Trip Diary - Photo Diary - Start the trip in the UK - USA - Mexico - Belize - Continue on to Mexico From: Mark  New York, USA to Forest City, Tennessee, USA
All that was needed was for my bike to be loaded onto a ship in Gt. Yarmouth, be transported to Felixstowe, be offloaded onto another bigger ship, get trundled across the Atlantic, be unloaded into a Warehouse in Newark and get cleared by US customs. If all had gone to plan, this should have taken about 10-12 days. Ha! 35 days passed before I could pick the bike up from the Warehouse. In this time I stayed with Daisy’s friend Naomi who is based in Queens, New York. She acted as a brilliant tour guide of the city, ceaselessly showing me around the city’s tourist spots and swanky bars showing the world cup. In order not to overstay my welcome, I visited Washington DC, Boston and Cape Cod, always expectant that my bike would arrive and be cleared from customs within a couple of days. To be fair to DC, it is a bit of a hole. The city centre does have the excellent Smithsonian Museums, which bizarrely for the States were free for me to get in. Rightly so, as it was a Brit who donated the money to the States (a place he had never visited) in the first place so that they could setup a national Museum. However, apart from this, the city was at best bland, being populated by Chino clad, blue shirted government workers and at worst just plain violent. It didn’t surprise me to hear that the city has the highest gun crime rates in the US, as even the ‘nice’ parts of the city felt dangerous, completely unlike what I saw of New York. The icing on the DC cake came on the last night, when I returned to my grimy Hostel that I had been staying in over the previous three nights. As I walked down the street towards the Hostel, I noticed to my relief, several sets of Blue flashing lights. “At least I won’t get shot in the 100 yards of my journey,” I thought to myself. When I arrived at my Hostel, I found that the blue lights belonged to several squad cars that were parked outside of the house next door. A house that was actually a male brothel and that was being raided. My fellow Hostel inmates and I watched from a safe distance as a number of young lads were escorted to squad cars, their possessions extricated from the house and placed on the street and the doors and windows of the building were boarded up.
The next morning, all was quiet. The doors and windows were boarded up. There were no police, builders or rent boys and all of the stray boxes and bits of furniture had disappeared. All that was left on the pavement was a single, solitary, Cher wig that had obviously seen better days. I left DC for New York that day. Boston was a very fine city and reminded me of a cross between Glasgow, Dublin, Edinburgh and Norwich, but with one fundamental difference – it was clean. All in all it was a good place to stay with some very good bars. From Boston I took a ferry to Cape Cod, which provided very relaxing. I spent about a week in a Hostel in a small village called Truro. The Hostel was excellent, in location, staff and guests. I met several characters, one of which was the Brit Bike enthusiast, Bill Baillie from Rhode Island. A complete gent, who sympathized with the fact I was longing for my bike and lent me the use of his little 70´s Honda 350. Eventually, after much waiting, I finally picked my bike up from the Newark warehouse on the 28th of July. I headed SW through Pennsylvania state to Virginia, to pick up the Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge Parkway. Two roads that run down the Appellation Mountains for a distance of about 500 miles, all of the way down to the Smokey Mountains, passing at altitudes of between 1000 and 1500 meters above sea-level. In short, 500 miles of silk smooth tarmac, with very little traffic (except other bikers), no towns or villages directly on the road and fine views over mountains and woodland through bearable temperatures. As a motorcyclist, I can honestly say, these were the best roads I have ever ridden. After getting across the Smokey Mountains and picking up some off-road tyres from the lads at Honda Motorsports in Chattanooga, I headed up to the North East corner of Tennessee. “Look out for yourself up there” One of the Honda guys confided in me. “The folk up there are a bit strange”. I met up with Paul, a fellow biker who was also planning to ride the Transamtrail (an off-road trail that leads from Tennessee to Oregon on the Pacific Coast). We set out on the trail together the next day, leaving the town of Jellico after a fuel and photo shoot. The gentlemen I asked to take our photo wore a straw hat and blue dungarees, was incredibly thin, had yellow peg teeth and shook in an alarming way. We thanked him for his help and we pushed onto the trail as he returned to shaking in his parked pickup.
