TRANS-AMERICAN TRIUMPH

Well here we were stood in a warehouse in New Jersey, staring at what I hoped under all the planking and bubble wrap was a riderable Triumph Trophy 900. But first there was the matter of paying the additional fees which always seem to appear on this type of occasion, including one for uncrating. I asked if I might borrow a crow bar (I had toyed with the idea of packing one in my hand luggage but had not liked the idea of trying to explain it to airport security). Only to be told that the appropriate personnel must undertake all unpacking. So I paid up and the unpacking began, well almost.
The first plank of the crate was removed. "Hey buddy this motorcycle is falling through the crate" After a short discussion it was decided that I was allowed to uncrate my own motorcycle after all. So it was that Sue my girlfriend and I gently removed an undamaged Triumph from its wrappers and pushed it through the fire escape into the brilliant sunshine of that September morning.
I took off the seat and after a few basic checks reconnected the battery and turned the fuel tap to prime in the knowledge that there was still about a gallon of British four star left in the tank. (I know that its designed to run on unleaded but from my experience it doesn't store well) Then as Sue unpacked the crashhelmets and sorted out the panniers .I unpacked the screen and found it was missing its fixing bolts. At which point I broke into a short swearing session, which served no useful purpose apart from making me feel better. By the time I'd stopped and looked around Sue had disappeared back into the wear house emerging some minutes later with the missing screws.
So there we were ready to start out on a journey which would cover some 4300 miles and take just over three weeks to complete. With the key in the ignition the green neutral light shone out at me. Next I flicked the engine kill switch to run and thumbed the starter motor button. The engine spun over and sprung into life. With all possessions stowed and crash helmets on. We set of and quickly found a gas station.
The next part of our journey was not very interesting as it involved riding down the New Jersey turnpike for 250 odd miles to Washington DC passing through Philadelphia though not stopping, where we saw part of the Atlantic fleet at anchor. It was however a time in which I could acclimatise to riding on American roads and their customs and practices whilst driving.
We made it in to Washington just in time to hit the rush hour and skirted the edge in heavy slow moving traffic, after several attempts a motel which was both cheap enough so as not to over stretch our budget $60 and clean if a little spartan was found. We unpacked, chained up the bike and settled into the room.
That night we left the bike at the motel and took a stroll the mile or so to the fast food outlet we had passed on our arrival, thus fed we returned.
We settled down to sleep with the gentle noise from the ice machine churning away in the corridor as the wind out side started to pick up. Later on we were both woken with a start as the rain hammered against the window and the thunder rolled in off the surrounding hills. On looking out of the window Sue could see a river running through the car park. Thankfully missing the Trophy, which was stood up against a wall under our window. Satisfied that the bike was not going to blow over we went back to bed and slept.
When we awoke the next morning it was still raining hard, so we put water proofs on top of our jeans and leather jackets and set of in search of an under ground station. From where we could get a lift into Washington it's self, having left most of our possessions in the motel room. The waterproofs gave only partial protection against the rain, then just as we rode the bike into the station car park the rain stopped and the sun came out.
We spent a pleasant day in Washington seeing the White House, the airspace museum and Lincoln's memorial just to mention a few before catching the train back. A second night was spent in the same motel and the evening was used to plan our route for the morning.
The next morning we set of north and travelled the few miles to Gettysberg along what became the American equivalent of our B roads riding through undulating countryside which was frequently wooded.
Gettysberg was quite commercial and we spent some time roaming part of the battlefield amidst replica cannon and monuments, before moving on heading west on route 50.The next day or two, was spent riding through a heavily wooded area of west Virginia. Whilst the weather remained dry if a little cool at times
The Trophy purred along nicely cruising around the 60 mark. Petrol was plentiful and cheap and the Scott oilier was set so that the chain ran wet.
We rode out of Virginia and into Ohio where the roads were quiet and straight so I let sue have a go at riding the Trophy. Sue had only ridden the Trophy once before and that was solo. Now she had to contend with a passenger as well as a month's worth of luggage, spares and tools. With the suspension wound up she could only get the toes of one foot on the ground so I had to help take the not inconsiderable weight until we were on the move. The only modification I had made to the brakes, was to fit Goodridge braided brake hoses a few weeks before the bike was shipped which transformed them and almost caused Sue to drop the bike when we stopped to changed places.
The next state we entered was Indiana, which we passed through, on highway 70 into Illinois on towards our second objective of St Louis and the Mississippi River.
