Trans Americas 2009 - The Blog

Gosh, it's the end of July already... Although it seems like more than 2 weeks since I left home...

Jim was up very early this morning, around 5am, as he and Mac want to get off early ahead of the construction workers. The rest of us are not so early, and a departure between 8 and 8.30am seems eminently more sensible. So I turned over and went back to sleep. With no Internet access at Coldfoot, there is no incentive for me to get up and start tapping away writing this drivel, so I snoozed until around 6.30am and then went in search of breakfast. Unlike most other meals so far on the trip, breakfast is the one meal that I've steered away from the mountains of unhealthy foods and instead had cereal. This morning was no exception, so whilst I crunched my way through a bowl of weird, sugary American cereal, I watched the rest of the group eating fresh fruit or tucking in to eggs and sausages...

Someone has also given me their cold. I've had a cough ever since we arrived in Fairbanks, but I put that down to the smoky atmosphere caused by the huge forest fires burning close by, but this morning someone has injection 40 gallons of phlegm up my nose and inserted a jackhammer in my head. Not a particularly good way to feel before tackling the final quarter of the Dalton (which, according to Kevin, includes the section where Indian Dave crashed and broke his femur on the 2005 trip that was filmed as “The Ride” - although I think I recall him saying that before every section... perhaps he's a little confused...). To cap that, it was also very overcast in the distance and looked like rain. Which is just what we don't need, as rain turns the road into a mud-bath, making riding very difficult. But we've got to go on regardless, after all, it's adventure we came for...

Today's ride will also include a little detour, as I've volunteered to take Nick to the hospital in Fairbanks in order to get his wrist x-rayed. It seems to be getting better, but he wants to be on the safe side, and as I'm an expert on foreign hospitals (!) it seemed like a good idea. That way the van can follow the main group, ensuring they all get off the Dalton safely. So off we set, back onto the Dalton and the tarmac stretch that runs South of Coldfoot for a few miles before returning to dirt. No sooner had we set off than we had to stop to put on our rain jackets (starting to spit) and a bit later our rain trousers (getting heavy). There were bikes parked up all over the road with their riders and pillions doing the “getting in the waterproofs” dance, hopping around on one foot and trying not to fall into the ditch. Most made it, too.

Just before the dirt started, the rain stopped. And was replaced by an intense smoky smell and a light fog of smoke. And the temperature started rising, but we were still some way from the fires, so I think it was just because the cloud cover had dissipated, allowing the sun to get to work. Now sweating in full rain gear and with my warm top on, it was time to stop again and take all these extra layers off. I find riding when too hot (as a result of wearing too many clothes) worse than being too cold, so I stripped back to my riding jacket and tee-shirt (and riding trousers, boots, gloves, helmet of course) and we set off yet again. With me following Nick to ensure that if he had another fall I could help him, I was confined to riding in his dust. Without the rain, the road had become very dusty, and for mile after mile I rode just far enough back so I wasn't in his wake and could see the road. Every so often we'd come across a truck going in the opposite direction, forcing us more to the side of the road (where all the gravel gathers) and then enveloping us in a dense cloud of dust which took a minute or so to settle, despite us continuing our progress along the road. Once or twice we'd catch a slower moving truck going our way, and be forced to sit in its dust until a safe opportunity to overtake presented itself. And so it went on, for a good 3 hours until at last we emerged back on tarmac at the junction that marks the start of the Dalton, where Andy and Gerald were busy re-inflating their tyres. To say this was a relief would be an understatement, and there was much manly back-slapping and hand-shaking and congratulatory exchanges. Even Jim, the Quiet American, who arrived a couple of minutes later, joined in the small celebration. The mood was broken only by the sound of 5 compressors churning away, as we put the air back into our tyres (tires in Jim's case) now we're firmly back on sealed roads...





Now we were back on the excellent fast open sweeping road that leads down into Fairbanks, and Nick and I quickly dropped into the groove, riding at a constant 70, tilting into turns and going with the flow of the road. With the dirt now behind us for a while, we can once again marvel at just how “dual-sport” these bikes are – they can cope with being bounced around for hour after hour on dusty, pot-holed, muddy, gravelled roads, and then with a quick change of tyre pressure, hack along sweeping tarmac at a fair old pace... Have I mentioned yet how much I love my bike?

An hour or so later we arrived on the outskirts of Fairbanks and went in search of lunch (a burger in a “sports bar”) and fuel, then the hospital. Using my sat-nav we went straight there, and within minutes of arriving Nick was checked into the system and being seen by the triage nurse. When he disappeared, I sat in the huge Emergency department waiting area, which was more like the lobby to a large museum than a hospital (it didn't even smell of hospital). There was practically no-one else thee. No screaming kids, no drunks with bloodied bandages on their heads, no old men/women in wheelchairs after an unfortunate fall at home. It was the least A&E like Emergency department I've ever been in. If it wasn't for the cleaning lady constantly cleaning the floor (first with sweeping brush, then mop, then a large washing/polishing machine) and the passing person in scrubs I'd not have believed I was in hospital. After an hour or so, Nick appeared, wrist strapped to announce that it was a “severe strain” (as we suspected) and that he was now $790 poorer... He then went off to the pharmacy to get some strong painkillers they'd prescribed. Whether they were for the severe sprain or the shock, he didn't say...

With that attended to we rode the remaining 100 miles from Fairbanks to Delta Junction (“The Friendly Frontier”) along the side of the river, once again maintaining a steady pace. We overtook Jeff, who'd earlier popped into the hospital to check all was OK (and nearly fainted when told the price of the x-ray!), and then arrived at the motel shortly after 6pm. With the bikes unloaded we rode them to the local car wash and hosed them down, although I'd hardly call them clean, and then went for dinner in the nearby “Buffalo Grill”. At the end of such a long day, all we wanted was a cold beer, but this place was dry (and had posters on the wall proclaiming “Prayer: It may not be allowed in our schools, but it's welcome here”). So we settled for our second burger of the day and a quick trip to the liquor store (when Nick had finally managed to ask for directions, his initial attempts at “can you tell me where the nearest Offy is” being met with blank stares).

Then it was back to the motel to update the blog and check emails before finally calling it a night around 10pm.

Wouldn't you just credit it. The first day since the trip started for real that we get off, and the end result is I can't sleep. Wide awake and reading my book until almost midnight, so I decided to go and see the midnight sun. But it was obscured by clouds. Damn. Still I took a photo anyway, and then sat outside and read my book by the midnight daylight (if you see what I mean)...





Eventually I did get off to sleep, and still woke relatively early ready for the long ride South (it's actually a very, very, long ride South, but today's bit is a mere 240 miles or so, but all on the Dalton Highway... and the road changes from day to day depending on where the roadworks are, whether it has rained overnight, and how much traffic has been going up and down it. But for us, today, it was perfect. There were no particularly bad sections, and for much of it I rode alone, stood up at 60mph, scanning the road ahead for hazards and the scenery on either side for wildlife (a couple of caribou, a fox and lots of ground squirrels). Riding like this has to be one of the most extraordinary ways to travel. Imagine, if you can, standing on a plank of wood, 2 inches wide, in front of a huge fan heater forcing warm air at you at a steady 60mph. Now imagine the plank of wood is atop your washing machine filled with wet towels on the fast spin cycle. Now you have to balance a pole between your hands with a jug of water on each end and not spill any (these represent the handlebars, and if you grip too tightly the shocks coming up through your legs will have the bike in a death weave very quickly). Now imagine doing this though spectacular scenery and all with a zen-like calm. You still won't get close... Simply fan-bloody-tastic!

