"Go where the wind blows you and let pictures tell the story. Go as far as you can, take as long as you need, but bring this Harley back in one piece."
By Keith May
(Originally published in Cycle World magazine)
April 1, 2001:
Unpredictable. Unforgiving. Unrelenting. Greetings from the wind. A phantom menace that takes great pleasure in blowing me across the highway like a drunken sailor. I left a couple of hours ago headed north from Costa Mesa towards Eureka, but reluctantly change course and head east across the Southwest. Wind now at my back, I sink into the soft leather saddle and soak in the bike’s character. Silver paint, black motor, roaring exhaust and plenty of chrome. A sporty cruiser with adjustable windscreen and nylon saddlebags. Competent on the interstate and agile on twisting back roads, the big Harley inspires confidence and I begin calling her “Silver” to feel more like the Lone Ranger.
With an angel on my shoulder and covered in dust, I ramble on to a deserted stretch of 66 and introduce myself to America’s Mother Road. After taking portraits of Silver at an abandoned gas station, I check in to a concrete room in a small motel in Ludlow as the sun disappears behind distant, glowing mesas.
After inhaling a hot meal at an A-frame diner filled with plastic flowers and other weary travelers, I fall asleep listening to the Disney classic “Old Yeller” on a clock radio. At the sentimental ending, Fess Parker returns to impart the following wisdom on his confused son:
More wind. Rough asphalt. Geography has changed from featureless desert to minarets of rock and earth reaching for a cloudless, azure sky. At a stop for gas and a map of Arizona, a scruffy kid riding a weathered ATV suggests I visit nearby Oatman. In need of direction, I take his advice.
A once thriving mining town, Oatman is now a donkey-filled main street of shabby gift shops. A gunfight is staged at 1pm in front of Wells Fargo. Outlaws burst through the swinging front doors carrying stolen bags of gold but are immediately confronted by the town Sheriff, who demands they stand down. After a brief exchange of inebriated threats and insults, the outlaws shoot the Sheriff down in cold blood. But as the villains boast belligerently to the camera-wielding audience, the Sheriff quietly rises in the background, exacting his revenge in a blaze of gunfire.
At days end, I force down a dry hamburger and cold fries at Mad-Dog’s Bar and Grill while avoiding stares of drunken cowboys surrounding the bar. Back in my room, I begin this journal and drift seamlessly into sleep.
Day ThreeAfter complimentary breakfast of Fruit Loops and orange juice, I take a brochure for “Meteor Crater” and point Silver towards the dramatic spectacle.
Route 66 often becomes a “Frontage” road, running parallel to the freeway. At any time, the traveler can return to the herd, but I choose instead the pace on the fringe.
Now feeling quite at home, I stop in Seligman, Arizona at postcard photographer Bill Riley’s hard-to-ignore gift shop. A colorful, western façade with costumed mannequins posed meticulously around the property. Twin Studebakers parked conspicuously at the entrance. Inside, I discover endless shelves littered with kitschy souvenirs adorned with the infamous Route 66 logo. I purchase a couple of postcards, receive an honorary Route 66 driver’s license and escape as a tour bus empties a bus of arthritic tourists into the waiting trap.
Increasing elevation and heavy sleet brings out my jacket’s electric liner and I join The Santa Fe Trail. The road slick and fog heavy. The shoulder buried in ice and snow. Cold, tired and hungry, I roll into Flagstaff check into a motel and sleep hard. My plan is to leave at sunrise in search of Meteor Crater.
Day Four
“Common sense is the better part of valor!” My new friend yells through the wind and rain. I had stopped to tighten my load, but rain has again become sleet and the animated warnings of these riders headed in the opposite direction convinces me to return to Flagstaff and hunker down.