We reached the motel belt, which always seems to circle larger towns and cities by about five in the afternoon. We had decided to press on towards the outskirts of St Louis, as we planned to spend the next day there. A small Motel just off the Freeway was our stopping point for that night, which proved to be in the wrong part of town, however no harm befell us though we did not venture out until 6 30 the next morning. We rode back up the freeway to the motels we had passed the night before. By 8.30 we were booked into a new motel and were sat having breakfast in the adjacent restraunt
As we rode into St Louis the gateway to the west loomed up out of the cityscape. A giant arch clad in stainless steel on the bank of the Mississippi, which was our destination for the day. The Trophy was chained up in a near by car park from where we walked to the arch and to our amazement found that underground directly underneath the arch was the visitors centre which housed not only a museum but two eyemax cinemas as well as the compulsory gift shops. We spent all day at the arch, and took a tourist boat a short way up and down the Mississippi. We also had our first and hopefully last taste of a pretzel with was truly foul, what looked like a generous coating of sugar turned out to be salt crystals. Though I enjoy most American foods some of their tastes I will never appreciate,
After St Louis we continued on route 70 which we were to stay on for the next seven hundred miles or so through Kansas and into Colorado until reaching Denver. This next stage of our journey was to prove to be quite uneventful as we were to pass through the Great Plains, mile upon mile of gently rolling countryside interspersed with nothing but small homesteads and the occasional tree on either side of the arrow straight freeway.
At one of our regular fuel stops, I bought a cowboy hat, which took up most of our 45ltr top box but was to prove invaluable in the days to follow under the unrelenting sun. Our only stop of note was at Abilene, the end of the chisum trail and the birth and final resting place of general and later President Eisenhower, as the lady at the tourist information office was only to keen to keep reminding us in her mid-western drawl,
The museum dedicated to Ike, as he was affectionately known, was a welcome break from the hundred and some degrees of heat out side. The exhibits ranged from his staff car through most of his uniforms to a very plain window from his house in England, most strange.
We stayed that night at Hays after having had dinner at a truck stop with an uninterrupted view for 360 degrees from where we watched the sunset.
We pressed on the next day to Denver with it skyscrapers which rose up at us from the horizon. Here we took another day off and visited the local Triumph dealer where I bought a motorcycle guidebook to the Rockey's and we finally got around to registering with the American Automobile Association who helped to plan our next stage, over the Rockey's.
Denver was left behind as we made our assent up the scenic route 285 for mile upon mile the road swept upwards constantly changing direction allowing me to role the throttle on as we exited a bend. Then to roll it of again as we entered the next. Through Shawnee, Grant and Jefferson we rode and swept over Red hill pass at 9900ft were the woods were just starting to take their autumn hues, the sight was breath taking. Then out onto a plateau the road swept. It was here some miles later, that we sat staring at a distant herd of Buffalo and agreed that this was indeed a trip of a lifetime.
That night we were tired yet exhilarated unable to take in all that we had seen heightened by the desolation of the plains we had ridden through just three days before.
The next day we again left the plateau behind and started our assent into the mountains where we stopped at Ouray. A small town dating from the 1880 which was almost unchanged. It now catered for the American Tourists, but in a tasteful way which put many of our stately homes to shame. It was almost the end of the tourist season so what few were there consisted of mainly retired couples and two by now somewhat dishevelled looking motorcyclists. Sue bought a couple of sweatshirts and we took the obligatory photos.
The road from Ouray zigzagged its way up a steep mountain. On the first two corners there were crash barriers and all manor of signs informing us of the hazards of this road and even a barrier that is used to close it in winter. However after these initial warnings there were no more and the tarmac was laid right up to the edge of the cliffs. In some areas there had been small rock falls which we had to swerve around whilst keeping a good distance from the edge. As we climbed still higher Sue pointed out the remains of a number of old mining cabins with two or even three stories some were laid flat whilst others stood twisted and deformed, which nature was slowly reclaiming. By now I had stopped looking at the shear drops only a few feet away and was concentrating on the road, or more accurately on the centre of the road for that is were we now rode smack bang on the white line. After what to me seemed an age the land came up to meet us, and the road took a more permanent grip on the landscape.
