazz. Between thunderclaps, music moved onto the streets with very competent buskers hammering out their own version of “The House of the Rising Sun.” A small entrepreneurial shop was doing sensational trade in “emergency ponchos” for ninety-nine cents, which roughly translates as a blue bin bag with arm and head holes and a hood that flopped over the eyes. Hundreds of blue-plastic-clad people were to be seen groping along, bumping into lamp posts or falling into a swollen Mississippi.

While waiting on the steps of Planet Hollywood (a spectacle uniquely American) for the heavens to take breath between storms, a very drunk half-French half-Cherokee guy fell over my feet and decided to sit a while to share my beer. Once past the “I’m English” hurdle, he announced to an empty street, “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.” “Richard Third,” I applauded. “No. King Arthur, my favourite European film.” It was time to move on.

Leathers were showing signs of mildew, my hands looked as if they had been left in the bath too long and the Trophy pushed 762 miles in about twelve hours to Denton, Texas, in the search for sunshine. I must have been suffering from a combination of exhaustion and boredom when the first terrifying incident of my trip took place. Riding through Dallas, I fell asleep in the saddle. I was dreaming vividly of getting up for work at home and talking to Marian over an early-morning cup of tea when I awoke in complete darkness with huge truck wheels spinning only inches away on either side of me. I had ridden into a three-lane underpass, and it took all my strength and concentration to ride a straight line back into the daylight.

Texas was a huge disappointment. British media had lead me to expect endless horizons of beef herds and nodding-donkey oil wells. The reality was wide open spaces carpeted with assorted crops and an evil cross wind that had me riding at forty-five degrees all day. A nineteen dollar motel was good enough excuse not to start sleeping under the stars, which were almost visible through ominous clouds.

Next to the motel was a petrol station, so I decided to fill up for an early start. An ancient, prune-faced woman took my money, inquiring, “You got the cotton in yet in England?” I politely explained that England did not have an appropriate climate for cotton and it is so small the crop would probably not be economically viable. “Well, what about them Italy, France and Germany?” She was surprised to hear that England did not have federal control of Europe and it would fit into Texas several times over. She stood right in front of the bike, legs apart, hands on hips, determined to keep the conversation going, but we had run out of common ground. In desperation I pointed at the bunting strewn around in preparation for the forthcoming Independence Day. Small Stars and Stripes flags strung alternately with another I took to be the Texas state emblem were being tugged uncomfortably in the unceasing wind. “What’s the other flag?” I asked in desperation. “My, don’t you folk know nothin’. That’s the flag of the United States of America.” To this day I am none the wiser.

Escaping Texas for a new state was easy when, more by luck than good judgement, I picked up Route 66 for a second time. The Rolling Stones’ lyrics guided me through “Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty,” into New Mexico with classic tall cactus silhouetted against the drama of billowing clouds streaked with shafts of a determined sun. My first day on the road with no rain at all, and an 80 mph blow-dry lifted flagging spirits. There were twenty-four hour fireworks supermarkets in the most unexpected places. Often visible several miles away across semi-desert landscapes, they stood all alone as if waiting for a town to be built around them. I bought some rockets and sparklers, not in honour of the Fourth of July, but the fifth, my birthday. Feeling elated by the unaccustomed sunshine, I decided to sleep out without the threat of a soaking. An hour before dusk, I was riding dirt tracks across a good deal of nothing looking for a suitable place to stop and set up camp,

There is an urge in one’s survival instinct to sleep next to something. A tree, a bush, a large rock, anything to hide behind or offer token protection. No such luck. As my shadow lengthened, I just stopped, secured the bike and got my sleeping bag out. Fortunately, I had had the presence of mind to buy a bottle of water and a couple of cans of Mexican beer for cleaning teeth and evening recreation. Half an hour’s intensive search produced enough fuel for a decent fire. I was feeling rather pleased with myself for setting up a maiden camp, when out of nowhere a car appeared. The driver was a German woman complaining I was parked across her drive. No amount of scanning the horizon revealed any dwelling, and the bit of dirt supporting a dusty Triumph looked very like any other bit of dirt. We had an interesting little chat, after which she conceded to drive round the camp rather than make me move it a few feet to an identical spot. Before her tail lights disappeared into the setting sun, she did put me right about the time. Without realizing it, I had crossed a couple of time zones, making me two hours younger. Could this be the answer to eternal youth?

The firewood was so dry it only lasted half an hour, and to save torch batteries I settled down to a well-earned sleep in the silence of the desert. Within minutes, rustling noises were joined by a curious popping sound. Distant dogs howled, bringing to mind images of werewolves, accompanied by the hum of wind through sparse vegetation. Dawn was a long time coming. This pioneer stuff was going to take some getting used to.

The sign said “Las Vegas 100 miles.” Not really my cup of tea, but there was a window in my diary that day, so I thought it may be a good place to film Americans in holiday mood. Right on the perimeter of town, my progress was interrupted by a rather pathetic little parade. Like everyone else, I parked up to watch. A few cowboys on horses led several hay-ricks carrying painted children against a back-drop of rapidly building cumulus. You would have been forgiven for thinking a volcano had just blown its top in the next town. The sun was snuffed out like a candle as spectators shuffled around looking confused. As the first enormous drops splashed into the gasping dust, I asked a leathery old Navajo Indian if this was seasonal weather. “Not in my lifetime,” came his reply, and then he gave me the name “Rain Maker.” I apologized for dampening the parade and joked that if I could manage a repeat performance in the Sahara there could be money to be made. Tactical error. American Indians do not necessarily share the white American romance with the dollar. “Don’t make money – make flowers,” he said in all seriousness. My ex-father-in-law taught me one useful lesson. When you are in the shit, stand still. Do not spread it around. Regrettably, his words had been lost somewhere on the highway as I asked directions to the Strip – Mecca of gambling with the lasers and bright lights that have made Las Vegas so famous. He gave me one of those looks reserved for stupid white travellers. “You want Las Vegas, Nevada. This is Las Vegas, New Mexico.” Well, how was I to know there were two of them? This was my cue to ride off towards Arizona, and the Grand Canyon.

