BEST OF THE WEST

BREAKFAST FOR A BEAR AND A TOAD KING THERE ARE MANY WAYS TO SEE THE USA. HERE’S THE VIEW ACROSS A BELGIAN WAFFLE… WORDS/PHOTOS THE BEAR

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread… John Muir”

Every motorcycle (and other) tour operator needs to have something special to offer. Call it a gimmick; call it whatever you will, but it serves to make the ride more interesting and the memories more vivid. Great American Motorcycle Touring’s “Skip” Schippers offers – breakfast.

Not only is the cost included in your tour, but the actual breakfasts are without exception both memorable and excellent.

We might have been stopping in a hillbilly café on one of the main boulevards of Los Angeles or in a cheery country kitchen in a rundown mall in Fresno but wherever we were, the food was terrific and – to put it very mildly – ample. It really is no wonder that so many Americans are the size they are. I diverged from my usual American breakfast – two eggs over easy, crisp bacon and hash browns (not those shaped patties straight from the freezer that you get here) to try a variety of dishes including Belgian waffles (!) and was not disappointed – just expanded…

But goodness me, here we have arrived at the subject of food again without even mentioning the early morning armed raid in Yosemite or the sleepy near-disaster coming into Las Vegas… or, for that matter, the Case of the Criminal Bear.

How to tell it all, without missing breakfast?

“Begin at the beginning,” Alice in Wonderland’s King said as I recall, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” That’s good advice, now as then.

Ah, these Harleys don’t handle badly at all…/ Room #8 has a tragic history. / A Joshua Tree in the eponymous national park. / The open road – a US speciality. / We had no trouble with police at any stage. Luckily for me.

IN THE BEGINNING

At 3pm on Day Zero we all gathered in the lobby of the LAX Hilton, which is where Great American Motorcycle Touring (GAMT) puts up its tour participants on the first night. The hotel has a courtesy shuttle from the airport, so there is no problem – or cost – in getting there. Taxis then took us to the nearby office of Eaglerider Motorcycles, a large American and international rental company; unlike most other operators, Skip rents bikes rather than owning them. That’s handy both because he can tap a large pool of different models, and because he doesn’t have to move bikes around the country. As tour leader he rides his own BMW K 1600 GT, and his spare H-D Road King travels in the trailer that also holds riders’ luggage.

That Road King came in handy on the very first day… but I digress.

Most of the riders had chosen Harleys, and not just any Harleys; John and Gayle, William and Jackie and Reg were all on Ultras. Martin and I had chosen Road Kings, and Randall was the only holdout, sticking with the Bavarian brand he owned at home and riding a BMW R 1200 GS. Both of the Road Kings wore particularly attractive paint, a two-tone green that emphasised their sleek lines. And of course the green brought to mind the affectionate nickname that the Road King enjoys among my friends.

Long ago, one of them bought one and was the target of some more or less good-natured chivvying when he took it to the pub for the first time. One of these blokes came up with the name Toad King, and my mate seized on that with enthusiasm.

“Toad King is right,” he said. “It only takes the right prince to hop aboard to turn it into the king of the road!”

Tortured reasoning perhaps, but the nickname stuck and these days we all say Toad King, without any disparaging intention. And a couple of us own them, too; both are now jealous of that two-tone green colour scheme.

Bring the Bearalong

This was the first of the Best of the West with the Bear tours, and while it certainly wasn’t crowded it was well received. It looks as if we will be running another one at about the same time next year. Skip and I are working on a number of improvements, and we’ll let you know what they are.

Getting to the beginning of the tour in Los Angeles is easy from Australia, and looks as if it will be cheaper in future too, as more airlines take on the route.

Corralled in Antelope Slot Canyon, from left: Randall, John, Jackie, Reg, William, Frank (our driver), Skip, a Bear, Gayle and Martin.

GET OUT ON THE HIGHWAY

Breakfast on Day One was at Maxwell’s, a rustic-style café on Washington Boulevard. The country atmosphere is hokey, but it actually fits the food and service. Both are good, and the place was really busy – as all of Skip’s breakfast venues seemed to be. He’s not the only one who can pick good tucker, obviously…

Getting out of LA was pretty simple, and without stress. Even in this giant metropolis of more than 20 million people, Sunday morning is relatively quiet. The key word here of course is “relatively”. At Skip’s suggestion we stopped at a place called “Planes of Fame” at Chino airport, a little way off Interstate 60. With its collection of mainly WW2 aircraft it is well worth a look, even though the quality of some of the displays lags behind, say, the HARS air museum at Illawarra Airport or Temora Aviation Museum.