Riding through the steep wooded valleys of Tennessee, we past by wooden shacks all of which in various states of disrepair, but most evidently inhabited. Around these shacks lay littered all manner of junk and rusting vehicles. This combined with the claustrophobic nature of the woods, hills and heat, to give a quite sinister air to the first part of the trail. In the backs of our minds we were ever cautious that these were the hills were the film “Deliverance” was set. The woodland was dense and remote, and was the type that the words “Do it Jed, do it”, followed by manic laughter and faintly audible whimpers would not seem out of place. We pushed on at a reasonable to good pace, punching out of the woodland and into the rolling lowlands of middle Tennessee as soon as we could. Though flat, the countryside in the middle of Tennessee is quite beautiful and reminded me of the small, quite lanes of Suffolk, back in the UK. The only differences were the extreme humidity and the type of place names. Names such as Indian creek, Calf killer (a stream) and Comanche Valley all bore witness to a slightly different history. After a couple of days, I wheeled South from the Trail and took a diversion to the Barber Motorcycle Museum down in Birmingham, Alabama, whilst Paul carried on to try and finish the trail before his Visa ran out. The Museum was setup by a local dairy Tycoon with a passion for motor sports and boasted over a 1000 motorcycles, the largest collection of Lotus cars in the world and its own racetrack. The place was a motorcyclist’s wet dream. There were bikes from across the world and across the ages, but by far, the greatest numbers of Marques represented were from the UK: Triumphs, Nortons, BSAs, Ariels, Vincents, JAPs, Royal Enfields, Sunbeams and even a Hesketh. It was beautiful to see so many fine bikes conceived and built in the UK, but sad to be reminded that the glory days of motorcycle manufacture have subsided for now. http://www.photobox.co.uk/album/3717538 Back on the trail a couple of days later, I passed out of Tennessee and down into Mississippi. Almost immediately the road surface changed from compact dirt tracks, to trails that had been covered with a thick layer of loose gravel. Twisting trails that had once been a joy to ride, suddenly held potential traps of deep gravel and sand everywhere. The smooth poise of the bike had now been unbalanced and the riding conditions became much harder. Ride too slow and the bike would drift through the gravel, starting a slowly increasing oscillating wiggle in the back of the bike where the majority of the weight was. Without adjusting the speed, this wiggle would increase until it threatened to spit the rider off. Ride to fast and you risked over shooting corners, hitting the odd oncoming car or hitting a particularly deep rut of sand or gravel and entering the land wiggly bike again.
Despite these ‘challenges’ that the road surface presented, the Mississippi section of the trail was completed with little or no incidents. It offered low-lying countryside, covered by woods and as I got nearer to the Mississippi river, swamps and cotton fields. After a night in one of the many casino hotels (“Vegas Action, Southern Style”) that line the banks of the Mississippi, I started out over a huge bridge and across the river into Arkansas for a friendly breakfast. Viewed from a map, Arkansas is a grid of roads and tracks, intersecting at 1-mile intervals. Many of the roads are tarmac (more so than Mississippi), though there are still a high number of gravel roads, surfaced in the same bike friendly manner as their Mississippi cousins. “Straight Roads?” I thought to myself, “Easy Riding.” The last thing I remember was the bike suddenly and violently squirming below me. I tried to scrub the speed off with the rear brake and the engine braking, but the wiggling was so violent I was thrown backwards. As this happened, my right hand, which was more than likely grabbing on for dear life to the handlebars, was pushed back. The fact it was also gripped to the throttle meant that the bike lunged forwards again and BANG!