On a sweeping right-hand bend was a sign for Silverton, It was rapidly approaching mid day so we decided to stop. Silverton was straight out of the westerns, with covered boardwalks and dirt side streets at right angles to the main road. We parked up and found a small fast food restaurant on one of the side streets. On walking out of the restaurant we were met by the sight of a steam locomotive pulling up directly in front of us complete with cowcatcher, where it disembarked the passengers who had come from Durango.
We retraced our route up to the bend with the sign for Silverton and turned left back onto highway 550. At Durango we turned on to 160 heading to cortez, with was to be our target for tonight. About ten miles before Cortez there was a sign for the Mesa Verde National Park that contains an Anasazi village built into the side of the rock face. But first we had to get there. We rode on down a roughly made road for about five miles until we reached a kiosk with a park ranger sat in it. On paying our entry fee he instructed us not to forget to stop at the visitors centre fifteen miles on the right. Yet again we climbed. Behind could be seen the rockeys, which we were leaving. Upon reaching the visitors centre I chained the crash helmets to the front wheel (Big mistake) and we ventured in.
Inside we met up with a group of Germans who had hired R series BMW's in California, with whom we spent a few minutes chatting. The sky grew darker and it began to rain, the big difference being that this rain seemed to be coming horizontally at us complete with thunder and lightning all around. It became so severe that the rangers had to wedge the doors shut for a time till the rain steadied down. Because of this the final tour of the day was cancelled so we headed back to the bike complete with crash helmets with were now sat in a torrent of water that would of washed them away had they not been secured. On went the waterproofs followed by the helmets, which sent a trickle of water down our necks. On the way down we again poised for photographs then headed in to Cortez. That night we got very drunk before staggering back to our hotel room.
The next day we filled the tank to the brim and ensured we had plenty of water, for our journey now took us out of Colorado and into the Utah desert, we stopped at Mexican hat and again filled the tank, for this was the last gas station before Flagstaff. We rode through monument valley where the classic western Stagecoach had been filmed and for that matter most other westerns. I was glad we saw it but it took us two hours to get there ninety minutes to ride through it and another three hours on what can only be descried as one of the most boring roads I have ever travelled.
We were too tired to do much that night apart from grabbing a light meal and then retired to the air conditioning of the motel. The next morning we went to the shopping mall gathered a few provisions, and watched the fire department damping down what remained of Burgerking. . We can only assume either that someone had got a bit carried away with the concept of a flame grilled whopper, or that Macdonald's were taking the burger war too literally.
We turned right out of Flagstaff into heavily forested countryside. A few miles on a magnificent stag came bounding out of the trees thirty or forty yards ahead, and stood defiantly blocking our path for a few seconds before disappearing back into the woods. Our next stop, the Grand Canyon, or rather the Grand Canyon Airport. Sue had specified that she wanted to see this, where as I had always considered it to be a hole in the ground of little interest, I was wrong.
We booked our flight with the Grand Canyon Airline Company, who use twin-engine high wing De Havillands. The flight was to be at 12 o'clock so we only had an hour to wait. We queued up to board only to be told that this was the 11 o'clock flight, it appeared that we had crossed a time zone with out realising. So one hour later we got our flight over the Grand Canyon, there is no need to describe it, as every body must have seen at least one film with it in. All I will say is that no one should turn down an opportunity to visit it as its magnitude can only be grasped in person.
On our return we rode the five miles to the edge, and sat there for a couple of hours watching the crows and turkey vultures, and for the first time since the journey began heard nothing. No roar of engines no hum from air conditioning on chirping of insects oh how wonderfully silent it was. We stayed at Williams on the old route 66 that night having only covered about a hundred miles that day.
Again we set off after coffee and donuts passing through Seligman before turning off at Kingman to the Hoover Dam and LosVegas. At the Hoover dam the sun and heat was intense. It was here that we met up with a busload of British Tourists, who were on a whistle stop tour of as many sights as could be fitted in to a fortnight's package holiday. We sat there feeling very smug drinking our tepid water, whilst they were bundled back onto their air-conditioned bus.
We made it into Los Vegas at about 3 o'clock probably two hours after the tourist's bus. Here we booked into one of the hotels on the strip it was also here that we were to experience for the only time a prejudges against motorcyclists. That was from the snot nosed booking clerk of the Holiday inn, but eventually we got in after paying a substantial deposit and having promised not to bite the heads of chickens in the room.
