February 26, 2024

I am standing at the check-in desk at the brand-new Terminal 5, Heathrow Airport, in the
Summer of 2008 with luggage, tickets and bike helmets in their BMW bags by my side. My wife
had gone to do some last-minute shopping while I waited in the long queue for the Virgin Flight
to San Francisco.

A young American woman approached and said, she couldn’t help noticing my BMW gear and
wondered whether I was on the flight to San Francisco. I replied in the affirmative and before I
could continue my wife piped up from behind and proudly said,

“Yes, we are going to motorcycle from San Francisco through Death Valley to Las Vegas with a
bunch of American Harley Davidson riding Red-Necks.”

My wife had just turned 60 and I was left thinking what on earth was I was going to do to
celebrate this important milestone in her life. My 60th birthday was well past, celebrated in two
events. The first was organised by my eldest daughter, who is the family’s unofficial social
security. She was ably supported by my youngest daughter.

What to organise? Then a brainwave: I will take her to Las Vegas. The last time we went by car
from Palm Springs, she just loved the place. I had always fancied motorcycling across the USA
and writing a book about the experience but then came along ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Mechanics’ to thwart my writing ambitions.

But how to make it memorable? My attention was drawn to a planned trip by bikers from San
Francisco to Las Vegas, but the long way round discovered by chance in a motorcycle
magazine. Perfect, I thought, we could put the two ideas together, but how to tell her and
persuade her of my slightly odd proposition?

So, I casually dripped the idea over several weeks. First, whether she would like to go to Las
Vegas for a few days to celebrate her birthday (29th December) or the next Summer?

“Oh, that would be fantastic,” was the enthusiastic reply.

Later, after checking flights,

“But there is a slight problem,” I said, “There are no free seats on direct flights to Las Vegas, we
will first have to go via San Francisco.”

Not to let such a seemingly minor problem get in the way, the reply came back,

“No problem, there are plenty of internal flights to Las Vegas and, in any case, it would be nice
to see San Francisco as I have never been there before.”

She’s hooked; she is not going to row back now I thought. I then said,

“Well, I had considered that but why not go overland and see more of the USA? Before we’d
always had to use flights on tight time schedules”.

“Even better,” was the response.

She is really hooked now, just need to keep persisting to get the final commitment. As my wife
was preparing her packing, I casually dropped the observation that she couldn’t take all that
luggage.

“Why ever not, I am well within the weight limit.”

Then the clincher,

“I have booked us with a bunch of other hairy bikers to do a guided tour.”

“You must be joking! What on a motorbike? Harley Davidsons? But I have not ridden on one of
them before.”

“But I have already booked it, not to worry, I have specifically asked for a BMW 1200 RT
complete with cruise control,” I replied.

“Well, I suppose it is too late now to back out.”

Success!

We are on the plane, on our way.

The approach and landing to San Francisco Airport was as smooth as silk. We managed to get
through the arrivals quickly and the plan was to go to our Marriott Hotel nearby and, that
afternoon, our guide would meet us at the hotel to brief us on the trip. This is just the point when
a little trepidation sets in as to how the whole 10 ten days was going to unfold.

The bike tour itself was for a week to be followed by three days in San Francisco sight-seeing. I
needn’t have worried, the whole experience was to be one of the most memorable, eventful, and
enjoyable experiences of our lives, starting from the moment we met ‘Ricky’.

‘Ricky’ turned out to be quite an imposing character and, as we learnt later, a great
compassionate man. A Hawaiian by birth, swarthy skin and jet black, curly hair. He was a big
guy without being obese, akin to a rugby forward. He reminded me of one of those US Southern
sheriffs you see depicted in Hollywood films, mean in sunglasses, chewing gum and as hard as
nails. He turned out to be quite an affable fellow and over coffee briefed us on the trip.

First, he said, there had been a problem. The original guide had to pull-out because of a serious
illness which meant his other 15 other ‘hairy’ friends originally committed had to pull-out too. He
was to be our replacement guide, and would we mind if he brought along his girlfriend, Mary, to
make up a foursome?

My wife was somewhat relieved that, at least, there was some female company and not just a
bunch of blokes. Knowing from previous experience that riding in large groups can be
demanding, I saw this as an advantage as well and not a problem.