The Saddle Tramps are a traveling band from Reno featuring a busty blonde, pistol-toting go-go dancer named Suzy Switchblade. With song titles like “Cindy Brady’s Having My Baby,” and “Truck Driving Lover,” these bastard sons of Johnny Cash keep the house rocking well past last-call. Scripted, comical anecdotes introduce each song while Suzy shakes her money-maker and fires loud blanks into the air. Aly arrives with fast friends and after a few rounds, we take off for a slippery ride through snow and sleet in the soggy bed of a rusted pickup truck. Pepperming Schnaps keeping us warm, playful kisses making us hot. At the end of an abandoned mining road, we pile out of the truck and make drunken snow angels before heading back to town. Aware of our attraction, but protective of their friend, I’m dropped off alone. Aly lingers, but is pulled away. Afterall, they hardly know this biker passing through.
Day FiveI wake to find Silver buried in snow, but in last night’s haze I had thrown a motel blanket over her and she happily rumbles to life. Unlike myself, still a little buzzed.
After a long shower and hot breakfast, I flip from The Weather Channel to The Andy Griffith Show in search of an optimistic forecast. Warnings of “severe” wind and rain across the southwest forces intermission. Fate accepted, I bundle up and walk to a truckstop across the highway.
Cold chicken fried steak, warm orange juice and limited conversation. Country music plays softly in the smoke-filled background. My waitress, Jennifer, shares her own tales of exploring the Southwest in a silver Airstream. An attractive fifty-something, she agrees that most Americans have no idea how vast their country is, and exploring it should be a mandatory experience.Aly calls at six and brings over “Perry,” her adorable boxer. After sloppy introductions, we visit the Fluff And Fold, then enjoy dinner and wine in a studio apartment she shares with an ex-boyfriend. Aly is a regular at open-mic nights and shares her original folk songs, delivered in a soft, raspy voice over smooth chord changes. A gypsy by nature, picking up stakes when life becomes routine. At 10, Aly’s ex-boyfriend (but still her roommate) arrives with a twelve-pack, successfully changing the atmosphere. Foiled again, I exit graciously and leave Flagstaff the following morning.
In the 1800s, Jerome was a booming copper-mining town, but is now a forgotten State Park and self-proclaimed ghost-town. At the end of a gravel road I pay admission to view a collection of assorted relics displayed with deliberate chaos. A faux missile sits on a nearby hilltop and the proud caretaker informs me that it’s aimed at Washington, D.C. I photograph this and many other abstract details, but with rain clouds approaching, I leave quickly for Camp Verde. I arrive late, take the last room in an over-priced Super 8 and walk to Dairy Queen, the only option in town.
The wind returns and I tuck closely behind 18-wheelers avoiding gusts attempting to blow me into on-coming traffic. Flat-out through Arizona’s red rock region to New Mexico, eventually stopping in a lonely border town called Reserve. The bar’s closed, there’s no restaurant in town and I return to my room and make oatmeal on a pocket stove I’d brought for emergencies.
Day Eight
Mongrel dogs chase me out of town into Billy the Kid country. The panoramic region where the young outlaw’s vicious crimes became romanticized legend. Silver displays a deep affection for the incredible series of sweeping curves of NM180, and I backtrack fifty miles so she can do it again.
A perfect day ends at Los Molinas, where Billy was sentenced to hang but escaped. Only to be shot dead by Pat Garret three months later at Fort Sumter. Or, so the legend goes.
More driving winds blow me through a U.S. missile test range to the surreal geography of White Sands, New Mexico. After climbing a maze of gypsum dunes, I enjoy a tuna sandwich at the Welcome Center before enjoying a lazy, featureless ride through a post-apocalyptic landscape.
Awaiting me is a gauntlet of terrifying dust storms, filling my breath and vision with fine sand. A nervous couple passes in SUV and rather than giving me the usual thumbs-up, cross their fingers and flash me anxious looks.
Luckily, mortal fear induces a state of auto-pilot where adrenaline removes all distraction to focus purely on self-preservation. With no escape in sight I press on, adrenaline in overdrive.
