Good Vibrations (28 page)

‘I used up all my luck somewhere else.'

A great place to lose your shirt, the Palace Station.

The downside of staying in an uptown hotel was that we had to hump all our stuff from the bikes below ground in the lockup along to the elevators, up to the room, then back again in the morning. Even though we had only allowed ourselves the minimum of personal kit, there were also tools, redundant fleeces, leathers, cooking gear, tent, bedding rolls and the cameras; plus fifty other lesser items that somehow disappeared into a studded Heritage saddlebag but were worse than a pig to carry. It took several journeys. In a standard motel room we could just heave it all in through the door. Easy. Sleeping rough or in the tent, we didn't even unpack; a major benefit, as loading up the bikes took a half-hour every morning. The chore never grew any easier, and we never really believed it would all fit in until I heaved down the last meaty leather strap.

Ready for the road at last, we cruised the baking streets of downtown Vegas searching for pawn shops. We scored first time. The brisk, dark-suited man behind the counter had no Nikon zooms, but he was able to sell me a neat little ‘straight-through' fifty. Under pressure, he threw in a twenty-eight and a lens bag for the ludicrous all-up price of $40 cash. The purchase more than made up for my $100 handed over to the Southern gambler.

Ahead of the game again and fired up by this new possibility for bargains, we spent the morning checking out the trade some more. On sale were colourful examples of gamblers' watches with diamond-studded bezels, loud card faces and other horrible features. Many a wife or girlfriend had handed over her jewellery, and in one emporium, an evening suit was prominently displayed. I pitied this spectacular loser, who must have had little indeed to his name when he walked back out on to the street. But it was the personal firearms that really turned over the money. Nominally locked up in show cases behind one counter gleamed the widest possible selection, from shiny ladies' handguns to ugly-looking automatic weapons. The needs of all could be met here and, if the money accepted for my camera lens was anything to go by, at the right sort of price. Had the armouries been pledged by gangsters down on their luck at the tables, or did they represent a crosssection of what the middle-American family packs in its travelling bag?

Three days after Vegas, we found ourselves cruising south down US Highway 89. Behind us spread the Painted Desert. Somewhere ahead lay Flagstaff, Arizona. In the past seventy-two hours we had clocked up 600 miles through some of the world's most fantastic scenery and were pretty much dead beat. First had come Zion Canyon with its smooth road surface clear from the lower end to the tunnel out on to the plateau at the top. A great ride. On the two subsequent mornings we had turned up at Bryce and Grand so early that, as at Glacier, we had beaten the Rangers to their posts and entered free of charge. Both sunrises had been moments to hold on to. Bryce Canyon, with its miles of unique pinnacle rock formations flushed vibrant pink by the dawn light, a totally feminine experience; and Grand, enormous and masculine. It's easy to find oneself carried away with hyperbole when considering these geological phenomena, but for me the final word on them was reported from Mr Bryce himself. A century or more ago, this bold adventurer homesteaded the difficult land outside the Canyon that now bears his name.

‘A hell of a place to lose a cow…'

The journey down to Flagstaff saw us dodging the first rain we had seen for weeks. The substantial town stands at almost 7,000 feet and even higher mountains guard the road in from the north. The wind was a gusty westerly, with bike-shaking squalls ripping down the hillsides and black thunderclouds gathering around the peaks. The land was wide and the mountains smoother-sloped than back in the full desert of Nevada. There was some evidence of cultivation here and there, but the overall effect was barren. Traffic was thickening up as we approached within 30 miles of town and a deep grey rain wall driving out of its windward edge was threatening to drench us. We crested the shoulder of a bare hill and although I had hoped to outrun the storm, I stopped to take in a totally new sight.

A long, dark market-stall set a short distance off the highway ran for 20 yards, surrounded by battered vehicles and colourfully dressed people. One or two smart cars stood slightly aloof 50 yards clear. Above the open-sided tent, in front of it and on both sides, small flags of all kinds snapped in the blustery airstream. US ensigns, confederate flags and international signal code flags competed with pennants of coloured bunting, while strips of cloth very like the ones at Wounded Knee gyrated at the top of willowy 10-foot poles whipping in the strong wind. The overall effect was of brave optimism. Close-up, the people running the show became recognisably Native American. I guessed that these would be Navajo. They were selling trinkets, beads, belts, and souvenirs to the passing tourists. Nothing they had for sale was any use to us, but they chatted in a friendly way about the bikes and the fact that we were going to be very wet shortly unless we made tracks.