Then he proceeded, after describing the route and various stopovers, to go through the safety
drill and how you ride a bike in the USA. Basically, stay close, keep in line, but not literally,
always position yourself to the inner side and follow instructions to the letter. Don’t dawdle and
keep concentrating on what is going on around you.

This was all good stuff to make you confident this was a professional outfit. I did at the end,
however, decided to break formality. When asked if there were any last questions, my reply
was,

“Just one thing, as a Brit, remember we were here first.” This became the catchphrase at every
appropriate moment on the trip.

The following day, the plan was to meet his girlfriend, Mary, have a boat trip under the Golden
Gate Bridge and lunch so we could get to know one another better and, of course, to get rid of
the jet lag.

Our next day was a short bike trip to Santa Monica for, as it turned out, fish and chips on the sea
front and a cold beer. Not quite going to Skegness or Sutton-on-Sea that we had been used to
before. The meal was very good, and we were beginning to relax and enjoy ourselves. Of
course, I realised at the back of my mind the round trip of 60 miles was designed to assess that
I could really ride a bike and handle a heavy machine.

I had been riding bikes since I was sixteen, but when I upgraded to the meaner machines
decided to take a defensive driving course with an ex- special escort police officer (royal duties)
and went in for my advanced driving test to make sure I was a safer driver.

Eventually, the first day of the trip arrived and would involve a ‘Grand Departure’ over the
Golden Gate Bridge heading north to the salmon rivers in Northern California. Our guide,
‘Ricky’, was an ex- motorcycle cop of 20 years with the San Francisco Police Department. He
would casually pull-back to allow his girlfriend, Mary, to take photos and videos as we rode
alongside. I still have to this day a photo of us crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. It is not golden
really, more like a rusty red.

We were soon off the freeway and driving along winding roads through the vineyards of Napa
Valley. The sun was out; it was warm and no wind. We were comfortably dressed in our BMW
Gortex suits. We then went along roads as though we were riding in Sussex until quite suddenly
the fields became arid and we were passing through Bodega.

This was a strange place, lots of wooden buildings but oddly sparse in terms of people and
advertising signs. Despite its odd appearance, I had a feeling of déjà vu. When we made our
first stop for a coffee and some sandwiches we had packed, Ricky said, “Did you like Bodega.
That was the place Alfred Hitchcock filmed, The Birds”. Now I could place it well and fully
understood why Hitchcock would use it as a location as well as it being close to LA.

Pressing on to the Pacific Ocean, we arrived for lunch by the salmon rivers and walked into an
enormous restaurant for around three hundred people but there were only three couples there
including ourselves and the others happened to be bikers too. If this is how the rest of the trip
was going to pan-out, this would be fine by me.

Our first overnight stop was in Oroville in a Louisiana style, well-appointed hotel. It was a fine
evening, and we set off minus all our baggage to the nearest casino for a wonderful dinner. As
there weren’t many diners, we had a session with the waiter explaining how wine is poured in
Europe so he could show off to other guests. It was so warm; we could just wear our tee-shirts
and jeans and rode like Peter Fonda and Denis Hopper in the film ‘Easy Rider’.

Breakfast in the hotel was a ‘serve yourself buffet affair’ with the novelty of making your own
waffles. We were on the outskirts of Chico, and the temperature had climbed to 90°F and the
BMW gear was coming off to reveal our tee-shirts. Having repacked our bikes, we were
climbing from sea-level and were going up and up and up. On the way, we passed a most
beautiful mountain stream with logs naturally transcending each bank. In our helmets, we
looked like space aliens that had just landed, but Mary had a slight mishap. Returning to put
her helmet back on again; after having left it on the ground, she found it full of large termites.
Ricky spent the next half an hour ensuring every termite had departed as he did not want a
demented passenger on the back of his bike in case the odd termite decided to reappear while
they were riding along.

Soon, the snow line appeared, and we still braved the weather until we came to the entrance of
Lassen Volcanic Park. There was still an active volcano. Most foreign visitors to California
understandably head for Yosemite National Park but Lassen has a charm all of its own. Giant fir
trees and, of course, at 12,000 feet 6 foot of snow at the side of the road even in Summer.