We were beginning to notice the heat now. On previous SW American trips I have always had at least one or two rainy days; this time I would almost have been grateful for rain. But it wasn’t 48 degrees yet; that came later.

Climbing the ridge to Rim of the World Highway and Big Bear Lake, it was unfortunately not only the temperature that dropped. Reg had less and less and finally no pressure from his clutch lever.

We stopped, the stricken Ultra was replaced by the spare Road King in the trailer and Skip rang Eagle rider. Yep, their Palm Springs office would replace the bike that night or the next morning at our hotel. They didn’t have another Glide, would a Heritage Softail do? Good service, even though Skip had to be a bit insistent.

Big Bear Lake was hosting a Renaissance Fair, and some of the costumes were just brilliant. So was the riding along the cool banks of the lake – but then we had to turn more north to make our way down to the so-called Lucerne Valley and Old Woman Springs Road. This is a strange place, with small houses huddling on large blocks of – well, of desert. What do people do up here? Who knows; at any rate they value their privacy. A bloke who seemed to know what he was talking about once told me: “Don’t ask.” Recommendation received.

The swimming pool at the Joshua Tree Inn was just as welcome as the cool rooms. I have stayed at this place several times; whenever I could, in Room 8. This was where music legend Gram Parsons used to stay, and where he died. I’ll tell you the story some other time. Our idea had been that we’d settle in, cool down and then ride out to Pioneer Town – an old movie set – where there was a restaurant and supposedly some live music.

Once we were settled by the pool, that idea no longer seemed quite so attractive.

We were buggered, we were into the beer cooler (Skip keeps the cooler full by charging a buck a beer, which will give you some idea of the cost of beer in the US!) and we did not want to get back into our sweaty bike clothes.

We looked at each other, raised our eyebrows, pursed our lips, sucked our teeth and otherwise attempted to cogitate until someone said the magic word. In this case, it was “pizza”. Skip made the arrangements and the most wonderful giant pizzas arrived just in time to keep the beer company. I seem to remember that the damage was five bucks each.

I always sleep well in Room 8 of the Joshua Tree Inn, and this night was no different. The morning would be the first test of Skip’s theory that you should ride an hour or so before breakfast…

WE FOUGHT THE HEAT…

And, believe it or not, the theory works!

Not fighting the heat (see below) but riding before breakfast. When we pulled out of the motel yard we took the road south, on a long loop through Joshua Tree National Park. This is an eerie place, with cartoonish-looking Joshua trees (predictably enough) and scrubby cacti alternating with steep, rounded piles of red stone. Well, when I say red – they’re a bit like Uluru, red at sunset but a kind of indifferent non-colour in the morning. Still impressive, and definitely eye-catching.

Breakfast was in 29 Palms, a small, strung-out town back up on the highway, at the Carousel Diner which proved to be another of Skip’s genius discoveries. The waitress, a bottle blonde of indeterminate (because I don’t want to be hit with a skillet next time I eat there) age was straight out of Central Casting and very funny. Food? Tops.

And so we took on the heat. We crossed the oddly-named Sheep hole Mountains and a salt lake to get to Route 66 and Roy’s, the servo/café/motel with the famous neon sign. Here we stopped to drink cold water, pour cold water over ourselves and soak our Australian Motorcyclist Magazine neck tubes in, you guessed it, cold water. The neck tubes were proving to be highly valued equipment! Back on the road, heading east and then north-east to avoid a flood-damaged part of Route 66, we eventually reached Needles. Here we agreed that the heat had won.

Plans to visit Oat man, the pretend Western town filled with hokey fake cowboys and all too real smelly burros were suddenly on the table. We would be in King man – and in the pool and around a cold beer – a lot faster if we skipped it.

The vote was unanimous, and while that also meant missing Sitgreaves Pass, one of my favourite parts of Route 66, I voted wholeheartedly for the liquid alternative.

The pool at the El Trovatore motel, as it turned out, was water less. But what the hell, the beer was cold.

CHECK THE RACK

We spent most of Day Three on the longest remaining segment of Route 66. After the near-48 degree heat of the previous day I had decided to pace myself, but that turned out to be more difficult to do than to decide. How do you pace yourself? Ride slower? That just keeps you out in the heat longer… I settled for more bottles of cold water from the trailer’s cooler, some to drink and some to pour over my head. That worked pretty well, and the windscreen on the Toad King turned out to be priceless.