No matter how prepared they are for their first sight of a hole a mile deep and a mile wide that would stretch half the length of England, everyone gasps. Hollywood could not have dreamt up such a set designed to make people feel small. Predictably, the Americans capitalize on every natural asset, but in this case it is to preserve a national monument as well as generating revenue. The sleepy, green Colorado River snakes its way through a forest of towering turrets tinted copper and gold. The touristy bit is well orchestrated and not too intrusive, with food and booze in striking distance of well-facilitated camp sites. Without a tent, camp sites are not good value for money and my dirt was only two days old, so I selected a remote part of the rim for personal festivities. I was determined to spend the eve of my forty-sixth year alone and witness a dawn that could be stored forever in a corner of my mind. In party mood, supper was half a dozen cans of Mexican beer and a small bottle of brandy. I had completely forgotten about food, but a campfire would have been out of the question on the edge of a wood, and I had discovered to my dismay that fireworks were illegal in Arizona. It would have been rather exciting to aim a few rockets over the enormous void, but I did not wish to experience the wrath of the local constabulary. I did have sparklers and a solitary present from a lovely friend Rena. As soon as it became too dark to film, I opened the card as the last dying embers of the sun turned Nature’s sculpture from ochre to blood red. The card had a pin badge attached with the words “party animal” emblazoned across it. I opened a beer with thoughts of her pretty face smiling down on my feeble little celebration. The bitter taste of loneliness ran through me with a shudder. “It’s my birthday,” I announced to the trees, fighting back a tear. Someone must have heard, as seconds later the stillness was broken by the nearest tree shedding its entire load of fir cones. I laughed hysterically as my anonymous sympathiser pelted me with gifts from the sky. Rena’s present was in two parts and so well wrapped, I had to attack the smaller parcel with my Swiss Army knife. Two little ceramic receptacles hardly an inch across with delicate floral brushwork fell onto the soft earth. The other package contained four slim candles that had been welded together in the desert heat. The multi-purpose knife separated them into four roughly equal parts, and the stillness of the evening became apparent. Not a wave or sway was detectable from erect flames casting a halo of yellow light over a solitary figure. Time passed as my thoughts were furiously scribbled down into a yawning notebook. As I pulled another can of Mexican sunshine from the ice bag purchased to keep it cool, two things happened nearly simultaneously.

The last candle flickered and died with the grace of a butterfly. Then the ear-shattering silence was invaded by a noise that jerked every tendon. The sound itself was not sinister, just the fact that it was the only one and not one I was familiar with from other nights camping. This was the first time I had slept next to a forest and everything was different – like the noise of rustling in undergrowth. “It’s fir cones falling off the trees,” I thought, soothing my goose bumps down to a rash of boils. “Yeh, fir cones falling – on animals – like rabbits – wild dogs – grizzly bears – chain-saw murderers.” The sound picked up in rhythm and volume. I wished I had a proper weapon. My torch beam was flicking around like a lightsabre from Star Wars and froze on two pinpoints of light. “Shit,” I cursed into the inky blackness, “it’s a wolf.” The white, streaked face was undeniable. The spill from the torch beam detected further movement. “Bollocks, there are two of them.” The beam twitched back and forth between two passive pairs of unblinking eyes. My brain started racing. “There could be hundreds of them. Whole packs dedicated to cleansing the area of tourists.”

A 360 degree sweep revealed that if there were more, they had better things to do than salivate over scrag end of biker. Now, the next bit is the only reason why I believe there is a superhuman watching over us. Most people would consider a barrage of fir cones dumped on their head a pretty unexciting birthday present. My unwelcome camp visitors were easily in range and retreated at the first volley. This both delighted and saddened me. Maybe they had only wanted to make friends – but maybe they wanted scrawny old Englishman lightly barbecued. Either way an arsenal of Nature’s missiles was gathered to fend off attack. The confrontation and resultant burst of energy had left me a little clammy when a more significant phenomenon struck.

There I was all zipped up for the night in T-shirt, knickers and socks, having scraped enough water from the ice to clean my teeth. The ground was firm, but with a reassuring softness from centuries of fallen tree debris, and leather jeans and jacket make a comfortable pillow. I found it also kept the dew off them and if you have to leave in a hurry, you do not want to be groping in the dark for important possessions. Desert temperatures at around 8,000 feet drop like a block of ice after dark. My rucksack, carefully packed for a rapid exit, was invaded. A T-shirt was followed by another, then a sweatshirt. An hour later I was lying under a theatre of shooting stars wearing full leathers and crash helmet, cursing the day I chose that light, compact, but crap sleeping bag. My shivers must have registered on the Richter Scale. With the first smudge of orange on the horizon, I was packed up and heading back to the highway. I swear there was more ice in the morning cooling the remaining beer than had been purchased the day before.