Only
in America
Photographer Kevin
Muggleton travelled Rocky mountain passes and New Mexican deserts
to shoot the American Dream. So why did he take a Yamaha to Harley
country?
Story and photography by Kevin Muggleton
"Whatcha
riding? A Harley or one of those Jap bikes?" Surely a trick
question US Immigration officials use to filter the good guys
from the bad? I had only meant to let on I was on a photo shoot,
but two questions into the interrogation, I'm standing rock solid
behind the yellow line, and singing like a canary. Riding a Virago
couldn't be such a heinous crime? Deep in a lose/lose situation
I was looking at a face-off with Tyson's big brother, sitting
supremely smug behind the glass panel at Chicago's O'Hara. Letting
on I didn't know would probably secure me a couple of weeks in
the State Penitentiary without any chain lube, and pride held
me back from admitting the Virago.
"Mike,
our tour guide, rides an Electraglide and he'll sort me out."
Wow. So smooth. The first, and probably only, time my mouth has
shot off without me regretting it. Sign me up for the Diplomatic
Corps.
Mike
Broadstreet, owner of Freedom Tours, had invited me for 16 days
in the saddle. Sixteen days of Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New
Mexico. Bliss. Still a few hours and a connecting flight away
from Denver, I killed time in the transit lounge, searching out
Stetsons, bandannas and cowboy boots. After overdosing on John
Wayne films, pulling faces in front of a mirror, and perfecting
his accent, I was up to speed with the lifestyle.
 The Wild Waste
If
only took 60 miles of hairpin bends through the Rockies, mountain
peaks, briliant sunshine and I was singing my heart out, relaxed
in the saddle and as happy as I'd been anywhere. The rumble of
my cut exhausts lured me into invincibility. I had Scott, a born-and-bred
Colorado adrenalin junky, snapping at my heels astride his FJ1200
and plunged into the corners with reckless abandon. It didn't
take long to realise that I was out-braked, out accelerated (probably
out-gunned) and sitting like Giant Haystacks on a bike with the
ground clearance of a low down dirty dog.
A
6ft 3in, what on earth was I doing on a poxy Virago, when I could
have so easily slipped into the super cruiser scene? To be truthful,
being a skinflint didn't help, but I was already on the ball putting
feelers out to swap bikes with other guys on the tour.
The
Virago was beaten to the store by the Waltons
Roy,
over from the UK, sussed me immediately. "You have to be
old enough to apreciate a Gold Wing...." With that gauntlet
thrown down, the Honda was definetly off my list.
High
up in these mountains, rolling with the punches is a handy skill
when the occasional truck comes your way, and a reminder to keep
you wits about you. Loaded to the sky with cattle feed, the mountain
folk hurtle around the bends as though their World Drivers' Championship
is down to the wire. Hemmed in between the rock face and monster
rear wheels, a dark, fibrous wad winged past with the driver hollering,
"Darn pesky bikers". The whole sketch was straight out
of Desperate Dan in the Dandy. All I needed was an enormous cow
pie to drop out of the sky. You cotton on quickly that America's
55 mph speed limit is obsolete in places. Cars, trucks and even
geriatric Winnabago drivers all roll along at 75 mph.
Climbing
towards the 12,000ft passes all the bikes suffered a 20 per cent
power decrease. The VFR, reeling around like a punch-drunk fighter,
felt the lack of oxygen most. A last spring downpour caught me
before I had time to don waterproofs. But pulling into the next
lay-by I had to chuckle at the sight of Rick, scattered sideways
over a snow drift, tinkering with his VFR. Sun, rain, and snow
within two minutes of each other. If a Yeti had tap-danced around
us I wouldn't have batted an eyelid.
The
worst tailgating accident Bike has ever seen
The
contrast of the mountains pales when dropping to the red rock,
sandstone valleys of Utah. The temperature shot off the scale,
holding the heat in like a Rayburn oven. The cold weather gear
went, but the helmet stayed firmly in place to protect my face
from burning in the midday sun.
With
my peanut size tank, I rolled into Bluff's only gas station to
quench the Virago's thirst for the local brews. Fuel is a third
of the price of that in the UK and comes with the kind of service
that's outrageously fun. "Why that's the purdiest acceent
I ever did hear!" She really said that. Darn, if I wasn't
gettin into this place.
The
heat played its part certainly, but things were done a little
slower around these parts. The sun set, the crickets did their
thing, bugs were swatted in the warm air, beer was swilled, long
stories swapped and rocking back and forth on the wooden verandah,
Scott would run through my Berlitz accent course.
"..I'd
raather bee....."
"Deeper
and slower," he'd cough.
"...I'd
raather bee dipp'd in a bucket of daawg sheet." To guage
the speed, try putting your helmet on and off a couple of times.
If you've finished by the time the strap is done up, slow down
and say it over again.
That's
the major benefit of being on an organised tour. You relax in
five-star guest houses and soak in the bath until it's time to
eat, knowing the following day will keep you off the dull roads
and pack in the curvy sections. If you just hire a bike in the
US, it's easy to forget the country is so huge, pack in mile after
bum numbing mile, live off junk food and crash in dodgy motels.