The Indians were right. We passed the snowy San Francisco Mountains in a downpour and called Clark's friend Mara from the edge of town, so totally soaked that we might as well have jumped into the bath fully clothed.

Mara is a highly independent woman, someone who knows exactly who she is. When she left her last husband and the easy life of the East Coast, she travelled with her family straight to Flagstaff, a place that feels like a frontier town surrounded by desert and mountains despite its position of importance in Arizona. She was waitressing in a small cafe on Route 66 when an unusual-looking fellow came in for lunch. He had dark eyes, dark bushy hair tied back, a small beard and his casual gear failed to hide a fine physique. They looked at one another over the menu and not a word was exchanged, but they both knew that this was It.

Mara, Fred and the kids now lived in a tiny apartment in a one-storey block. The communal rear pathway was a sort of social centre where the plain people of America could air their views. There was a hint of greenery, vehicles approached with difficulty and the yard might have been a haven of peace if not for the neighbours' dogs. Several of these beasts lived a crazed half-life caged up next to Mara's patch. The animals were clearly not fed properly and were apparently never walked, so they howled and barked continually. I looked out of the window to analyse a particular crescendo of canine anguish and saw a small girl stretching out of a broken window tormenting the beasts with a stick.

Fred leaned back in a chair.

‘I spend my life teaching martial arts,' he said to my surprise. ‘Sure, a lot of it is high-contact physical stuff. Showing people how to react and take care of themselves. A few of my folks go on and make the grade in the sport. But a lot of what I do is about encouraging people to be at peace with themselves. You can't fight, even in a stylised way, until you have respect and have shed all bullshit. These guys here,' he angled his head, ‘some of them are missing the point.'

The girls walked out to the supermarket and Fred and I stayed behind with Mara's twelve-year-old son. Small, like his mother, but equally well-formed, the lad was a model of what a boy should be. He was enthusiastic and joined in when he had something worth saying, otherwise he listened. The rain soon cleared and the three of us went outside to check over Betty Boop. She had been misfiring in the wet and I assumed she had moisture somewhere in her guts. As we worked, we talked, as men will at such times. Partly our minds were on the puzzle of the misfire, but we were also getting to know one another. For some reason I asked Fred if he kept a gun, as most people seemed to in these parts. Unlike many, he did not proudly reel off a list of his weaponry.

I told him about the ‘Bubba Bill Clinton, Yellow Beret Commander in Chief' caricatures in Kansas, expecting the usual supportive reaction to the artist. Instead, Fred looked at me sadly.

‘The president is an unusual man,' he said, ‘but he wasn't dodging the draft while he was over the Atlantic. He spent a deal of time in Russia talking with the Communists, trying to foster the start of a greater understanding.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Just as well as those rednecks seem to know he was ducking the draft. They want us to believe he's a coward and a treasonist, but I don't buy it. He might not be a saint, but he's the only president who's had the balls to stand up to the ‘right to bear arms' lobby. In the end, his is the only sensible way, and the sooner people realise it, the better for America.'

I looked at his strong, competent hands as we wrestled Betty's carburettor out from between her mud-splashed cylinders and thought how safe Mara must feel living with this even-mannered, up-together man. He lifted off the float bowl and emptied it carefully into the dirt.

‘No water in there,' he said, showing the tiny metal container to the boy as I upturned the body to hunt for the main jet. I blew that out and together the three of us tooth-combed the delicate mechanism for dirt. It looked as though it had been spotless all along. The induction seals, however, looked past their sell-by date.

‘Common problem up here,' said Fred. ‘They don't look too bad, but it might be the answer. The combination of altitude and poor-quality gasoline on the Indian reservations burns them out. You'll be able to get replacements at Harley-Davidson on Route 66 west.'