Before too long, though, my peaceful progress was rudely interrupted by an officious bloke in a day-glow suit standing by a lorry and waving at me. I thought he was waving me past, so crawled past him onto to hear a loud whistle and a shout, as he pointed to the spot in front of the lorry where he'd wanted me to stop. Bloody roadworks... Within minutes of being stationary the rest of the group started to arrive (I'd glided past the lead group just a couple of miles back, so in-the-groove was I). Before long we had 14 bikes in a big line, ready to be led behind the pilot car through the fresh mud and gravel they were laying. With me at the head, having to choose a good line for the others to follow, and avoid coming a cropper myself.





But it wasn't a problem, and soon we were free again and cruising sedately along the dirt, kicking up a small cloud of dust and enjoying the sunshine. Until once again my concentration was broken, this time by something shining at the roadside. A very grim reminder of just how treacherous this road can be. It was a Harley belonging to a Brazilian guy we'd met at Prudhoe. He'd left early that morning to avoid the road-workers, and somehow left the road on a particularly picturesque, but otherwise not particularly hazardous stretch. He'd been air-lifted to Anchorage in a pretty bad way, but will survive. I don't like taking pictures of crash sites, but it's an important reminder of how things can go wrong, especially if you're not properly prepared. Road tyres on a heavy Harley on this road is a recipe for disaster – sure, many have managed it, but they've all been pushing the odds. We're on dual-sport “adventure” motorcycles, fitted with a full off-road front tyre and a semi-off-road rear. And we've all had off-road training. Yet we still had 2 down on the way up (though thankfully unhurt).





Somewhat subdued, we rode on South, the road just perfect and with the sun still shining and warm, the thoughts rattling through my head soon moved away from the crashed Harley and onto the ride. Riding a motorcycle requires so much concentration, even more so on an empty dirt road that changes as quickly as this one can, that holding thoughts, any thought, for very long is impossible, the ride simply takes over and the only thoughts that enter my head are short-lived, like catching faces of people standing at a station from a speeding train...

Finally I arrived at the Atigun Pass once more, the barrier between the Tundra of the North and the Forest of the South. At the top were Jim and Mac, who'd left a good hour and a half before us, and had stopped here to admire the view and wait until we caught them up. Jim greeted me with the words “We've worked out why it's called the Atigun Pass”... “Why?”... “Well, when they first built the road, they went over here and up to Prudhoe, then when they were coming back, they saw the mountain and said....'oh no, not 'at again'...”.... I smiled and left before things got any worse...

Once on the other side of the pass, I stopped and waited for the group to catch up, reflecting on the fact that I'd already covered 190 miles in just 4 hours, on dirt... Not bad going... When only Al showed up (and Jim, Mac and Aaron went by), I decided to get moving again, reasoning I'd stop somewhere else to avoid arriving back in Coldfoot too early. When I found a lovely little river, I pulled off the road and sat by the gently bubbling water for perhaps 20 minutes, just enjoying the silence and the sunshine and the utter beauty around me. Alone with my thoughts, and without the constant motion, able to hold onto them for a while...





My solitude was interrupted on a couple of occasions by 2 cars that whizzed by one way, then back again, with strange towers on their roofs. When I finally dragged myself away and rode the few remaining miles to Coldfoot, they were parked up outside the café, with big “Google” stickers on the side... seems they're mapping the Dalton to feature in “My Street”... wonder if any of the bikes will appear on the images?





With the bike fuelled up I bought a few beers despite it only being 2pm (it had been a long and dusty ride!), and then went and showered/changed ready for dinner. Which was once again an all-you-can-eat affair, but this time with the most delicious fish with mushrooms and scallops, which at least kept me away from the desserts for a little while... After dinner a few of us wandered across the road to the visitor's centre, where there was a talk on the Kanuti National Wildlife Reserve, which is about 8 miles from the road, and only accessible by air (to one of 2 villages in the reserve), boat or foot. Which could explain why it only gets “20-30 visitors per year” and is “America's greatest wilderness”. Quite.

Exhausted from all that riding/food/education, I went to bed around 9pm, opting not to camp this time as it was still sunny (and unlikely to stop being until the wee small hours of the morning, when it will be just “light”)....

Today has been a good day, a restful day...

Our first day off so far (we've only been travelling for 3 days, but the Dalton was tiring), it was a day to take it easy... after all, there's not much to do in Deadhorse...

I had intended to start the day at midnight, looking out over the ocean at the midnight sun – due to the way the earth is tilted, in summer the poles angle towards the sun, and parts of the arctic circle, including Deadhorse, get 24 hours of daylight as the sun never sets – but I must have been tired as I slept soundly from 8.30pm right through until 6.20am... Getting up and showered quickly so I could get onto my laptop and see if Tracy was online, I had yet another coughing fit (I'd woken myself up in the night coughing loudly, but fortunately, not loudly enough to disturb Jim who was snoring gently at the other side of the room). When I managed to stop convulsing, I noticed Tracy had just come online, and so my day started just perfectly, being able to see her smiling face and chat a while about this and that (and to see the kittens snuggled up in their bed, and be properly introduced to them via the webcam). She mentioned that she was going out again tomorrow, and with me heading back to Coldfoot Camp (no Internet access) and her going away to Centre Parcs with the boys on Friday (not sure of the Internet access there) this might be the last chance we get to speak to one another for a while... but it was lovely, and reminded me that even after 7 years together and 2 years of being married, I'm still a lovestruck teenager inside an old man's body...

But enough of this softy stuff, and back to the hardcore adventure biker and his travels...

When Tracy had gone and I'd eaten the cereals Jim had thoughtfully brought from the restaurant knowing I would miss breakfast whilst being all lovey-dovey, I put on my bike gear and went out with Nick and Al in search of fuel and some bits-and-bobs from the general store. We found the fuel eventually, largely because Al had been there before, and filled up the bikes following the complex instructions inside the un-manned hut next to the pumps. We then rode around the dirt roads of Deadhorse for what seemed like a week looking for the general store cum post-office. With all the buildings looking the same – prefabricated flat-roofed shacks – and no roadsigns to help, we eventually gave in and asked someone for directions. Inside the store I managed to find what I was looking for – a couple of postcards (one for Mum, one for Nikki, but it'll be a while before they arrive!), some stickers for the bike (of course!), a fridge magnet (naturally), some cough sweets and some American paracetamol (which is known here as acetaminophen) and some liquorice flavoured altoid mints (because I saw them, and I like mints and liquorice).





With our shopping done, it was time to head back to the Inn to get ready for our tour of the oil field. Only on the way out, I'd spotted what looked like the perfect photo opportunity, so naturally we had to stop and take the picture. It's for all those who say that BMW GS motorcycles are agricultural...