When I eventually pull in to Roswell, New Mexico, I’m a nervous wreck and physically spent. Throat dry, glands swollen and swallowing difficult. I lose my glasses but find some cough drops. Locals appear indifferent but otherwise human.
I numbly liberate Silver from her heavy load. A now automatic process repeated every night, and in reverse each following morning.
After an eventless night recovering, I leave Roswell, fighting more wind to Carlsbad Caverns. Like something fantastic from the mind of Jules Verne, nothing could prepare me for the size of this vast, intricate chasm of melting wall and dripping ceiling. But if you’ve seen one stalagmite you’ve seen them all. Two hours and a postcard later I’m back on the highway crossing the Texas state line, all too aware of the emptiness ahead of me. It can take a lifetime to cross this great state and many never make it. Gliding along the interstate, tired eyes attempt to focus on the featureless horizon, distracted only by occasional tumbleweeds.
I arrive in Ozona under a brilliant Texas sunset. After checking in to a Travelodge, I enjoy dinner at The Davy Crockett Club. Formerly a sheep barn, it’s now a sawdust-filled steakhouse. A cadre of out-of-state bikes is hitched out front but I choose instead to dine at the bar with beaver-pelted locals.
Steve is a thirty-something paramedic who studies the size of a person’s veins when off-duty, “Just in case of emergency,” he explains over cold Lone Stars. Steve shares his own dream of exploring America on a Harley while I listen intently. His friends see a willing ear and are soon sharing their dreams also. Given a chance, and a few cold ones, any man will share his life story. And most are worth hearing.
Feet on highway pegs, I lean back and enjoy the hypnotic ride across the flat earth of West Texas. I reach San Antonio through confusing detours and oppressive heat but find no parking available. The bike buried in gear and The Alamo surrounded, I leave without a picture.
The Live Music Capitol of the World, Austin lives up to its reputation every night. A college town filled with crowded clubs and eccentric locals. While enjoying a late dinner in “Paradise,” a pretty gal approaches and casually takes the empty stool next to mine. She inquires about my adventure and expresses an interest in photography so I offer her a camera and we leave the crowded bar to cruise the streets.
I’m preparing to search the alley when Kiely reappears. “I was taking photos inside the girls room,” she says innocently. Relieved to see her, my faith has been restored and I choose not to share previous suspicions.
At 2am we ride Silver up the hill to my hotel, order “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” on pay-per-view and get more comfortable. Soft kisses lead to heavy petting and we awake slightly better acquainted.
Day Twelve
Kiely and I ride Silver around Austin’s city limits enjoying the end of our time together. After sweet goodbyes I head further east.
A perfect example that no amount of planning could have accommodated the sprawl man has created. Houston, Texas is a human log-jam. After spending half a day getting through it I remove my jacket to cool off, only to be painfully reminded by a gravel truck that the protection of a jacket is always a good idea.
The welt on my shoulder stings like hell, but the air of the bayou is filled with ambrosia of honeysuckles and I ride euphorically along concrete bridges spanning the murky swamp below. Each mile removing another layer of preconception. Observer now participant. Expectation replaced by possibility. Freedom suddenly appreciated.
My newfound optimism is tested in New Orleans.
It's the night before Easter in “The Absinthe Bar.” Once the famous watering hole for Mark Twain and his contemporaries, it’s now called “Mango-Mango” and is just another Disneyesque façade serving $10 daiquiris while disco blares obnoxiously through loud-speakers. The ugly masses throng down Bourbon Street like zombies looking for a fix. Anything to escape the obscene reality around them. Beggars litter the streets while performers tap-dance or stand completely motionless as dazed tourists toss cash and coin into buckets and boxes. “Love Acts” are promised in neon, painted women luring customers past the velvet-roped entrance. This is Dante’s Inferno only more desperate.
Purgatory behind, I enjoy a brisk shower, crank the A.C. and lie naked, sweating on the sheets.