Call it America’s Main Street or the Mother Road, Route 66 shelters many of the more enthusiastically esoteric (weird) small towns and whistle stops of the nation. Even without a sniff of Oatman we managed to visit several of them.

Kingman has the Route 66 Museum in its beautiful old power station, but is otherwise only mildly devoted to the tatt of the Mother Road. Hackberry, not far up the road, on the other hand is a collection of memorabilia that covers and almost hides its only public facility, the general store. Terrific stop, and every corner of the place seems to attract the camera lens.

Once back on the road, I thought that it’s interesting to consider that the rider of every bike you meet or pass on this road is probably singing inside his or her helmet: “Getcha kicks, on…” Just think, that song was originally going to be about Route 40!

We naturally stopped at Selig man, where we ate an excellent lunch in the German (!) restaurant I had noticed before but never patronised, and then Williams. Both of these towns trade heavily on the Route 66 phenomenon, and while both are unashamedly tacky they are also both really charming – in their tacky way. In Williams I bought a John Wayne Cancer Foundation T-shirt.

Along with a picture of The Duke it bears the legend “Life is tough. It’s tougher if you’re stupid”. How true, how true.

Not far past Williams we turned north and an hour later, over a very good (though Highway Patrol infested) road we reached the Grand Canyon. Our bookings had been changed so we had to ride around in near-circles for a while, but that paid off because we saw some deer including a buck with a huge rack.

It’s amazing how charming they can be, considering that they are motorcyclists’ most potent enemies in North America!

Yosemite, the world’s first national park, from Glacier Point.

Great American Motorcycle Touring The Great American Touring Group, Ltd is based at 1034 Oakland Avenue, Akron Ohio 44310. Owner and guide Steven “Skip” Schippers can be reached at skip@gamct.com or by phone on 800 727 3390 or 440 829 7241. The website is www.greatamericantouring.com.

HARD DAY’S A-COMIN’

What I tell you three times, said the Bellman, is true – and I’m about to tell you three times just how spectacular the US West really is. And hot. But I’ve already mentioned that.

The day started with an optional helicopter flight over the Grand Canyon.

It was expensive at $300, but well worth it. We saw rock formations that will be forever in my memory, and the pilot was right: flying out over the canyon, where the altimeter suddenly goes from 300 to 5600 feet as you clear the edge is a – gulp – experience not to be missed. The 20 minute flight feels a lot longer than that,and we had a bonus. We saw a large herd of buffalo, gathered by a road in a meadow. I couldn’t help wondering what because you’d need to descend into the canyon and walk for miles, I assume, to catch those photographed views.

Zion National Park made up for any disappointment. Everything in Zion, including the main road tunnel, is larger than life. It’s almost impossible to get a sense of scale with giant, vividly coloured rocks surrounding equally huge canyons on all sides. Zion Canyon itself is only accessible by free shuttle bus except in winter; we decided that when we had reached Springdale and our green and pleasant motel that we’d seen enough canyons for the day, and concentrated on the cool pool and cooler brews.

This appears to be a basic rule on bike tours: don’t let them park the bikes and get their bike gear off at the end of the day; they will not want to put it on again!

That’s how we roll… superb roads all over the West. / A hoodoo in Bryce Canyon. It’s amazing what rock will turn into. / Lunch on Route 66; German food, and very tasty too. / No gas? Somehow I don’t doubt it. / The Grand Canyon from above – the chopper flight is worth it. / Heading back towards LA, in the Central Valley of California. / Colourful decoration along the way on Route 66. / Two journalists exchange opinions and news.

WHAT HAPPENS IN LAS VEGAS…

…is not actually all that much. We reached the place after a short ride which included the impressive Virgin River Canyon. I nevertheless managed to just about go to sleep on the bike, quite a terrifying experience. It was cured by the application of several bottles of ice-cold water to both my inside and outside.

We settled in at the Excalibur, one of the big casinos. Slightly furtive-looking gentlemen on the street handed out cards featuring photos of exceptionally well-endowed young women who had lost their clothes and all appeared to be mutants of some kind. Instead of nipples they had stars. Some of the boys went to a comedy show, I wandered around and had a few drinks and dinner in an Irish bar (yes, I know…) and we all agreed later that half a day and an evening were enough for Las Vegas.

