7th August - 27th August (Entry 8)

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Road miles to date: 11,985

We were greeted by the owner and super wrench extraordinaire Tom Cutter at the Rubber Chicken Racing Garage in Pennsylvania. Once the bike was semi-stripped of its excessive load, a quick examination made it clear the problem wasn't going to be fixed anytime soon. The diagnosis was a faulty drive shaft and loose cogs in the final drive.

It turned out to be a two day job but the nearest campground was about 15 miles away where, Tom explained, the locals had long since worked out that robbing tents wasn't much of a challenge. Acknowledging that the bike was our only transport and the tent was our only shelter, Tom and his wife Paula came up trumps and offered us a bed for the night. That day and the next, Byron became side-kick grease monkey while Tom worked on the bike and fixed it up.

During our stay, we learnt that the waiting list to get a bike in at the Rubber Chicken Racing Garage is over a year long, so to be seen so quickly and for Tom and Paula to put us two strangers up for the night with a homely welcome was a great privilege.

With a fixed up bike and a lunch for the road, we headed northwest following a beautiful route lined with historic settlement houses and churches that straddled the Delaware River all the way to route six where we would start the next leg of our trip; the journey west.

After a couple of days in Mount Pocono, mostly spent avoiding rain and humidity that gave rise to no end of toadstools, we rode on through Pennsylvania stopping at the Kinzau Bridge, once the tallest railway bridge in the USA until a tornado blew half of it over in 2003.

Further on in West Pennsylvania we had stopped for lunch when a couple of bikers pulled over, welcoming us to self proclaimed Hillbilly country, explaining that the land of the Rednecks wouldn't start until we reached Texas. As they roared off, we got back to our lunch only to be greeted by the thunder of another bike pulling in, ridden by a man sporting a moustache to be contended with. It was clear he would have had difficulty walking the straight line test as he opened his saddle bag and pulled out a fresh bottle of beer. Our new found friend introduced himself as Ken and his Kawasaki motorbike as The Kenasaki, an ingenious fusion of names. He went on to to tell us tales of his sons and then about someone he once met from 'The Kingdom' but couldn't remember his name. Despite his best attempts to describe him, it was with regret that we had to admit to not knowing the man. We left Ken, Kenasaki and their 12 pack of beer shortly afterwards with an enlightened insight as to the first bikers' welcome.

We continued on through Pennsylvania, stopping for a night beside the Allegheny River (more toadstools) before leaving early the next day, heading further West and past a noticeable increase in 'Mitt Romney = good / Barack Obama = bad' banners, guns and ammo stores, anti-abortion billboards and 'Jesus is the way' exclamations. Added to these big cultural shifts were the scattered Amish communities and their horse and carts sharing the roads.

That day we crossed into Ohio and stayed the night on the shores of Lake Erie, more of a sea than a lake, before following its south coast the next day where we found ourselves on possibly the longest stretch of inhabited highway this side of the Atlantic, lined with the most enormous and elaborate McMansions, as a few locals referred to them.

After a long ride we crossed into Indiana where we probably didn't witness the most pleasant part of the state. Passing not too far from the town of Hicksville may sum it up, as may the first few motels we tried to get a room where there were no signs of the usual 'no soliciting' warning.

After a night in a motel where even the door handle was sticky, we were filling up in a garage, keen to get a move on when a member of the American Legion Riders Chapter asked if we would like to join a flag line for a wounded serviceman who was being flown home that day from Afghanistan. Assured that we wouldn't be gatecrashing, we decided this a worthy delay and followed him to a pre arranged rendez-vous for the ride to the airport. Imagining a massive convoy gathering, we met just six other bikers waiting. However, as we got in line behind them and began the ride the number grew as groups of bikes joined from every junction and filed into position for some classic formation riding. By the time we reached the airport we were in the middle of about 250 other bikes. Being the only non-Harley riders, and not sporting a signature leather waistcoat to match, we stuck out like a sore thumb but were welcomed into the fold with the typical American inclusion we have come to know. Unfortunately the serviceman's plane was delayed and we didn't get time to join the flag line or his convoy home.

