THE SEARCHER
A lone motorcyclist, crossing the desert of Arizona. Dark, ominous clouds building to the left. A bend in the road means heading straight into their path. Thunder, to make Thor proud, booms in rolling waves. Lightning flashes across the sky. Tumble weeds running like scared dogs across the highway. The heavy drops of rain turn to hail, making riding like a traverse through a storm of frozen peas. Searching for shelter. None to be had. But then, a few miles on, a deserted gas station. This is it — the famous Route 66.
HOW THE HELL DID I GET HERE?
Coming from the relatively laid-back Cairns, in Far North Queensland, it’s a long trip to the south-west of the USA. Las Vegas is sensory overload — glaring, flashing lights, thousands of hectares of casinos off ering plenty of places to drop your money, blaring noise, street performers and beggars. Blisteringly hot — well over 40°C in the shade. A gazillion gawking tourists. And I’m one of them.
Getting out of Vegas is really appealing. I rented a bike from Freedom Euro Cycle. I wanted a dual-purpose bike, not a Harley (the bike of choice in these parts), as I fully intended to get some dirt under the tyres. The Triumph Tiger, kitted out with hard panniers, fit the bill. Because I was renting for a couple of weeks, Troy, the manager, threw in a GPS — maybe knowing I’d need it.
Travelling solo has a lot of advantages. I looked into some of the itineraries of companies that off er tours of the region. They all seemed a bit rushed to me, trying to cover big miles each day, with little time to look around. I decided I’d rather have