Back at the hotel we got changed into our civvies and met up with the rest of the group in the “Tour Room” to watch an informative 20 minute video on oil production in Alaska, all about how the oil was extracted with the minimum of environmental damage, how it was piped to Valdez with the minimum of environmental damage, how it was then transported further afield with the minimum of damage in a fleet of new oil tankers fitted with double-skinned hulls, etc... and no mention at all of the Exxon Valdez which ran aground on a reef in Prince William Sound in 1989, spilling over 40 million litres of crude oil, causing a huge amount of “environmental damage”...

Suitably brainwashed, we then mounted the tour bus for our trip round the area. We had to pass through security as the ocean-front is “owned” by BP, and then learnt about the special trucks they have that can cross the tundra surveying for new oil deposits without causing any environmental damage as they run on huge balloon tyres inflated to just 4-6psi... I took a picture because my brother likes stuff like this...(this one's for you, Mike!):





Then we passed some buildings which house the oil heads, pumping oil and natural gas out of the ground (around a mile deep and from a radius of 2-3miles using a combination of horizontal and vertical drills), and then pipes them to other buildings where they eventually find their way into the Alaskan pipeline that runs for 800 miles to the ice-free port of Valdez (all this education, isn't it wonderful!)... here's a picture to show you what they look like...





This excitement was topped by the sight of a Snow Owl, watching our tour bus go past...





Quite what he'd have made of what happened next is anyone's guess. As I mentioned yesterday, it is something of a Globebuster's tradition to swim naked in the oceans at the start and end of the Trans Am. Not sure why, but I think it has a lot to do with Kevin's desire to get naked at every conceivable opportunity, coupled with the impact it has on the oil workers and the tour bus guide, who are horrified at the very thought. So we drove to the side of the Arctic Ocean, and the bus disgorged its contents of giggling middle-aged (and older) passengers onto the shale shorefront and we wobbled up the “beach” for about 50 yards until close to the water's edge. And then stripped off, ran in, lost both my shoes in the gloopy, dirty mud that formed the ocean bed and went for a “swim” (which was actually more like a splash around for 5 seconds, before trying to find my shoes and get back out again). The following pictures are not pretty, and are included here purely for journalistic reasons. I won't point out who is who to avoid embarrassment, but most of the group participated in some way or another...








Quickly dried and dressed and back on the bus, it was a quieter, less excitable group who arrived back at the Inn and ready for a warm shower...

With the rest of the day and evening to kill, I took advantage of the time to write the postcards, fix my tail-light (one of the screw posts had broken, so I glued it back together) and update the blog, unsure of when I'll next get chance. Soon it'll be time to eat again, and I've a book to read, so it'll be a relaxing evening before we head South tomorrow... who knows, I might even be awake at midnight to see the midnight sun...

Having slept really well in the tent, more so I think that others who were sharing the little plywood rooms here, I was up at 6am and back to the room for a shower, trying not to disturb Jim in the process (usually an early riser, I think having a room all to himself enabled him to engage in some sleeping practice). Then I packed the bike (surprised at how easily my luggage now goes together with practice) and went and grabbed a couple of bowls of cereal for breakfast (my attempts at reducing my food intake still failing miserably, but at least I avoided the full cooked breakfast). Around 8.15am we were on the road again, following the brilliantly descriptive directions provided by Globebusters - “turn right back onto the Dalton Highway, then continue to Prudhoe Bay” - no chance of getting lost there, then..

Actually, it wasn't quite like that, as we first turned off the Dalton to visit the old mining village of Wiseman. This was a collection of old buildings surrounded by rusting bits of machinery and a million or so mosquitoes. Still, it gave me a chance to practice my arty-farty photography...





Just as we were about to leave Wiseman, I noticed that the ice-hockey puck I'd fitted to the bottom of my sidestand, to stop the bike from leaning over too much when parked, had come loose, so I needed to remove it completely, and borrowed a hacksaw from Jeff (the Van Man) to cut the screws back,. That meant I was last leaving, some distance behind the others. Despite my earlier assertion that I would be taking it really easy today, I upped my pace a little on the hard compacted mud road, travelling at a brisk but comfortable 65mph. Despite the road being mud, it's just as smooth as tarmac, and as long as you avoid the gravel at the edges, and keep extremely vigilant for changes in surface (which can appear very abruptly) then it's relatively safe. The riding was good, passing once more through the forest on either side, with the oil pipeline making frequent appearances to the left or right, and sometimes passing underneath bridges carrying the road. Eventually we made it to the Atigun Pass, where the Dalton crosses the Brooks mountain range.





This is where the road changed for the first time, becoming wet and slippy mud as we rode up the pass, and down the other side. However, it was relatively straight-forward with no dramas to speak of. Once on the other side of the pass, the scenery also changed dramatically, from the forest of the South to the Arctic tundra of the North. With no trees, the wide-open expanse of fields leading to distant mountains was very reminiscent of parts of England, with the exception that there was a ruddy great big oil pipeline zig-zagging its way across the landscape... But it did give rise to the photo that matched an image in my imagination, of a lone bike riding across a desolate landscape... in this case the rider is Al, but moments after he'd gone from view, I rode this section all alone with my thoughts...





The road continued for mile after mile of wilderness, and as we'd all got separated I got to ride alone for a considerable period of time, with no music to distract me, only stopping occasionally to rest my legs (riding standing-up to better deal with the rough road sections was tiring) and to take the inevitable photograph of my bike surrounded my mamba coutry (miles and miles of b*gger all)...





Eventually (I've noticed I use that word a lot, but it does convey the passing of time between paragraphs, in this case, about an hour...) I stopped for a longer rest, to eat an apple and enjoy the absolute solitude and quiet. When I got going again, I caught up with a bunch of riders stuck at some roadworks. The road was being “graded” which we had been warned about because it is very hazardous. Basically, the road is watered, then a new layer of mud and gravel is spread over it, and then compacted down. Which is fine when done (although it remains very slippy and rough for some time afterwards as we found out later), but when it is being done, it means that there are great big ruts and mounds of dirt to catch out unwary bikers. This section had been made one-lane only, with a STOP-SLOW lollypop at either end, and a pick-up truck leading the traffic through the roadworks. The road was slippy and rough in places, but otherwise OK, and our little bunch got through without trouble (a later group wasn't so lucky, with one of the guys going down at slow speed, both bike and rider undamaged).

Shortly after the roadworks I was leading when a couple of caribou made a dash across the road in front of me. I stopped pretty quickly and grabbed my camera, but they were away into the field before I could get a decent shot. Kevin had passed me whilst I was stopped and noticed the caribou were heading out towards a river – and then he noticed a huge herd of them... so we all took the gravel road leading to the river and stood in amazement, as 2 very large herds, each with about a thousand or so caribou, came down the river...

See the dark line across the centre of this picture? That's a herd of caribou, that is...





And if you want a closer look...





Where we'd stopped there was a camper van also parked up by the river, which we initially thought was some other tourists who had seen the herd and come for a better look. Only it wasn't, it was a couple of hunters who were looking to use their bows and arrows (because only bows are permitted, no guns, and only certain caribou can be killed) to get themselves a kill. They were non-too-pleased when a large group of bikes all turned up for a better look at their prey, but even less impressed when a big 4x4 arrived with a thundering V8 that scared some of the herd, from which emerged a couple more hunters armed with more bows and arrows... It was time for us to leave, so we bid a hasty retreat and rejoined the main road...