On came the warm Gortex jackets again and we continued until we could go no further as the
road had been closed and a wall of 8 foot of snow appeared in front of us. We made our way
over sheets of ice to a designated car park and walked to the edge of the open area. We saw
the most fantastic landscape of snow-capped mountains as far as the eye could see and no sign
of man between us and the horizon. The air was still and eerily silent with not a bird call to
break the moment. I could have stayed longer just to drink in the magnificent view, but we had
to move on.

Our next port of call was a complete surprise, Virginia City. Any fans of Bonanza would have
recognised it instantly with its derelict silver mines and a high street straight out of a western movie with wooden walk boards as you past the shops and, of course, the obligatory saloon.
We had to try the saloon and were encouraged to sign our own dollar bill and stick it with
thousands of others on the wall. It was also suggested that our female companions should
donate their bras that would accompany the others hanging off the various chandeliers. This
kind offer was politely refused. Off the street in walked the sheriff and his deputy with two real
colt 45’s in their waist holsters. The deputy just wore a vest with a neatly placed small hole to
allow one of his chest nipples to protrude, yuk!

Virginia City’s silver mines financed the building of San Francisco that we know today. There
was a great deal of corruption and double deals while people made their fortunes (what’s
new?). Immigrant Cornish tin miners were enticed in to help develop the many silver mines in
the area. I suppose a potent reminder that immigration can be highly beneficial.

This was cowboy country as depicted in my boyhood westerns complete with Winchesters,
spurs, and chaps. I made the mistake of going into the best confectionery store in Nevada and
asked for a vanilla ice-cream cone. It was not as simple as that. I was asked first what type of
cone and then its size. Did I want it dipped in chocolate? Did I want another flavour from the 50
on display and what topping did I require? It was a little like being interrogated by the KGB. No,
I just wanted a simple vanilla ice cream cone, perhaps with a 99 flake. I did give in to the
peanut brittle for taking back to the UK. I found it to be still as fresh as when I bought it some
weeks later when I shared it with my grandchildren.

Ricky was still cajoling us to keep going as we needed to make Lake Tahoe before it became
dark.

“I don’t mind riding in the dark”, I said.

“No, you won’t”, came the swift reply.

“Not when there are loose moose around.” Apparently, there can be some serious accidents
whenever these animal’s venture onto the roads. The moose seem to recover but vehicles get
really smashed up.

I thought Ricky was just being over-zealous knowing how litigious the Americans can be. But as
twilight was drawing in on us and we were about 30 miles from our hotel, sure enough a family
group of moose appeared, around five in all, just wandering along the road in front of us. Ricky
beckoned us to stop immediately, and we waited at a safe distance to allow them to again
wander off the road. We never saw much of Tahoe Lake as we arrived just as it was getting
dark, and the morning afterwards soon left the lakeside to continue our journey to Bishop on the
edge of Yosemite National Park.

By now, I was getting use to motorcycling in the USA, synchronising with Ricky in front, taking in
the scenery and stopping at those wonderful diners where you can eat like a king. Bishop is a
very small town with just a couple of restaurants and, of all things, an Austrian Bakery. We had
been warned that we would be staying at a B&B, not a hotel, and just on the edge of town. I
had a foreboding this would be the point when we would be brought down from our ‘highs’ but
reconciled myself to the fact this trip was going much better than I expected and my wife bless
her was loving every minute. Her and Mary were like two old schoolfriends.

Then, the completely unexpected. Having located the B&B on my GPS it turned out this was no
ordinary B&B. The first thing I noticed was it was a bungalow which contained 9 very large
bedrooms. We had entered the town from a semi-arid desert to be confronted by lovely green
manicured lawns and trees. As we arrived, the Austrian landlady appeared with her 70-year-old
mother to greet us and to show us to our rooms.

The rooms were magnificent except I made the error of entering the wrong bedroom while a
lady was in a state of undressing. The key did fit I protested! I later apologised to the landlady
for the misunderstanding while Sue got changed. I was offered a nice cool glass of chardonnay to take the dust out of my throat and ushered into the back garden. I just couldn’t believe my
eyes. There was a manicured garden just like her neighbours, but this was complete with a
natural, small, babbling brook and a group of mallard ducks wandering around on the lawn. I
sat in one of the sun loungers until the others were ready for dinner.