Silver has had enough of this oppressive humid climate and rattles her unhappiness at every opportunity. She’s been through mountain snow, desert heat, and overpopulation. She’s earned my sympathy and we head north to the inviting climate of Mississippi. Silver immediately expresses her gratitude, revving full-song along flawless Interstate 59. With a gracious speed limit of 70 mph on a perfect ribbon of grey asphalt, this is a great place to unwind.
The clean smell of rain arrives and I prepare for the wet. A dark blanket fills the sky and lightning flashes on the grey horizon. Benign drizzle becomes benevolent downpour and I begin looking for shelter.
Sliding onto an exit, I spot a small brick church, pull up and huddle alone on a damp porch. Puddles form in the mud around Silver as I call Mama on the cell-phone and tell her I won’t be home on Easter. “But at least I’m at church!” I add half-joking. Hearing family in the background I take my chances. Clouds part and I ramble on to Alabama over steaming pavement.
It’s only a hundred miles to Georgia, but when riding at night, exhausted and alone on unfamiliar blacktop, bad things can happen. By the time you see a hazard it’s too late to avoid it. Reluctantly the search begins for a cheap room.
It’s late in Birmingham when I roll in to The Villager motel. When a tattooed unfriendly leaps from the shadows to ask about my beautiful Harley, I cautiously reload the bike and politely move on to safer lodging on the nicer side of town.
The phantom menace, but Silver keeps her nose forward. Unlike the driving winds out west, these gusts hit with erratic fury. Two lefts, and then a right, I’m waiting for the uppercut. Through a perpetually green Talladega Forest, I cross the Georgia state line and welcome familiar surroundings of home.
Pop’s working in the garage while Mama prepares lunch in the kitchen. She wasn’t pleased about this adventure, but Pop understood completely. When I told him of my mission to document the good, the bad and the ugly of America, his automatic response was “You’ll definitely see a lot of ugly!”
After a night’s rest in my old room—formerly a shrine to Van Halen, now to cherubs and Beanie Babies—I spend the day riding shotgun with Pop, sharing memories while searching for landmarks.
As always, Pop is game for anything and appears content participating in my scavenger hunt. We locate a forgotten confederate graveyard and explore a textile mill destroyed by Union soldiers. After dropping Silver off for much-needed service, we hike through canyons of 18-wheelers at a local truck stop.
Occasionally Pop would take me along. I was in heaven, reading comics while watching the world go by beneath us. Pop talking on the C.B. as though he knew everyone, exchanging colorful handles and “Ten-four, good buddies.”
This was the rural south. The highway carving infinite grey swaths through blue-green mountains and red clay hillsides. Unchecked kudzu clinging to everything in sight. Boiled peanuts promised at every exit. Stuckey’s for Moon-Pies and pecan logs. Eventually, lunch at a quiet truck-stop, conversation limited to weather (more rain) and Atlanta Braves (this could be the year). Politics off-limits and religion never questioned. The bible belt. The Old South before it was new. The same country, twenty years later, that I found myself in.
After dropping off Pop I visit a childhood sweetheart. Still young and vibrant, Kathy remains a natural beauty. Still living with her father, Nick in the same house I visited every day of my youth. Kathy lights up a room with a smile that’s sincere and warming to my heart. These are good people and I miss their company.
After dinner with the family I meet Kathy’s brother, Jason at Hooters to enjoy a bikini contest. Salivating locals display their affections along the short runway. The bouncing beauties easily work them into a riotous frenzy, but after the winner is chosen the crowd quickly returns to its first love, Budweiser.
Day Sixteen
On Friday, I visit the fifth grade class of my angelic niece Erica for Show and Tell. “Where do you poop?” and “When do you sleep?” They ask. But what they really want is to see "Silver" so we walk single-file to the parking lot for introductions. The children jump back in unison when Silver roars to life, immediately sharing my awe of her. I try to leave a positive impression and ride into the sunset, hoping they pursue their own adventures someday.