In one casino, a bike belonging to Evel Knievel ‘s son was for sale. It was just a pretty ordinary-looking chopper, not by any means a special machine. Just goes to show how far celebrity can be stretched. Back here in Sydney I saw a bus ad for something called “Hot Housewives of Las Vegas” and I’d have to say they’d be bound to be hot; it was 48 degrees when we were there…

THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS BAD PUBLICITY…

…except your own obituary, as Brendan Behan so perceptively pointed out. Death Valley has certainly made the most of its doom-laden appellation, despite the fact that only one member of the 13 strong pioneer party lost in the valley, and responsible for the name, actually died there. But it is the lowest, hottest and driest place in the US, so it has had no trouble holding onto its possibly undeserved but certainly memorable name.

Crossing the Nopah Range to Shoshone on the old Spanish Trail, now a one lane tarred road, was an almost mind-bending experience. It’s open country, the road just spools away in front of you, and a flying saucer landing to ask directions would not be at all out of place.

I like Death Valley a lot, especially Stovepipe Wells. This motel, store and service station in the middle of nowhere (the actual Stovepipe Wells are five miles away) is one of those lonely, underrated places that dot the world of tourism.

Walk away from it in any direction until its lights are hidden by a dune and look up at the heavens. You will find it hard to remain an atheist.

After a few beers in the comfortable bar and that obligatory walk in the desert, I hit the pillow and didn’t wake up until it was time to go. Oh, and they’ve replaced the air conditioning units, about which I have complained in the past. They’re now almost quiet. Nothing has been done about the dodgy wifi , though, despite previous complaints and promises.

Ah well, it meant a night off from email.

There is a lot more to Death Valley than you see on maps. To the west, for instance, lies Panamint Valley, which we crossed on our way out to Lone Pine the next morning. This is where a lot of the photography of “Death Valley” happens,with the long, bare straights and corners of Highway 190 looking oddly familiar; probably from films.

Skip had found another terrific breakfast joint hidden in a side street in Lone Pine, and we sat out in a sunny garden with some locals, tucking into our various preferred concoctions – like, say, oats (porridge) with scrambled eggs or a Belgian waffle with maple syrup, bacon, eggs over easy and wholemeal toast.

Ordering meals in the US can be a comedy routine.

We travelled down into Monument Valley with a Navajo guide.

“What’ll it be, honey?” – “The steak? Porterhouse, New York, T-bone or (goes on for a half dozen more variations which I’ve forgotten)?”

“How would ya like it, honey?” (It doesn’t matter what you ask for, it always come medium rare).

“You want ranch potatoes, French fries, mashed or hash browns?” “Would you like an egg on that?” “Vegetables or salad?” “What kind of dressing? We’ve got blue cheese, ranch, thousand island (goes on for a dozen more options)?” “Biscuit, bread or toast?” “Wholemeal, sourdough or white?” “Buttered or dry?” And so on. Then: “Okay. You want some water with that, honey? Still or sparkling?” “No! Give me a double strength margarita…”

Skip insists on no alcohol during the day. He’s right.

Hummingbird and feeder in Utah. Neat little things.

LET ME TAKE YOU HIGHER

At 282 feet below sea level, Death Valley’s Badwater is the lowest point in the contiguous United States, apart from Washington DC (ah ha, little joke there) and just behind Lone Pine is the highest: Mount Whitney, at 14,505 feet.

We rode up to the campground that forms the start of the hike to the top of the mountain, a wonderful few miles that take you over a switchback road from the dry plain to the pine forest and sparkling brook of the campsite. You can even, it seems, fish for trout up here. Well, I saw someone fl y fishing.

Back down on Highway 395, we headed north in the hope of escaping some of the heat. Our overnight stay was in Lee Vining, on the shore of Mono Lake. This is another one of those natural features that look much better in photos than in real life. Mono Lake’s impressive tall limestone formations are quite a way around the lake, on a poor dirt road (a no-no for rental bikes) while the ones close to the tourist information centre and the road are pretty ordinary. But Lee Vining was in fact cooler; the only problem we had was at dinner, when one of the two restaurants (both owned by the same people) refused to let us move tables so we could sit together.

Ah, you don’t notice competition until it’s no longer there…

The road up to Tioga Pass, near the entrance of Yosemite National Park, is a dream. Reminiscent of many Alpine roads in Europe, it hugs the side of the mountain before climbing into the high plateau-like countryside that forms part of the eastern end of the park.

It’s difficult to describe the beauty of Yosemite, especially of the lesser-known high section around Tioga Pass. The valley has Half Dome, El Capitan and Bridal Veil Falls but up here you traverse enormous shields of granite, ride through alleys of twisted pines and past serene rock-bounded lakes and pass stupendous, wide views across to other mountainsides. Tuolumne Meadows is almost a definition of serenity. The man who was mainly responsible for Yosemite becoming a national park, John Muir, deserves to be sainted in any religion you might like to mention except the worship of Mammon.