We unpacked, changed and were out on the "town" by 4.30 with a fifty-dollar budget with which to make our fortune. We didn't make our fortune but then we only lost twenty dollars, and did not get back to the room until 2.15 in the morning Los Vegas can only be described as a adult Disneyland designed to part a fool and his money as efficiently as possible. Having said that I would not have missed this show of American excess and we enjoyed our evening immensely, though we were glad to move on the next day.
We were now sat in a restaurant called the Mad Greek's in Barstow California it was 10 o'clock in the morning and we were tucking into ham and eggs which came on two plates washed down with fresh orange juice coffee and more toast than you could possibly eat. That was about as entertaining as it got that day as we stayed on route 15 out of Las Vegas till reaching San Bernardino on the out skirts of Los Angeles.
That night we sat in the motel room watching a bit of television. There were bush fires raging the way we had just come. Hurricane Nora was approaching from the west, and threatening to end the two hundred and eighteen days of drought that southern California had experienced. A school teacher had died of dehydration when her car had broken down on a desert road, and the Los Angeles Police Department had just taken possion of their first consignment of M16 assault Rifles. Southern California was seriously weird.
The next day we awoke to torrential rain, we waited till 10 o'clock to miss the rush hour then headed in to Los Angeles. The rush hour seemed to last 23 hours a day we rode in for an hour and a half got very wet stopped at a Kentucky fried chicken had a coffee turned around and came out again. Where upon we got a puncture, this all involved a very nice man from the AAA my temporary puncture repair outfit, his compressed air and a dodgy motorcycle shop who fitted a new tyre.
We finally got back to the motel at 8 o'clock having got lost, oh and I came down with a fever.
The next morning I refused to go any were near LA in my current physical and mental state. So we went back the way we came and took a left putting a mountain range between Los Angeles and us. The sun was shining and the road was quiet. So when we stopped for a bite to eat I asked if Sue would mind riding for a while, as I was feeling far from well. Sue pulled off with out any problems and gained confidence as the miles passed. We came to a series of bends, which I talked her through on the intercom, then after a mile or two more we swapped positions. Reaching Frazers Mountain by early afternoon. Sue went for a walk whilst I went to bed.
The next morning we continued on the back roads eventually emerging back onto the freeway just above Santa Maria, rode another fifteen miles and called it a day at Pismo beach. After finding some were to stay we had a picnic on the beach of the Pacific Ocean and watched a flight of pelicans and the sunset.
In the morning we joined route 1 the Pacific highway and spent a wonderful day riding what must be one of the most visually rewarding roads I have ever travelled. I was feeling my old self again and it was at this point that I noticed the Trophy was not handling as well as it should. On closer inspection it became apparent that the rear wheel had been refitted out of line. This was easily remedied with an allen socket and vicious use of a tommy bar, which I had included in the tools we brought with us. (The only tools I didn't use were the chain link extractor, which came in for opening bottles of beer and the spark plug spanner).
Route 1 is carved into the cliffs above the Pacific and runs from Los Angeles up to San Francisco. It is also frequently used in television and film. We stopped at Big Sur for petrol, which is a small place with twenty-something, wannabe hippies, I found myself complaining about the extortionate price of petrol twelve dollars, just over seven pounds for five US gallons, one pound forty a gallon. It might be of interest to note at this point that the original budget for fuel was £200. In reality we spent a little over £80. To fill the Trophy's tank cost on average just under £5. Big Sur was sixty's symbolism with ninety's hard-nosed commercialism, we moved on.
In Carmel, Clint Eastwood wasn't in or at least if he was we didn't see him as we rode through. Shortly after, we stopped for the night at Monterey in a reasonably priced motel, which we found in the Rough Guide to America. This had been our constant companion and had been consulted religiously but was by now looking quite dog-eared. We stayed here for two nights and visited the Monterey aquarium, which is a must for anyone passing.
Monterey left behind next stop San Francisco. We entered San Francisco at 3 o'clock and immediately headed for the Golden Gate Bridge as if drawn by some irresistible force. Well there we were on the north bank staring back at the Golden Gate and San Francisco, both elated and despondent having realised an ambition.
That was the Tuesday, we dropped the Trophy of at the shipping agents on Wednesday and got married on Thursday after grabbing a passer by off the street as a witness. An informal affair in clean jeans and tee shirts. The transport to the reception was by cable car (hanging off the outside of course) to Fisherman's Warf, just the two of us and a few pigeons.
The next few days were spent sight seeing using public transport before we flew home on the following monday having seen more of America than most and having made a promise to return.

Keith Nock