Return to California
Day Twenty Three
Pop and I leave while Mama waves goodbye. A look of apprehension, thinly veiled with forced smiles. Pop’s rented a big Harley Road King to accompany me out of Georgia. It’s been twenty years since he had his Honda Gold Wing, however, and Mama’s worry may finally be justified.
A historic gold mining town, Dahlonega is steeped in southern culture. There’s an art and music festival in the town square and we park the bikes to sample the flavors. After taking photos and enjoying BBQ sandwiches, we leave in search for adventure. Each wrong turn leading to more hidden treasure.
It’s great riding with Pop. He appears comfortable on the Harley and is obviously enjoying himself. It’s a perfect day so far.
On a twisty road fringed with gravel things change dramatically. Pop is 50 yards ahead of me when he enters too fast into a tight corner. It’s painful to watch as I helplessly watch him drift, unable to correct. He hits the road hard and slides awkwardly into a ditch.
I’m off Silver before the dust clears, helping him up and brushing off the gravel. Luckily, Pop is only shaken but the bike has suffered severely. The damage is massive but the engine turns over and the bike appears somewhat ridable. We limp to the town of Helen and discuss our options over an early dinner. It’s obvious Pop is in no hurry to get back in the saddle and it breaks my heart to see him so defeated. We check into a nearby motel and call it a day.
There’s nothing either of us would like more than a cold beer, but in a dry town we settle for Pepsi. Pop calls Mama but neglects to mention the accident. He doesn’t want to worry her and tries to sound upbeat. The following morning Pop’s friend, Billy brings a trailer to carry the wounded home.
Without Pop, I numbly stumble onto Highway 60, a popular stretch of undulating twists and turns following the Ocoee River to Tennessee. It’s the weekend and the churning river overflows with canoes, kayaks and tire-tubes. Numbly, I meander through hills and valleys in search of a “See Rock City” barn. Decades ago the marketing staff at Lookout Mountain painted hundreds of barn roofs in every direction with bright, bold lettering inviting travelers to “See Rock City.” Brainwashed through repetition, many found themselves there by accident. A wrong turn carries me to Alabama, where I discover one of the few originals. Another mission accomplished.
Heading north on Highway 72, bound for Memphis. A straight shot through one small town after another, including Tuscumbia, the birthplace of Helen Keller.
A tempting exit takes me up a country road where I enjoy following an old GMC truck. A small girl repeatedly turns to wave through the sliding rear window, staring innocently at this bucketing motorcycle and its anonymous rider. We exchange greetings for miles until I eventually turn and watch her disappear in the mirror, still waving through the window.
A few miles later, I’m struck unaware by a heavy downpour and pull into Memphis soaked to bone.
Day Twenty Five
Exploring a Truck Wash in Arkansas, I meet Bev Gavin. “Not Beverly. Bev.” A gaunt blonde with sinewy arms, Bev’s an independent trucker from Pennsylvania with plenty of miles behind her. She’s waiting for her next load by polishing the chrome on her beautiful Kenworth. A big job for a small woman, but she appears to enjoy it. Like Pop, Bev prefers the steady pace of the highway to the shrewd politics of corporate America.
Down the road in Hardy, Arkansas I’m being watched intently by a parked squad car while photographing an old gravity pump. I wave but receive no response and walk toward the officer. He doesn’t budge or roll down the window but instead maintains his unnerving stare. I’m about to knock on the window when I realize the officer is a mannequin and the car a prop, intended to slow traffic entering Main Street. Curiosity becomes embarrassment and I walk away sheepishly, hoping no one was watching.
A billboard advertising “Livestock Auction Today! Next Exit!” catches my eye and I hit the offramp without hesitation. As in most stops, simple folk are good-natured and easily welcome the mysterious stranger into their fold. The auction’s organizers are flattered by my interest, and after a hearty breakfast of biscuits and gravy, I spend the morning photographing wranglers, auctioneers and a family of camera-shy Amish. At auction’s end I say goodbye and return to the highway, rocketing to Oklahoma City where I call it a day.