I'd never heard of such a thing, but I sped down the road on Madonna, made it to H-D just as they were closing, and returned to Betty with the goods.

‘Maybe she'll be OK now,' said Fred as we tightened up the final bolt, ‘you never know what you've fixed, sometimes.'

‘Let's hope so,' I agreed. We flashed Betty up for good luck. She started with a will and ran sweetly on her short test run.

The bike was cleaned up and back on her stand by the time the girls returned, and we men were setting ourselves to building a barbecue fire. Something about Fred's presence even calmed the evil dogs in their cages. They piped down and we enjoyed sitting out, breathing in the damp ground scent we had missed for so long. The neighbours made an appearance and shared a beer, but I suspected that they would not agree with Fred's views on either the president or his hand-gun initiative. Much later, Roz and I went to bed in Mara and Fred's room which they lent to us, bunking themselves down on the sofa. Joss sticks burned, while candles shed a gentle light over Mara's tapestries and Indian dream feathers. As we settled down Roz whispered,

‘It's great seeing Mara in her own place. She and I had such a time just now and – no offence – but it was lovely being with a woman for a change. We went and had a drink in the bar as well. She asked me about Sturgis, and I told her how the whole business was such a strong statement of style, much, much more than any motorcycle or boat rally would have back home, she said something really interesting…'

Roz fell silent, as though turning over Mara's comment in her mind. Stopping in mid-sentence was a habit I had developed and at this time it was driving Roz crazy. Perhaps she was picking it up. I hoped not, but waited to see.

‘Out here,' she finally continued, having marshalled her thoughts, ‘culture is only paper-thin. It's because apart from the Indians and some Spanish, these lands have only been settled for two or three generations. The effect is a deep need for roots and something to hold on to. The bike thing is typical. It helps people belong.'

This was certainly a new angle. Right or wrong, like most broad-based statements that sound plausible it had a basis of justification, but when I considered the individual bikers we'd met, it didn't stack up all the way. Steve and Nell certainly weren't in search of an identity. On the other hand, the public image of the Western motorcycling world with its style, badges and clubs, fitted neatly into the theory. The conundrum was like that of individuals and nations. I thought how often I had caught the mean little Brit who lives in the back of my head thinking archetypally derogatory thoughts about the French as a whole, only to shame him by recalling some of the excellent French men and women I have known. There are too many exceptions to rules about human alignment to classify people into neat armies. I saw what she meant, nonetheless.

Silence for a while. The wind had gone down with the sun.

‘How on Earth does Mara manage in winter?' Roz spoke again. ‘It must get really cold this high up, and there's no sign of any heating in here at all. But Fred's the perfect dishy lover. I expect he'll keep her warm.'

I told her how Fred and I had enjoyed playing at ‘guys' with Betty Boop and Mara's lad, then my gaze wandered to the moonlit window recess. I doubted the wall was more than 3 inches thick. The whole building was totally uninsulated and probably made of reinforced concrete. Imagining the blast of the February gales roaring down from North Dakota around the Alpine height of this outpost city, I shuddered for Mara and Fred. No doubt they had some way of coping, but as I went comfortably to sleep in the perfect night-time temperature of August, I couldn't see it.

‘If you're going east to visit the Hopis up on the mesas, you're stuck with Interstate 40 or Highway 15,' Fred gazed into his morning coffee. ‘The 15 is what they call an Indian Service Road. The surface'll be lousy but you'll see some magic country. It goes straight up through Navajo land. Or you could try the remains of Route 66,' he looked up. ‘I don't know how far you'd get…'

We came out of town on Interstate 40, cutting off at the first interchange and heading east down the service road that runs into the historic trail. The fabled Route 66, migrant route west for so many dispossessed families in the 1930s and more recently the subject of a sixties Rolling Stones hit, did not feature on my map at all. Rendered redundant by the superhighway, it now runs only in sporadic bursts, left behind to provide access to businesses and the occasional homestead that would otherwise be out in the cold. Initially, we found it close alongside its successor; later, the four-lane disappeared from sight, and ultimately, the almost mythical road veered off into the wilderness.