Which was not compacted mud for much longer, instead being a section of freshly graded wet, rutted and very, very slippery gloop. I was following Kevin when we both saw it approaching and dropped our speed, then slithered along until we got back on firmer ground. Looking back, we could see that one of the bikes had gone down. Nick had been following us and had hit a rut which sent him into a tank-slapper (where the handlebars go lock-to-lock quickly) and he'd gone down, the bike ending up pointing back the way he'd come. He seemed OK, so the only thing to do was take a photo, which Richard duly did... Kevin standing proudly by the downed bike, whilst Nick looks dejected (and I'm struggling to get off my bike in the background...)





With the bike back upright and a bungee holding the damaged pannier lid on, we slithered back along the road once more. Just before arriving in Deadhorse, the village that services Prudhoe Bay's oil works, we encountered a grader in full flow, the road awash with water and mud and huge great ridges of mud and gravel everywhere... But we were not to be denied, and slithered our way through it, arriving safely at the motel (the Arctic Caribou Inn) around 3pm.

So here we are, at the top of the world (at least, as far North in the American continent as it's possible to get to).

The celebrations had to be a bit clandestine, though, as because Prudhoe Bay is a working Oil plant (basically, it's a huge oil production area, with lots of wells and big machinery, plus a few mad tourists like ourselves who come here because of where it is), it's “dry”. No alcohol. So we gathered in room A-2 (next to ours at the furthest point from reception) for a little toast of sneakily smuggled in booze (beer, red wine or Welsh whiskey, whichever took your fancy).

To the Top of the World!

Now we head South...

But not tomorrow, because we're going skinny-dipping in the Arctic Ocean (unless there's Polar Bears about, of course...)!

Woke early at 5.30am with severe indigestion, the result of too much rich food late at night, but at least that meant I could update the blog with the long story of yesterday's excitement. With that done, and again no sign of Tracy online (though I did chat briefly to Danielle), it was time to load up the bike and head off out. Pulling out of the Super 8 at 8.15 and heading out of Fairbanks, we stopped at the Alaska Pipeline visiting point, where we saw the pipeline up close.





Leaving the pipeline temporarily (the Dalton Highway follows it all the way to Prudhoe), we past a goldmine (belonging to none other than John Binkley of yesterday's story), and then continued on the same type of road as yesterday, fast sweeping turns and good tarmac, surrounded by dense forest, with a strong smell of burnt wood. With the sun out and the air warm it made for extremely pleasant riding, punctuated by the occasional stop to take a photo, or just to enjoy the peace and quiet...





Then we arrived at the start of the Dalton Highway, the dirt road that leads all the way to Prudhoe, and about which we've heard so much (and all of it scary!). But before we started we had to stop for the photocall in front of the sign...





Even “Spunky” and “Heffy” had to have their photo taken...





Then it was time to stop delaying and get on with the riding. The Dalton was in great condition, hard packed mud with sections of very thin loose gravel and really easy to ride on, despite our fears. Stood up to improve visibility and allow the bike to move around underneath me, I started feeling really good. With confidence improving with every mile, my speed also picked up, from the initial 35-40mph to 50-60 mph. With the occasional truck coming the opposite direction kicking up clouds of thick dust the only real hazard.

We stopped for lunch near a bridge over the Yukon, and once we'd all eaten we rode back over the bridge so that Kevin could get a photo of the group riding across bridge, a photo opportunity that could so easily have turned into a disaster as the bikes were ridden 4 abreast across the bridge, some with less than an inch between panniers... Will have to try and get a copy of the photo later!

After the photo shoot we continued along the dirt road, and I hooked up with Nigel (leading) and Richard & Karen (following). We came across a water truck going slowly in the same direction as us, so Nigel overtook it, and then I lined up ready for my turn, just hanging back left of the rear whilst the truck approached a hump in the road. Just at that moment, the truck driver turned on the water sprinkler, dumping water all over the road under my wheels turning it into a slippery, muddy mess within seconds... Nice... Still, it's all good practice, and I soon got a clear overtaking opportunity and once again was riding on compacted hard mud.





Then the trees on either side thinned out and were replaced by fields of Alaskan Fireweed, bright pinky-purple as far as the eye can see... with memories of Lavender Fields and Tracy once again flooding my consciousness, causing me to smile widely...





Then I arrived at the Arctic Circle...





Surprisingly it wasn't cold, in fact it was very warm. And full of mosquitos, attracted by the heat from our engines and keen to bite any exposed flesh. Fortunately, both Danielle and I had brought our highly fashionable net hats...





Shortly after crossing into the Arctic Circle, we came across another famous placename...





And then it was the home stretch, mostly tarmac into Coldfoot Camp, where we're staying for the night before talking the harder section of the Dalton to Prudhoe Bay. This place is a bit spartan, existing solely to cater for oil workers and tourists heading up to Prudhoe, with basic rooms in a large wooden cabin, with plywood walls and a simple shower/toilet cubicle in each room. They do have beer, though, unlike Prudhoe, so I managed to squeeze one down despite having a dry throat and not really being in the mood for beer, but as it is America's most northern bar, selling bottle of America's most northern brewery's beer, it seemed the right thing to do...





With the beer downed, I checked into my room and showered, then got something to eat from the “all you can eat buffet”, before getting the tent from Jeff... yes, I'd decided to camp in the Arctic Circle... this isn't as crazy as it sounds, because the rooms are very basic, and it is still fairly warm... So with the tent erected, I read a bit of my book before falling asleep around 9.30, to be woken by rain pitter-patting on the tent about half an hour later, and remembering how much Tracy and I love lying in the tent listening to the rain, fell into a deep sleep. Even the noise of the trucks coming and going could not ruin my night's sleep...

Departure Day followed Saturday night in downtown Anchorage, which meant pumping music from the bar across the street, which was still going at 3am... hardly ideal preparation for a long day's ride... Whilst I was getting up I also missed the drama unfolding right outside our hotel, as there was a real life cop-car chase that ended when they rammed the villain's vehicle at the intersection just down the road, then chased the villain into the alley where the bikes were stored before arresting him... some of the Trans Am team were outside at the time, and saw the whole thing, Nick even getting some of it on video (coming to an episode of “Cops with Guns” sometime soon!).

That wasn't the only pre-departure drama either, as Edwin took the opportunity to throw his fully-laden bike at Kevin, who was innocently sitting on his bike stretching before the off... think of those occasions when you've been skiing and tried to get the instructor to fall and you'll get the picture (although I don't think this was deliberate!)... Like all good reporters, whilst everyone else rushed to help, I got my camera out. Well, I was already on my bike wired up to my music, and there were more than enough people helping already!