Most
of the bikers you come across are on a mission to cover as many
long distance trips as they can. High mileage bikers here, are
the norm. Tom, a 70-year-old psychiastrist from California, crossed
the Nevada desert on his BMW R1100RS packing a cool 5000-mile
round trip just to join the tour, most of that on monotonous highways.
God
Help the poor sod who turns up to valet this lot
Just
a day in Arizona gave me a taste of what it could be like. The
roads put the Romans to shame and after hours watching the centre
line do its disappearing trick, the craving for a mountain pass
reaches junky level. When a curve arrives, you're whipped into
a lunatic frenzy, opening up the throttle, and leaving the turn
to the split second before being impaled on a cactus stump. When
entering Navajo Indian country, the views around Monument Valley
are so mind-blowing you feel like an extra on a film set. It was
in the afternoon, though, that I spotted a few snakes warming
their bellies on the tarmac, I've seen cobras and rattlesnakes
before but these looked like neither. Nor were they your common
grass snake, so I kept well clear.
Visiting
a true market economy does have its pitfalls. Somebody has won
a contract to provide as many signposts as they can fit in along
the highways. When bends approach, signs spring, bringing you
down in 5mph increments until you hit their recommended cornering
speed, a yellow sign. On a bike you can judge the cornering speed
by doubling the yellow sign figure, this formula works up to about
45 mph. Roadside billboards only add to the entertainment. They're
huge and can be read up to half a mile away -MACDONALDS 43 MILES,
TAKE EXIT 32. TURN LEFT AT LIGHTS, THEN EAST THROUGH MEXICAN CREEK
FOR 6 MI..... You'd need a Big Mac pretty badly to go through
this.
Fashion
accessories; see nothing sunglasses
and go nowhere fingernails
Driving
styles are a little different in New Mexico and if you had to
put the individual states in a pecking order of ability, New Mexico
would be near the bottom of the heap. The usual glance to confirm
the driver has spotted you, forget it. They acknowledge you, oh
yes, then pull straight out, just when you're on the verge of
no return. But in Sante Fe, with roads as wide as a flooding Mississippi,
it's hard to drum up road rage. Filtering through traffic is illegal
and as the lazy afternoons slip by it's therapeutic to let the
odd car slip in and wait your turn.
Wherever
we seemed to go on the tour the roads were a biking mecca. Dropping
the gears as the bike leans from side to side, a grin splits from
ear to ear. You then develop this idiotic giggling, progressing
into hysterical laughter as you crank the bike harder and faster
up through the passes. For serious miles, most other riders you
meet are on Japanese and European tourer/cruisers. Harley guys
will bitch at this, but when you're away from all the stars and
stripes fanfare, they are few and far between. You'll encounter
them, but if you're not on a Harley, don't expect to be acknowledged.
Near
Taos, it was my turn to meet the hardcore Harley dudes, out in
force, flag-waving for Veterans' Day. If you believe only half
the hero stories, only special forces units served in 'Nam.
I
decided to chat with one of the dudes perched roadside. He was
stripped to the waist, regulation full lenth beard, paunch and
more tattoos than Edinburgh Castle.
"F**king
fags. Just a bunch of rich f**kers from the city. Not f**king
real bikers." Gentle enough guy to ask for a photo then.
"Who
d'f**k for."
"Bike
magazine, back in England."
"Take
you f**king picture and f**k off".
Only
after chatting for a while longer did I find out his bike packed
in near his home, forcing him to hitch by truck. The irony was
lost on him. He was right, though , most of the guys were in fact,
city professionals, doctors and lawyers.
For
all my cursing at the Virago, it only let me down once. Ten minutes
out of Steamboat Springs, the power cuts out as though I'd knocked
the kill switch. When your bike breaks down out there, we're not
talking about fliping your mobile phone and waiting for the AA
to sort things out. The only traffic is the odd Coyote and an
overhead eagle. All of Freedom's tours have Mike's wife, Linda
following in a chase vehicle. Without so much as breaking into
a sweat, the bike was carted off to the nearest garage and I was
back on the best roads in the Rockies in time for tea and stickies.
After
riding around a while you expect to be surprised. Sand Dunes National
Park didn't fail. Smack, bang, wallop in the middle of the snow-capped
Sangre de Cristo Mountains, enormous sand dunes cover the valley
floor. This is as absurd as taking a big portion of the Sahara
desert and dumping it on Geneva. Every rock, mountain or grassy
patch with a hint of photographic talent is nominated a national
monument. This isn't a problem, though, as up goes a gate in the
middle of nowhere. Hand over the greenbacks and you're on you
own personal test track. Park entrances are around 30 miles from
the main highway, no state troopers in sight, and perfectly maintained
straight tarmac roads fit for land-speed records.
I
need another of Mike's tours to remind me of why I jumped on a
bike in the first place. Next time I'll swallow my pride, hire
a Harley, don the gear and talk the talk.
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