Our host explained they were going out for dinner and recommended a restaurant nearby giving
us the keys to the house to lock up when we left and to let ourselves in on our return. Knowing
it had been my wife’s birthday, Ricky had arranged a huge ice cream sundae suitably adorned
as part of the dessert. We all took a spoon and dived in before my wife could get started.

Over breakfast, we were joined by an elderly Austrian gentleman, who wasn’t a guest, but ran
the bakery in the town we had visited the night before. Of course, the selection of breads was

magnificent and the breakfast, whilst American, had some of the finest foods, mostly home-
made. I could have happily stayed there for a week and explore Yosemite National Park, but no, we had the most challenging day of all the rides – ‘Death Valley’ awaited.

On the way to Death Valley, we visited the site of Manzanar Relocation Centre built in 1942.
Essentially, this was a concentration camp for Japanese Americans in the Second World War. It
is to the credit of the USA that this is now treated as a National Monument to a dark period of
their past where for purely political expediency, some 110,000 loyal Americans were
incarcerated with their families until hostilities ceased. This is even though none posed a threat,
and many served honourably acting as translators in the war effort. That’s the problem with
wars I suppose it doesn’t discriminate the innocent from the guilty that well.

Our approach to Death Valley (a closed park) necessitated for us another climb, this time to
9,000 feet. Before descending into the Valley, we parked up on a giant platform plateau that
looked down into the forbidding valley below. We needed to prepare ourselves as the
temperature would climb from the late 80°F to 140°F when we reached the bottom, at 300 feet
below sea level. Again, the striptease acts down to the bare minimum, sun block, but still
wearing jeans, tee-shirts, gloves, and helmets.

Before we were due to depart, I thought I would wander to the edge and again take in the view
before descending into what seemed later like putting your head into an oven at full setting but
no escape. Gradually, I could hear a noise like a train in a tunnel and at the same time could
feel the ground vibrating. I thought, at first, it must be a train passing through a tunnel
underneath us but there were no signs of railway tracks anywhere near us.

Suddenly, an F16 appeared directly in front of me flying at a steep angle but approaching from
the beneath the lip of the plateau and moving slowly towards me sat on his tail, I could see the
white helmet of the US pilot. I was completely transfixed on the spot and forgot to rush for my
camera.

The plane, at first, seemed to hover for a few seconds as it slowly moved towards us and then
as it reached the rim turned completely vertical and did a spiral climb into the clear blue sky. It
was as though the pilot was saying to me, you think you are having fun, sonny, watch this. You
should be doing what I am doing. I gave the pilot a thumbs-up sign. I kidded ‘Ricky’ later that
he was going a bit over the top if he was trying to impress us.

Well, it was time to face our challenge of the trip, crossing Death Valley in the height of summer.
Descending into the Valley, the temperature gradually climbed to a point you think you could
bear it no more. The dust was flicking up sand blasting your bare forearms. My wife was doing
a great job spraying me with water to help us a little in the heat. Soon we were on the salt flats
with absolutely no signs of life except the dead snakes that never made it across the tarmacked
road. But life is remarkable and will cling to any opportunity to survive even if by its very
fingernails. There are salt springs in parts with small fish!

I could only think of those poor early settlers, traversing hundreds of miles, driving over high
mountain ranges, targeted by the odd renegade red Indians only to be faced with this hell before the promised land. We approached the official entrance to the park at Stove Pipe Wells to let
them know our route and when we planned to exit. Opposite the entrance and general store
was a hotel where you could either stay or use their shower facilities to freshen before
continuing your journey. Try that at the nearest Travelodge next time you happen to pass by!

We were heading for Death Valley town itself to stay in a hotel overnight before our final trip.
The heat was horrific and just to walk from your bike into the shade of the store was an effort.
Again, we rehydrated, took on more water and amused ourselves about the signs forbidding
cracking eggs on the road to watch them fry in an instant.

We had about 40 miles to go to the hotel and were now passing signs like furnace creek and
seeing rusting hulks of old water tanks. To our surprise, there is a mansion built right in the
middle of all this that a family used to live in at the height of the silver rush.

My wife was doing magnificently well but was beginning to feel feint and said she felt she was
going to pass out. I put the bike on cruise control grabbed her towards me and headed for an
oasis of what turned out to be a plantation of date palms I had spotted in the distance rather
than stop in the heat.