With the group finally assembled and ready we rolled out of the alley behind the Anchorage Historic Hotel (highly recommended) and into the damp streets of Anchorage, heading North at last. Riding as one big group we must have made quite a sight, 17 BMWs and one Suzuki (Jim's) riding in formation up the freeway towards Fairbanks and on (closely followed by a grey Ford Transit). Soon the surrounding buildings thinned out and we entered the countryside, with dense woodland on either side of the road, and the weather took a turn for the worse, starting to drizzle heavily (I wouldn't call it “rain” as such). Nothing could dampen my spirits, though, as the blues of the last couple of days (“homesick blues” brought on by missing Tracy too much) faded away as the miles ticked by. After 90 miles or so the group stopped at a roadside cafe for a pre-arranged drink stop, before we would split up into smaller groups and “do our own thing”. Initially the cafe was closed, so we stood around in the drizzle chatting like excited school kids on a field trip, let loose on the big wide world for the first time...





At 10am, about 10 minutes after we arrived, the cafe opened and we were able to get a warm drink inside us. And then it was off again. I wanted some “me time” so pulled out alone and rode that way for some distance, just me and the open road, riding my bike in Alaska and singing in my helmet. Happy? Oh yes...

At one point I noticed a lot of pretty pink flowers lining the road between the roadside and the forest, and it reminded me of Tracy's Lavender Fields (from out trip to Europe in 2005), so naturally I had to stop and take a photo...





The flower is called “Fireweed” and in mid to late summer it begins blooming in the middle of the stalk, with each successive flower blooming just above the one before it. As the last flowers are blooming at the top of the stalk, the earliest blooms seed and turn to cotton, as seen below. When the fireweed turns to cotton, Alaskans say there are about six weeks until winter begins. With no sign of the cotton, perhaps we'll have good weather further North...

As we rode further North to the left were some very large mountains, including the range containing Mt McKinley, North America's largest mountain at 20,320 ft (6194m) but it was obscured from view by the blanket of grey clouds overhead. A little further on we entered Denali National Park, and the weather started to improve, just as U2's “Beautiful Day” sounded in my ears... one of those moments...





At the next petrol station I stopped to top-up, because I'd seen another group there, including Kevin, Julia, Richard and Karen and Nigel, and joined up with them for the next stretch. When we reached the entrance to Denali National Park the group fragmented again, Richard and Karen following me into the park entrance whilst the others carried on. Rather than pay the $15 entrance fee just to ride up the road 13 miles further into the park and back again, we just grabbed a cappuccino and a packet of “Volcano Chips” (crisps with Jalapeño chilli flavouring), a really bad combination, before heading back out onto the main road.

A little further up the road we stopped again, this time to look over to a huge forest fire that was burning across most of the horizon, and to watch a helicopter carry a bucket of water over to it in a vain attempt to put it out. The smell of burning wood would be with us for most of the rest of the day, and when riding into Fairbanks later the bikes would get a light dusting with ash falling from the sky, despite being several miles from the fire.





Having by now shed my waterproofs as the rain had stopped, the temperature rose a few more degrees and it was time to stop again and lose another layer. Whilst stopped, Kevin and Julia rode past, so we quickly got going again and tagged along, enjoying the wide open road and sweeping bends. Soon after Nigel also joined our little group and the 5 of us rode together, swinging through the bends, in a fluid display with the grace of a ballet... with the sun shining, and roads like these, I didn't want the day's ride to end, but it did, as we pulled into Fairbanks, filled up with fuel and then arrived at the motel... 355 miles of truly enjoyable riding... perfect!

The room at the Super 8 Motel is large, with 2 double beds, and with Jim some way down the road, I took the opportunity to shower and wash my clothes, then decided I needed a way to let him know which bed I'd chosen (first in, best bed!). So I pulled back the covers and laid the pillows and my helmet inside, then put the covers back over, so it looked like I was in bed asleep... when Jim arrived some time later (after I'd gone to the restaurant), he thought I was in bed, so tip-toed around for a while before realising I wasn't snoring!

Whilst all this was going on, the rest of the group caught a taxi to a restaurant where Kevin had arranged to meet John Binkley, a local politician who ran against Sarah Palin for Governer of Alaska in 2006 (he polled 30% of the vote against Palin's 51%). But that wasn't the reason we wanted to meet him. Oh, no, he has a story that's way more interesting than that...





After hearing a story about a German couple who drove a VW camper van from Ushuaia to the then-northern most point in Alaska, and knowing that the oil companies were building a road right to Prudhoe Bay, he decided he wanted to be the first to complete the journey from the northern-most point to the southern-most point. On a motorcycle. In 1975. So he lobbied the oil company for permission to use the road (which wasn't opened to the public until 1994 and had been built specifically for the oil company to use as they laid the oil pipeline from Prudhoe to Valdez). Finally getting permission in December, he set off on 2nd December, in temperatures of -53 degrees Fahrenheit (-47 degrees C)... using a BMW R75/5 and wearing a helmet he'd adapted himself (with foam sealed to his face, and a curtain to keep the wind out, using a snorkel to breath to prevent his breath from misting up his visor).






As this was the depths of an Alaskan (and Arctic as Prudhoe is inside the Arctic Circle) winter, he also had to make some modifications to the bike, including hand-studding the tyres (125 studs in the front, 75 in the rear). With help from passing truckers, who radioed each other about his progress and helped him get warm by stopping and insisting he thaw out in their heated cabs when they saw him looking hypothermic by the roadside, he made it all the way to Portland before rebuilding the bike and then continuing the journey South.





With no visas and no support, he blagged his way across the borders, flew the bike from Panama City around the Darien Gap to Medellin, Columbia, then down to Santiago before heading across the Andes and on to Buenos Aires (the Carretera Austral, the road we're taking, wasn't started until 1976) and then down to Ushuaia, arriving on April 21st 1976.





To say he had us enthralled with his story would be an understatement. I've only included a brief summary of it here, as we were all pushing him to write a book about his adventure – after all, it was around the same period that Ted Simon was undertaking Jupiter's Travels (1973-1977), the book which inspired Ewan and Charley to do the Long Way Round, which in turn inspired me to be here... and what a book it would be!

The rest of the evening was naturally spent with us discussing John's trip and comparing what he went through with how things are today. All over a delicious seafood pasta dish washed down with rather too much Alaska IPA... What a 1st day, roll on tomorrow!!

The penultimate day... tomorrow the trip starts for real as we roll out of Anchorage and head North into the “Last Frontier”...

The day started like any other, with me waking around 7.30am and showering, dressing, breakfasting and updating the blog. Seems the routine is working, although this blog entry has been written in the evening, as tomorrow is an early departure... but more of that tomorrow...

With the morning free, I lounged around sorting out my packing and trying to work out how I ended up with so much stuff. I'm sure when I packed at home it all comfortably fitted in my 2 pannier bags, but now I've filled my top-box as well. And that's with me throwing away my canvass trainers and ditching the box my service kit was in to conserve space. Still, I think I got it sorted eventually, and so I'm ready to go...