I now know what happens when I am ‘restarted’. The process includes: So, here I am. Sat in a motel in a town called Forest City (population 15,000ish), aching but in one piece, with my bike in the local Honda shop, waiting for parts. The people in town (as generally in the rest of America) are very friendly. From what I could see, the bike was in pretty good condition considering. Apart from a bent handle bar and mirrors, some cracked fairing and a bit of bending on the front sub-frame that clocks hang off, the bike seems ok. The engine bars and panniers appear to have soaked up most of the impact. The plan is to wait here for a few days, rest my aching body and pride, get the bike fixed up and head back out onto the trail as soon as I can. In the meantime, I plan to hobble over to the nearest eatery tonight (Wendy’s Burger house) and celebrate my 32nd birthday – whooho! From: Mark Forest City, Arkansas, USA – Port Orford, Oregon, USA …and in last week’s episode, we saw Mark leave New York and head South to start the Transamtrail - an off-road trail running from Tennessee to the Pacific Coast. All was well for our intrepid two wheeled explorer, until an altercation with an Arkansas gravel road resulted in hilarious consequences…. With the bike fixed up, I bid Forest City Arkansas a cheerful two figured farewell and headed west. The first few days of riding ached, but this soon subsided with a little time and buckets of Nurofen. As I passed out of Arkansas, the beautiful Ozark Mountains soon subsided into the flat, open expanses of the Central Oklahoma Plains. The plains rolled on and on for days, becoming more and tedious with every mile. This said, Sam (the creator of the Transamtrail), had managed to plot probably the most interesting route possibly through Oklahoma. It ran across a couple of nature reserves, which gave an impression of how the plains must have looked before they were cultivated. In these areas, the trail would gently twist and turn over low ridges and through shallow valleys. This combined with some of the biggest panoramic skyscapes know to man, made this riding extremely enjoyable.
With little excitement except for a close call with an electrical storm, a good conversation with a 70-year-old Cowboy and the odd stretch of true plains, I eventually arrived at New Mexico and immediately dropped down into riding some Spaghetti Western style Canyons. Around every corner I found John Wayne battling Indians and Clint Eastwood extracting vengeance on corrupt little towns.
Needless to say it was quite a treat to arrive in Colorado where I was surrounded by stunning mountains, cool air and most importantly people to talk. So much so, I decided to stay in the small town of Salida for a couple of days, riding the local mountain trails and enjoying the cultural variety (good beer - something I hadn’t experienced since the East Coast). Whilst passing through town, I noticed a KLR with an ADV sticker (amongst others) on it’s fairing. A dual sport motorcycle in a small mountain town, covered in stickers. The owner has got to be into bikes.
After pulling up besides the KLR, a guy appeared out of the adjacent shop and said, “That’s an Africa Twin isn’t it. I’ve always wanted one of those. Thing is though, you can’t get them here”. One month on, I had ridden several 12,000 foot passes with a great bunch of ADVriders, burnt out two clutches and spent many days waiting for bike parts to be shipped from the UK. Duke and Tami had trailed my bike off the hills twice, covering at least 500 miles in total to help me out. Because of their kindness and generosity, I was able to fix my bike properly (the second time) and relatively cheaply.
Over the weeks I’d spent in Salida, I had introduced my new American friend and his wife to the concept of a heavy Saturday night of drinking, followed by a Sunday morning fry up. In turn, I had been shown the majesty that is biscuits and homemade gravy (a strange white sauce peppered with bits of sausage). Despite the fact the bike took a battering, the time spent in Salida with Duke, Tami and their friends was the reason why I decided to take this trip.
After leaving Salida for the second time, I needed to punch on across the rest of the States to Oregon, so that I could wheel down and meet Daisy in Vegas on time. The ride took me through the weird lunar landscapes of Utah and through to the beautiful empty expanses of Nevada. In Utah, I stayed in the town of Moab for a couple of days, wrenching on my bike and avoiding down pours. A big thanks to the wonderful Fred Hink at Arrowhead Motorsports Moab, for the use of his workshop on two separate occasions – cheers Fred!
Making time, I stayed in Motels in the evening, striking up conversations with a whole host of random characters. One mining town in Nevada saw and evening with Geophysicists and Miners end in the Key Hole Bar (Slogan - ‘where shit happens’). The evening went by in a blur of strange dancing, party hat antics, a twitching bar maid and a visit from the local Police.
Once across into Oregon, the forest trails took me closer towards the Pacific Ocean and the end of the trail. I finally reached my destination of Port Orford in mid September.