By the time I got to stop, she was in a poor way and Rick pulled her off the bike took off her
helmet and gloves and with his helmet managed to fill it with water from a spring and splashed it
over her to cool her down. That was a bit of a fright but now we were 30 minutes from the hotel
and air-conditioned rooms. After half an hour, and a rest up and refreshment, off we went again
and made it to the hotel to recover. What a ride! That was some challenge. Now we are in
striking distance of our destination.

The next day we decided to start very early before the sun came up although it was still 90°F
even so. We made it out of the desert and soon saw Las Vegas beckoning in the distance.
Apart from Ricky who had fallen off his bike twice before in the soft sand, on some very rough
roads and having taken the wrong turn, we didn’t meet any road mishaps until finally turning off
the freeway onto the road leading to the strip at Las Vegas. A car suddenly decided to move
into my lane just in front of me. I managed to brake, keep a safe distance between us, and the
potential danger was over. Then it was riding down the strip flags flying to our hotel, Treasure
Island.

I had been several times to this hotel before on business trips and often wondered how you
would explain to a new visitor how to find it. It would go something like this.

It’s at the end of the strip where the famous ‘Sands’ Hotel used to be. Next to the hotel is a
water fountain in the shape of a volcano and, every 20 minutes, it belches a massive ball of
flame into the air. The other side is a full-scale man-of-war sailing ship where there is, every
evening, two shows depicting a sea battle at the end of which this full-scale ship disappears
under the water. That’s Las Vegas: brash, swash-buckling and in your face.

My wife was in her favourite playground, and the shows are the best you are likely to see
anywhere in the world. We saw the ‘Rat Pack’ featuring the famous four, including Frank
Sinatra played by great stand-ins including a delectable Marilyn Monroe.

Our foursome was having a great time. Ricky and I were just like two old mates having fun with
their girlfriends as though we were in our twenties again.

The original plan was for the bikes to be shipped back by lorry, but Ricky suggested why didn’t
we pack the girls off on the plane back to San Francisco and we ride the bikes back via the
direct route of 600 miles. This we did and I was able to see more of the country while the girls
enjoyed each other’s company on the plane.

Ricky suggested we stayed at their house in San Mateo with a view of the bridge in the
distance. We soon found we weren’t the only people there and there were several couples
either popping in or staying over. We thought these were his extended family until he explained
why they were there.

In his youth, he ran into problems with the law through stealing food for his mother to help feed
their large family. An SF police sergeant recognised his problem; told him this wasn’t the road
he should be going down and mentored him back into proper ways while helping the family.
Because of this, he decided that when he grew up, he would be a policeman and vowed to help
others in similar circumstances. So now he was open house to all wayward youngsters with all
sorts of problems. They clearly responded positively to his guidance and loved him and Mary to
bits. What a great man.

My wife by now was just loving every minute and, to my great surprise, at a karaoke session did
a perfect rendition of Britney Spears first hit ‘Hit me baby one more time’ without being
inebriated. All this is all recorded on video I am not allowed to play to anyone!

Mary owned a local Starbucks in San Mateo but also had built a sizable property estate in what
were originally run down areas of the city but then had become gentrified. What a very smart
business lady, but more important than that, a great friend to my wife.

Our last day we went on a drive along the coast for a last look at the Pacific before returning
home. Driving along the coast, Ricky spotted a roadside vendor selling small punnets of
cherries. My wife offered to treat us all and with just a one dollar bill she bought a punnet. I
remember this amounted to two cherries, if we were lucky, each.

“Here we go again”, we all shouted and suggested that a punnet each should be the minimum.
We laughed our socks off to the puzzlement of the road-side vendor.

At the departure lounge at San Francisco Airport, my wife and I looked at each other with
spontaneous tears rolling down our cheeks. Not tears of sadness but of the sheer joy we had
shared with some wonderful people. Life can be great at times.

We now look at the photographs and look back on a trip you could not really have planned or
experienced simply by throwing money at it.

How did your 60th party go? If you haven’t had it yet, try it on two wheels. You never know
what might happen. It could be an experience of a lifetime! You too could become an ‘Easy
Rider’.

Why not share your experiences by writing them down to share with others and, as we have
done, let our grandchildren know there was more to granddad and grandma than they thought?