The Oklahoma City Memorial is built on the site of the Murrah Building, where 168 people lost their life in an act of terrorism. Prior to September 11, 2001, this was the largest terrorist attack in U.S. history. A home-grown attack planned and executed by Americans.
Numbed by the experience and hoping for distraction, I stop at “King of The Road” Roger Miller’s hometown, Erick, Oklahoma. An empty town oddly suiting the famous balladeer. There was apparently nothing to keep him around.It’s a bumpy ride to Amarillo. This poorly maintained stretch of Highway 40 is riddled with cracks the size of small canyons. An obstacle course of pot-holes and discarded tire tread requiring full attention and quick reactions. When wind or traffic prevents me from avoiding them, I catch some pretty big air. Immediately pulling over to re-attach a dangling saddlebag.
Thirty miles east of Amarillo is the towering “Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Over 200 feet high, the monolith was erected by The Cross Ministries. The largest cross in the western hemisphere, surrounded by highly detailed bronze statues reenacting Christ’s trial, death and resurrection. The caretaker invites me for a ride on his golf-cart and while pointing out details of construction and intent, he mentions I can take photos, but only until I run out of film.Silver’s running on fumes when I coast relieved into an open gas station. Welcome to Amarillo. A prison town without merit. Feeling outnumbered by wandering parolees, I look forward to my own escape.
Day Twenty EightAfter another healthy breakfast of coffee, eggs and bacon, I depart to visit famous “Cadillac Ranch” on the other side of town. The result of a creative farmer with too much time on his hands, the partially buried Caddies are now covered in graffiti from hundreds of daily visitors, only adding to its bizarre appearance.
After 6,000 miles in the saddle, my butt hurts. My fingers cramp on the tight clutch, and I’m homesick for my barstool in southern California.
I head towards Taos, New Mexico, but am confronted by lightning storms of Tolkien dimension. Sitting on the only metal object around, I turn back and stop in a hidden town called Roy to consider options over a warm patty-melt in a dusty diner. Relying on the spirited advice of local seniors, Santa Fe is chosen as my new destination.
Lightning comfortably behind, I motor through the most amazing canyon country I’ve seen thus far. New Mexico is truly a land of enchantment and it becomes quite easy to appreciate Native American mysticism.
In Santa Fe I convince a gentleman at the Welcome Center to keep an eye on Silver while I explore the spiritual vibe permeating the crisp desert atmosphere. After trading with indians, meeting a shaman and pausing at The Cathedral of Saint Assisi, I wait for my turn to view The Miraculous Staircase inside Loretto Chapel. It’s worth the wait. An engineering marvel built between 1877 and 1881 by an anonymous carpenter who quietly disappeared after answering the choir’s prayers.
Tour complete, I leave hoping to photograph a grandiose sunset at remote El Malpais National Monument. Unfortunately, the bike’s shift lever rattles off as I bounce roughly down a graded service road. Idling along in second gear, its absence went unnoticed. It’s eventually located, but daylight is lost and this is a vast reservation. Luckily, the sunset provides a light show, the stars provide an encore, and I’m not relieved to find civilization afterall.
After dining alone near anxious prom-dates, I check in to a freezing room in Gallup where trains shake the foundation as they whistle through the crossing behind the motel. Angry Navajos argue outside my window and I sleep with one eye open.
I arrive at Meteor Crater to view the world’s largest roadside attraction. Left behind by a close encounter fifty thousand years ago. Sitting on the edge, wind swirling around me, I reflect on the journey so far.
In a world gone mad, it was a relief to find an America unaffected by sprawl. Small towns where change is slow and the future distant. Fading relics in forgotten landscapes. Historical landmarks at every exit. Modest placards declaring favorite sons and battles won. Hand-made attractions competing with natural wonders for profit and attention.
Five hundred miles of scorching Mojave desert and tangled L.A. traffic later, I arrived back in Southern California. Dream assignment complete and rural America somewhere far behind.
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