By the time I'd sorted out my packing it was time to head off the BBQ being hosted by the local bike “gang” Team Pterodactyl. Rolling out from the hotel in formation again, we rode out of town to Larry's house, a beautiful large house with a massive garage (got some ideas for when we buy the smallholding!), where we were met by several members of the “gang” (they're not really a “gang” as such, but Gina loves to tell the kids at her school that she's part of a gang...) and the food started a-coming. And a-coming... Huge steaks expertly cooked on the BBQ, reindeer sausage (which are delicious), Fresh Alaskan Salmon (the best salmon I've ever tasted, with about 20 times more flavour than the stuff back home), wonderful chewy chocolate brownies, and assorted nibbles (including some real cheese, a rare sight in the US!). We watched a video of Kevin and Julia's fact-finding trip from London-Bejing via Tibet that forms their latest organised expedition (a 10-week trip through some very serious terrain....), which looked fantastic (but first I need to get to Ushuaia!), and then some footage of the gun shoot from yesterday... boy, did we look mean... (ok, no, we didn't, we looked like excited schoolkids!).





The hospitality we've received whilst here in Anchorage has been just fantastic, and I can't really thank Team Pterodactyl enough for all they've done for us, but hope that I'll see them on the road at some point in the future...

Too soon it was time to say our goodbyes, posing first for a team photo in Larry's enormous garage...





So let me introduce them. From left-right, back row (standing): Danielle, Christine, Max, Karen, Ken (hidden being Nick), Nick, Me, Aaron, Jim, Andrew, Julia, Al, Lorraine, Edwin, Jeff (the Van Man); front row (kneeling): Kevin, Gerald, Chris, Nigel, Andy. Missing from the photo are Richard and Mac, not sure why! So that's it, the 22 people who tomorrow morning at 8am will roll out of Anchorage on 18 motorcycles (with Karen, Christine and Lorraine all riding “wingman” [think “Top Gun”]) and 1 Ford Transit van...

It's going to be on hell of an adventure...

Once more woke relatively early after a decent night's kip, showered, dressed and breakfasted – this time with toast and marmalade, going cold-turkey and giving up the maple syrup – and then updated the blog before the expedition meeting at 10am...

The meeting was to ensure everyone was reminded of all the “rules of the road” such as group riding, parking, hotel arrangements, riding conditions, etc. The section covering what we need to expect on the Dalton Highway (Monday and Tuesday on the way up to Prudhoe from Fairbanks) had everyone feeling a little more anxious, as the road is mostly gravel with sections of very difficult riding. What I think made it worse was when Kevin said he was determined to get everyone through it without incident this year, for the first time!

With the meeting over, and out final payments made we had the afternoon to ourselves, so I went out in search of a new camera... Whilst on the boat yesterday, it became obvious that the lack of a decent zoom on my camera would prevent me from getting good photos of wildlife, and Richard had an excellent little compact with a 12x optical zoom (the Panasonic ZS3). So I did some Internet research and went shopping. Unable to find the Panasonic, I settled on a Canon SX200 IS, which also has a 12x zoom and is little bigger than my IXUS. Being a Canon the controls are familiar, and an added bonus is it takes the same battery as my IXUS, so now I have 4 batteries and no excuse for rubbish pictures (all the following images were taken on the new camera, but not all by me!).

Armed with my new camera, I met the rest of the group and we rode out in convoy to the gun range... I say “convoy”, but given we'd just had a talk about group riding the first few miles as we rode out of town were anything but, with bikes changing position as people tried to settle into the groove... there's a nack to group riding and it takes a few minutes to settle into it, and line up in the staggered formation that's necessary to increase safety. But soon we had it pretty well sorted, and the sight of so many GS bikes burbling along the freeway was quite something...

At the range we met up with our hosts for the evening's entertainment, and their collection of machine guns...











At our disposal we had enough weapons to invade a small country – Uzi's (mini and maxi), Glock, M16 Armalite, Vickers machine gun (1919), Thomson, Sten gun, 9mm pistol, 44 Magnum, AK-47, 50 Calibre Browning, and many more the names of which I can't remember... and 50 rounds of 2 types of ammo, plus ammo for the AK-47 and a single round for the 50 cal...

Now before I explain what happened next, I need to recount “Andrew's Story”...

Andrew, who's doing the full Trans Am, when he was younger, 'borrowed' a traffic cone and was arrested as a result. So when it came to completing his Visa forms, he naturally, being a rehabilitated and now completely honest and decent chap, declared this. So the US Embassy refused him a full Visa, and the ensuing negotiations meant he had to revise his travel plans several times, and it was touch-and-go as to whether he'd be able to make the start of the trip. Eventually he was granted a special “visa waiver” which allowed him entry to the US, but under certain restrictions... So naturally when he arrived at the hotel he was presented with a souvenir to carry on the trip...





The writing on it says “US Embassy, London, Welcomes 'Cone-Man' (the Barbarian) – Have a Nice Day”...

So naturally the Cone was placed in the middle of the firing range prior to all hell breaking loose as the Trans AM 2009 expedition riders let loose...

















Needless to say, it was mayhem. The 50 Cal in particular was completely crazy, a weapon that deafens even when wearing ear protection, and kicks back so hard it almost had us thrown off our seats...it was described by our host as a gun "of some authority"... no kidding! How the forces actually use any of these weapons in anger is beyond comprehension, they are so damn difficult to hold onto when on semi-automatic, and when on full auto they kick around making hitting passing seagulls more likely than hitting a chose target... Oh, and they empty a clip, that contains anything from 15-50 rounds and takes a good couple of minutes to load, in about 10 seconds... But hey, what a blast!

And the traffic cone?

Well, here's what it looked like after it had been subjected to the combined efforts of the Trans Am 2009 Army...





It doesn't actually look that bad, does it? Yet it's completely peppered with holes, the bullets simply passing straight through the plastic... I wouldn't want to swap places with it, put it that way!

When all the dust had settled, it was time to head back to the hotel, but not before I'd armed myself in case we came across the tow-truck driver from yesterday...

After another good night's sleep I woke at 6am, showered, breakfasted (yet more waffles, my maple syrup addiction showing no sign of abating... thanks Steve!), and online in search of Tracy. No such luck, so updated the blog and then had to get on with fixing my handlebars (which had come loose in transit) and prepare for the day's outing.

Leaving the hotel just before 10am, with Richard & Karen, Chris, Danielle and Gerald, stopping for a group photo as Kevin wanted something to show interested parties back home, we headed out of town, following my sat nav with Richard at the back using his to ensure the group stayed together. After a short while Richard pulled alongside as his sat nav was showing a completely different route... odd, as they're exactly the same and loaded with exactly the same maps. Seems I'd left my preferences set to avoid toll roads, and with the tunnel being a toll road, it was taking me on a “slight” detour... that would have had us arriving in Whittier at 8pm... oops!

With that corrected, we followed Richard and then the group got fragmented at a set of traffic lights, so the lead riders pulled to the side of the road to wait. And a large recovery truck pulling a dead car got “stuck” behind (actually, as it was an empty 3-lane highway, “stuck” isn't technically correct), so the driver, a real redneck, leaned out of his cab and started shouting abuse at them. This continued even after the group was back together, as at the next set of red lights he was hanging out of his cab, going red in the face and yelling at the top of his voice, expletive after expletive... This being the US, and knowing their taste in weapons, we simply “high-tailed” it out of there... disturbing...