Whilst passing through the 14 States and across the 7 or so thousand miles since New York, I’d flown with Eagles, raced with Hares, startled Wolves and avoided Bears. I’d nearly been struck by lightening twice and had my lip split from hail once. The trail took me too heights of over 12,000 feet and then down again to Sea level. Along the way I’d met Hillbillies, Cowboys, mad Texans, good and bad Californians, Ex-Marines, Brit Bike enthusiasts, Miners, Hippies, insane Artists and even a couple of Harley riders. Of all of the hundreds of people I’ve spent time with, several have become good friends and only one was openly hostile to me. From: Daisy Las Vegas, Nevada, USA. Finally made it to the legendary Stardust in Las Vegas! Hasn't taken us long to tire of lounge music and crap magicians making white tigers disappear, so we've headed off into the Mojave desert and into the wilds of Arizona. Everything is really fab, it's obviously ace to see the old man again and to be able to keep an eye on him (especially at the Roulette table!), and so the semi-retirement thing is working out rather well! Anyhow, this was just a quick update, we're off to hit the tiles of some Arizona backwater town - I'm sure they're not ready for our leopard-print hot pants and Karaoke talents, but that's just too bad!
From: Mark Port Orford, Oregon, USA to Las Vegas, Nevada, USA. On reaching Port Orford, I rode down to the beach and took some photos of the bike in the surf, before the days light faded. On the way up the path, I noticed a little B&B with great views out across the Bay. This B&B was the excellent, Home By The Sea. The owner, Alan Mitchell, was delighted by the news I came from near a town called Orford in Suffolk. He proved to be a very hospitable host, providing information about Las Vegas, a good place to view the Redwoods on the way South and taking me on a whistle stop tour of the town before I left. After leaving the B&B in Port Orford , I raced South to meet with a Californian Honda rider called Ray. Ray and his Wife, who housed me and fortified me for the ride across to meet the Daisy. After a hedonistic couple of days in Vegas and a few weeks of slowly riding South via the Grand Canyon and Utah, we met up with Duke and his wife Tami for the crossing into Mexico and the journey to a bike meet in Creel. Tacos, motorcycles and great company - all is good. From: Daisy Utah, USA. Sing along now "U-U-U-U-Utah, Utah!!!", aah takes you back!
So this is where we are for the next couple of days before heading South into New Mexico and then to Mexico itself, arriba! This wonderful state of limited booze, Polygamous families and canyons as far as the eye can see. Booze issue aside, it's the most amazing, under-estimated place, especially good if you're a mountain biker or hiker or just wish to invest your hard-earned cash on "genuine" Navajo arts and keepsakes (painstakingly crafted by a 9 year old leper in Taiwan).
Today has been God Awful - rain for the last 24 hours which ain't too groovy when residing in a tent. Hunted down a proper redneck bar in Moab that yes, sold us booze, and plenty of it (which might explain why we gave the Karaoke a bit of a battering - I think John Denver would have been proud of my "Country Roads", but I think Axl would be sending out a lynch party after Mark for his bastardization of "Paradise City"). So next weeks we'll be seeing some crazy bike fest action in Northern Mexico. Have to say I've adapted to the 'Biker Bitch' thing rather well - there's a great solidarity within the biker world, which is such a great thing unless you're actually trying to BE somewhere and Old Jed won't let you leave until you've told him the history of the Honda Africa Twin Brakepad and then agreed to say hi to his friend Chris in Manchester.
I love the Americans though, they totally rock, they're so, so friendly but not in a piss-takey way, they ACTUALLY mean it! I never thought I'd hear myself saying it but it's true! We've met some great people so far and continue to, every day. Oh, except for Harley Davidson riders who are frankly rude motherfuckers that think they're one down from Jesus Christ himself. May their chrome get mildew and their ponytails drop off!
Anyhow, best be making tracks, we're heading out for Buffalo steak and non-alcohol (unless we can sniff it out, which we’re getting quite good at!). Continue on to Mexico |
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| ©2006 Mark Bell |