With Byron's birthday on the horizon we decided to head up to Milwaukee in Wisconsin to visit the Harley Davidson museum and spend a few days in the countryside. On the big day we stopped in at the museum, ate a hearty meal in its restaurant, managed to fit in a rear tyre change, as well as the consumption of the biggest chocolate-brownie-cum-birthday-cake a man can eat.

As these raucous birthday celebrations died down, we made our way back to Chicago to seek out the starting point of the iconic mother road, Route 66. We spent an afternoon riding all over the beautiful city of Chicago, which was jam packed with people enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon on the beach of Lake Michigan, realising we probably should have looked the location up beforehand. Anticipating an iconic monument to mark the start of this famous route, it was a bit deflating to eventually find nothing more than a well graffitied sign post. This initial let down went on to reflect the route itself.

Route 66 originated in the 1920s when it was one of the first cross-country roads in the States, starting in the east and finishing on the west coast. During the Great Depression it became a symbol of hope to those leaving the industrialised east to seek a fortune in the west. As the route grew with traffic passing through, many towns and attractions popped up to capitalise on this well travelled thoroughfare. Later, when the new and quicker interstate systems became established, much of the old route was swallowed up in these new roads or became neglected by-roads, leaving a trail of old towns and communities forgotten or deserted.

As a result, much of the original route is no longer maintained, marked on maps or even labelled with its old number 66, leaving parts of it as little more than gravel tracks, others with grass growing through deep cracks and in some places, as just dirt roads. While the novelty of following such an iconic and historical route kept us going for days, through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico, the reality that it was simply just a road built to take the quickest, rather than the most scenic route west, eventually caught us up.

The best thing about the route turned out to be the people we met, quirky characters and normal folk combined. We stayed at one campsite near St Louis, Gateway to the West, where a little lad greeted us with a bandaged arm and quickly got to the point of telling us he'd been shot with a BB gun but he got his revenge by drawing two pistols, cowboy style, and hitting the perpetrator right in his "man cupcakes". On the same site we met a generous boy who gave us some water and went on to tell us his family had been from England and were gypsies - uncertain where in the UK they were from, he thought it was Romania and he took inspiration from watching their bare knuckle fighting videos online. We made sure we gave a hearty thanks for the water.

At another site in Amarillo, Texas we met Bryce and Derek, both by coincidence ex-Marines on separate adventures across the States on their Harleys. Derek, from Boston was on a month dream tour and Bryce, from Oregon was enjoying his recent freedom from the Marines. With the taste for adventure on bikes across the States in common, we had a lot to talk about over a fair few beers that night.

The next morning we were sad to say goodbye so quickly after meeting Derek as he was heading back east. It turned out Bryce was heading our way to Albuquerque and so we decided to ride together, forming our own bad ass adventure biker gang. After a stop by the Cadillac Ranch in Texas and breaking at least one Texan graffiti law, Bryce treated us to our first trip to the all-American diner, Denny's where his friend from Albuquerque, Jeff, had ridden up to join us.

After lunch, as Jeff and Bryce got ready to head off, Jeff offered us a bed for the night at his house. So chuffed by the offer, but not wanting to slow the two faster bikes down, he gave us his address for us to meet them there. On our way we stopped for petrol and were met in the garage by a biker who turned out to be a preacher and after questions about the bike and our trip, asked if Jesus was in our hearts. The outwardly religious nature of these mid-States, most noticeably apparent in numerous roadside billboards quoting scriptures and the sheer number and variety of churches just about everywhere you turn, has been a particularly huge cultural difference to the reserved and declining prominence or observance of religion back home. For the second time on this trip we found ourselves and our motorcycle being blessed in a petrol station. Regardless of our scepticism, it felt like a good blessing before we carried on to Albuquerque.

Met by Jeff, his girlfriend Sonia and Bryce we went into town for a traditional New Mexican meal before going for beers to a bar which made its own brew - at nine per cent proof no less. The hospitality and friendship of Jeff, Sonia and Bryce came out of nowhere but was incredibly generous and so appreciated. As we went on a last ride with them the next morning, we waved goodbye hoping to see them again some day, and headed north into New Mexico, breaking away from route 66 and towards Colorado ready to see a few wonders of the natural world.

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