Now we were on the right road, we followed the Seward Highway along the coast with spectacular views over Turnagain Arm. As we came round a headland it started to rain, so we pulled over and did the “Dance of the Waterproofs” as we squeezed into our rain gear, forcing heavy boots into tight trousers... Now riding in the pouring rain, we turned off onto Portage Glacier road which led to the entrance to the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel. This is the longest tunnel in America, a single-lane, traffic-controlled tunnel that also doubles up as a railway tunnel. The traffic is held in a waiting area, then once an hour flows in the direction to Whittier, for 15 minutes, before it is used by the train, and then vehicles leaving Whittier. Motorcycles are sent through after all the cars, in single file, and given a special safety leaflet to explain how to avoid hitting the rails and coming a cropper in the tunnel (and what to do if you do). With wet rails, a wet road, and a narrow 4' wide strip to ride the length of the tunnel on, none of us was looking forward to it... first-day nerves, perhaps. As it was, there was no drama, and before long we emerged from the 2.5 miles (yes, it's really only that long, so much for everything being bigger in the US...) into more rain and the small town of Whittier. Where we dithered over finding a parking space, before settling in right next to the boat terminal.

Once on board we were shown to our seats, the best on the boat, on the upper deck right at the front. We had 2 tables more-or-less to ourselves (Chris and I sharing our table with a couple of retired American women who had been on a cruise up to Alaska and were now travelling round in a hired car). Then we were off, and immediately served lunch. Which was battered fish, served wrapped in a foil wrapper (think naan bread from the Indian take-away!), with a portion for each of the 300 or so people on board.... but it was really good, the fish here is so fresh that even fast food is very tasty...

Soon after we'd pulled away from the berth and eaten lunch, Marie, the on-board Forest Ranger (yes, the whole are around Prince William Sound is a protected forest, the Chugach National Forest) started waffling over the tannoy, explaining all about the history of the sound, the forest, the glaciers, the wildlife, the weather, etc... She was very informative, but also slightly irritating, in the “patronising American” way... But the glaciers were very impressive, in a way that the photos probably don't convey...





and we got to see some huge chunks “calving”, including this one, which must have been the size of a 4-storey building...





and then we got to see some sea-otters, lounging about on the ice (which according to the ever-informative Marie was a rare sight, as they prefer the cold water, and this represents sun-bathing, otter-style...)...





Eventually, though, we had to leave this beautiful scene and head back to port, with one final glance back to the glaciers...





The ride back through the tunnel was as uneventful as the trip in, despite the continual pouring rain, and once again as we crossed the headland the weather improved and the rain stopped. Then we encountered a long traffic jam, with what looked like a real commotion going on at a slight rise in the road... the cause wasn't an accident, it was a BEAR!! The tide had gone out, and there on the sand-flats was a small black bear... no wonder the traffic had stopped... but it was too far out to get a photo (I'm now looking for a small camera with a good optical zoom!), so you'll have to take my word for it...

Back at the hotel we parked up the bikes, showered and went out for dinner (back to the Snow Goose for a good pizza and some more Red IPA). Here we met up with Nick, Al and Nigel, the team now almost complete – although word has it that Andrew had missed his flight!!

Today has been another day of doing very little here in Anchorage, as the rest of the Group start arriving from the far corners of the US, where they've been trying to get over the initial shock of jet-lag and the realisation that the trip is finally underway after all this time.

I must be acclimatising now, as this last night I slept like a baby (awake every 3 hours screaming and having pooped my pants... OK, maybe not quite like a baby!) until 8am. Jim had already got up and gone out without even waking me, so I must have been in a fairly deep sleep. Showered and breakfasted (more waffles with maple syrup) and then back to the room to get online update the blog. Unfortunately there was no Tracy online as there had been yesterday, and I found my heart sinking as I realised that catching her was the reason I was rushing to get my laptop out. Disappointed, I updated the blog for yesterday, then Gerald popped by with a problem with his email which I was fortunately able to resolve (imagine the embarrassment of being the IT guy who couldn't fix a simple IT problem...). No sooner had Gerald left than Tracy came online and we were able to have a good chat. After she'd gone, I was able to use the orignal website files to restore the beer pics gallery (it's proven to be quite popular, so I was devastated when I broke it yesterday). I then did my washing, leaving socks and underwear all over the bathroom (hope Jim doesn't mind!) before going out for another wander round the shops.

I'd had cold feet since arriving, as I only brought some canvass trainers and sandals, so I bought a pair of trekking shoes, and a long-sleeved tee-shirt to make up for not getting one before I left the UK. I also bought a couple more stickers for my bike... we need to get on the road soon, or I won't have any money left!

I took lunch (an Alpine Burger with garlic, mushrooms and swiss cheese) in a local restaurant before heading back to the hotel. Mid afternoon Richard and Karen arrived, and shortly after Max and Christine also appeared, so we headed off to the Snow Goose for some beer. Oh, and we also booked a cruise to see 26 glaciers for tomorrow, departing from Whittier which is a short ride from here.

And that was that, really. A restful day of doing very little. Tomorrow looks like being more interesting, and we also have things planned for Friday and Saturday, so it's going to be a good run-in to the departure on Sunday morning...

Another early start despite the excesses of last night, as I woke at 5.30am (!) and decided to get up and start sorting out my chores for the day. Jim's also an early riser, so he was up and out of the room by the time I was showered and dressed, so I logged on to check my email and managed to catch Tracy online. What a joy it was to see her smiling face on my computer screen – the combination of Skype and a webcam enabling the sort of video-phone-calls that a few years ago were the realm of science fiction. It's odd that we don't exploit this technology more when we're geographically close (preferring the traditional you-can't-see-me phones), but it certainly worked for me. I don't feel quite as remote now...

After we'd had a chat and I'd said “Hi” to the boys (who being a much younger generation were less impressed by the technology) I went and grabbed a waffle for breakfast before returning to the room to start sorting through all the work-related stuff I'd been sent.

I'm not sure if I explained this in a previous blog, but following the takeover of HBOS (where I work in the IT department) by Lloyds TSB, there is a lot of re-structuring going on. As part of trying to deal with integrating the 2 banks, and their massive IT operations, it's necessary to combine the 2 IT organisations and that inevitably means that there will be some removal of overlap between certain roles, including mine (I'm an “IT architect” responsible for defining how certain parts of IT systems should be constructed). I was hoping to have this all resolved, or at least the information I need to provide, sorted out before I set off, so I can concentrate solely on the trip, but the new structure was not announced in time. On Monday I received an email from my manager containing the new structure and since then have been sending emails back and forth trying to get sufficient information so I can state my preference regarding the role(s) I'd like to be considered for. I also have to state whether or not I'd be interested in voluntary severance, should the opportunity arise (as long as they get the cheque to me before I leave Buenos Aires, what do you think?!). As you can imagine, this is somewhat distracting me from my preparations...

However, once I'd sent the emails and I knew I wouldn't be getting any further replies – with Anchorage 9hours behind the UK, that was from about 9.30am – I started on my other chores. I went shopping for some bits and pieces (postcard for mum high on the list, I'm under threat of excommunication should I forget!), including some stickers for the bike (a bit like the ones we used to cover the caravan windows with when I was a little boy, showing everywhere we'd been – a sort of one-upmanship game among the travelling community). The shopping didn't take long, and then I was back to the hotel to sort out some stuff on the website (which resulted in me breaking the Beer Gallery, much to my dismay!). I then had a wander round town again, down to the stream by the inlet where the locals were trying to catch salmon as they swam upstream. Apparently they're not allowed to catch the pink ones, but that didn't stop them hauling a huge one out before putting it back again...