I’m not sure whether I’ve mentioned that American roads are in general excellent. A spectacular exception to this is the road to Hetch Hetchy, the valley just north of Yosemite which has been turned into a water reservoir for San Francisco. Reputedly once even more beautiful than Yosemite it is today under water, and you can probably give it and its road a miss.

Not so the roads in the valley, which are in good shape and laid out to make the most of the views of famous landmarks.

We took a quick look at the tent village where we were staying – accommodation in Yosemite Valley is like gold – and then some of us headed up to Glacier View.

It’s a fairly long ride at the end of the day, although the roads are superb, but it is a must. The view is staggering.

RANGER, GET YOUR GUN

That night there was a knock on my tent door. I checked the clock – 3.10am – and opened the door anyway. The two Rangers outside were armed with a Tazer and a pistol, and told me they were “looking for someone”. In the morning it turned out that there had been an assault in the toilet block… must have been serious, but that’s all we found out.

It is worth noting that American park Rangers are often armed. Whether it’s for grizzlies or litterers I am not sure, but it is interesting to note that the valley’s name derives from the local Miwok word “yohhe’meti” which means “they are killers”… not the Rangers, of course.

The next couple of days allowed us to cover the western edge of the Sierras, with an overnight in Shaver Lake and one in Three Rivers. Highlights included a look at Kings Canyon and the General Grant and General Sherman sequoias.

The latter is apparently the largest tree in the world by volume. They certainly both looked staggering, with their high, thick and sinuous branches making them resemble some kind of invading alien.

Unfortunately a large wildfire stopped us from seeing all of Kings Canyon; we had been riding in more or less dense smoke from the fire for a while.

The road down from the mountains to Three Rivers is a biker’s delight with endless corners as it drops from 6500 feet to 843. I tried to do it with the engine off, but although a couple of cars kindly got out of my way, another one simply wouldn’t concede overtaking space so I switched the engine on again and blasted past him. This kind of behaviour is rare in the US, where drivers seem to give way as a matter of habit.

Sadly our lunch date with Craig Vetter was not to be; he had hit a deer on his stream liner and was in hospital with fairly severe injuries. Get better soon, Craig, we’re all thinking of you.

Instead we buzzed across California’s Central Valley, back in 48 degree heat but marvelling at the fertility of every square foot. Coming down towards King City I pulled the trick of the trip. What I had been doing was getting ahead of the group, then taking photos as they passed and catching up with them afterwards.

This took a bit of speed; I’m not saying that I actually saw 110mph on the speedo but it might have been possible that I reached something in that order of things…

In this case I came up behind the truck towing the trailer with our luggage and the spare bike in it, not to mention endless bottles of cold water. There was a white car behind the truck, but I’m used to thinking of police cars in the US as being black-and-whites, so I just dialled up the Toad King and flew past – on what might have been double yellow lines. I then proceeded to pass the others, also possibly on, er, something resembling double yellows.

Frank, driving the truck, later told me that the Sheriff (for it was he in the white car, or possibly a Deputy) had been lurking for a while looking for a reason to pull us all up. He now shot past Frank, apparently nearly gibbering with fury, and pulled in behind the last bike.

Then he must have checked that number plate.

“He would have seen that it was a rental,” said Frank, “and it’s just not worth doing the paperwork for booking a foreign rider on a rental.”

Phew. And on top of that, King City has possibly the cheapest bakery in the US. A pastry and a cup of coffee from Castro’s cost me all of $3.

ALONG THE COAST AND HOME

The road down to the coast by way of Fort Hunter Liggett is beautiful. First it makes its way down to the gates of the fort, a working US Army training base, through pretty farm and ranch country.

Next it takes you through the base itself, with park-like scenery and the occasional tank. Then you enter Los Padres National Forest for the precipitous drop to the coast, where you join Highway 1 – the Big Sur road. Big Sur is well to the north, but it’s still a beautiful ride down to Cambria, where we spent our last night on the road. The seafood restaurant next to our hotel lived up to Skip’s description as “one of the best anywhere” and I thoroughly enjoyed my dinner – not that I hadn’t done that all along!

Breakfast was once again a triumph, this time at a wharfside café in Morro Bay. From then on, though, things got a bit tougher. We spent much of the rest of the day in traffic before finally handing back our bikes to Eagle rider near Los Angeles International Airport (LAX). Then it was off to the Marriott LAX with its pool and excellent steak restaurant, where we bade each other goodbye over dinner.

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