After a short ride out to blow away the cobwebs, I met up with Chris and Danielle at the hotel (they'd just flown in from New York via Seattle, having left Glasgow the day before), and we went out for dinner, meeting up briefly with Mac and enjoying a “fish supper” (well, Chris is Scottish!) and a huge portion of chocolate brownie and ice-cream. Then it was back to the hotel where I wrestled unsuccessfully with the website and watched a programme about the Prudhoe Bay Oilfield on Nat Geo, before turning in around 10pm.

After a really good night's sleep (the joys of a large bed in a room all to myself) I woke at 6.30am and showered before heading down to meet Jeff for breakfast. This being America, even a “do it yourself” breakfast is not a simple or small affair, with 2 waffle-making machines to fathom out. It's actually very simple, really, you just fill a small cup with gloopy batter from the dispenser, pour it onto the base of the waffle machine, making sure it goes all the way round the little raised squares, close the lid and rotate it by 180degrees. After 2 minutes or so the timer rings and you can then remove your perfect waffle and saturate it with oodles of maple syrup. And enjoy watching your waistline grow as you eat it... so much for me losing weight on this trip!

With my stomach once again stretched to bursting point, I waddled back to my room and grabbed my bike gear, then put it in the back of the van and off Jeff and I went to pick up Kevin and Julia from a friend's house where they were staying. Once we'd loaded all their gear in the back of the van we all went to customs, with Kevin riding with his friend Jerry and Julia and me in the van with Jeff. First stop was to pick up Keith (the local freight agent), then we arrived at the customs office, where the process of getting the bikes cleared started. This involved a few additional forms which needed completing, so we spread the load, making pretty light work of it. Whilst one of the customs guys processed the forms, another asked us where we were from, and when we mentioned we were from the UK, he started to explain about his relatives in Cumbria. Nothing unusual about that, most Americans seem to have some relatives or friends in the UK, but he then went on to ask us if we were familiar with Morris Dancing. And then to explain some of the different dances and describe a gathering he'd been to (the “Woodstock of Morris Dancing” he called it). I've never met an American Morris Dancer before, and suspect I won't again!

With the bikes cleared through customs (that is, the forms stamped and dated with the official stamp), we drove across to the warehouse where we were met by Tom (another local and member of the same bike club as Gerry) with a large selection of electric screwdrivers. Then we were shown into a corner of the large warehouse where the bikes were waiting to be uncrated...





So then the work started. As each crate had the registration number of the bike printed on the side, I wandered round until I found mine, and then set to work with the electric screwdriver, gradually revealing my bike and eventually setting her free...














With my bike free I started work on another, then another and before long the warehouse was full of shiny bikes out of their crates and ready for a big adventure. With the work done, I changed into my bike gear whilst the rest of the team rode the other bikes out of the warehouse, and then I rode my own bike onto Alaskan soil (or actually the concrete apron of the warehouse)!! With the bikes now safely outside and ready to be relayed to the hotel, we took one last photo and went for lunch...





Riding my bike through downtown Anchorage was a great feeling, after all this time planning and saving for this very moment. Lunch was pretty cool too, in a local eatery called Gwennie's where I had reindeer sausage and eggs with home fries. The reindeer sausage (What's the difference between Caribou and Reindeer? Reindeer pull Santa's sleigh...) was delicious, slightly spicy and very filling (no surprises there!) but with the morning's work, I felt justified in eating it all.

After lunch I went to get some gas (I'm turning American...) whilst the rest of the team went to ferry the first batch of bikes to the hotel. Having filled the Harley a few times I was now used to either having to swipe my credit card at the pump or pre-pay the cashier, and not knowing how much it would take to fill my tank I opted to use my card, which was fine. Then the pump screen said “Take nozzle and select grade”. So I took the nozzle and looked for a button to press to select the right grade. Only there wasn't one. So I pressed anything that looked like it might possibly be a selection button, but still no fuel. Eventually I gave up and went inside to ask the attendant to come and see what was wrong. He showed me that you take the nozzle and then lift the nozzle holster up... I felt such a wally, but I've never seen a pump like that before...

Once over my embarrassment and with a full tank of gas, I rode back to the hotel, and sat out front until the guys arrived back, a long stream of 6 bikes, which we then parked round the back of the hotel. The guys had met up with Jim and Mac (2 more Trans-Am riders) and so they'd been able to collect their own bikes as well. Then we all hopped in the back of Jeff's van and went back to the airport where we put one broken bike (flat battery) in the van and rode the rest back to the hotel. With all of the bikes now safely parked, I grabbed a quick shower and change of clothes and we went off to the Snow Goose pub for a well-earned beer or two (or three.. or...). A micro-brewery, the beer was delicious, and whilst sat on the terrace we also met Aaron and Kenneth (Aaron is doing the full Trans-Am. Ken the section to Tuscon).





After a snack of fish and chips (from the “appetizer” section of the menu, with chunks of incredibly fresh fish in light batter and french fries), we left the Snow Goose and headed over to Humpy's. Now this isn't some kinda sleezy strip-joint but a pub named after the nick-name for a male salmon when it takes on a humped appearance after its spine bends from swimming to chase the female fish during the mating season... where the beer was also good. But with us all nearly falling asleep, it was time to call it a night and walk back to the hotel. And here's the odd thing about Alaska, even at 11pm it was still daylight. Weird...

Riding motorcycles all day is a great way to ensure a good night's sleep, and last night was no exception. Exhausted after the day's ride, I fell into a deep sleep, troubled only by weird dreams brought on by the late-night conversation with Steve about events in our lives in the 11 years since we last saw each other...

I also had a lie-in, waking at 6.30am, and showered and packed my belongings away before once again updating the blog. We wanted to get an early start so we could squeeze another day's ride in before my flight in the evening, so we left at 8.30am and once again rode into the early morning fog, and took the by-now familiar route to San Francisco and over the Golden Gate bridge, which was again suspended from the heavens under a thick blanket of fog. We then took a completely different route along a fantastic biking road with great sweeping bends and rolling hills, past man-made lakes and through small wooded copses and wide open sun-bleached fields. With the sun now having burnt off the fog the temperature rose to a pleasant level, and the riding was great, swinging the heavy Harley into the turns and scraping the footboards several times (more so the left one, as I seem to be more comfortable on left-hand bends than right-hand ones for some reason). We continued to amble along, enjoying the scenery and catching glimpses of turkey vultures circling on the thermals before finally arriving at Point Reyes, our nominated brunch stop.

Another quaint little town this one is a mecca for bikers, as any small town surrounded by great roads usually is, and the main street was lined with bikes of all types, from Ducati Hypermotards and 1098s, Japanese sportsbikes, Triumph speed triples and Harleys, both standard and full-on choppers. We ate in the Point Reyes Station House, a beautiful old wooden building with a garden patio (the area we were shown to was secluded and under a wooden “summer house”, which the waitress referred to as “romantic” - hardly appropriate!), and we both had an excellent “Corned Beef Hash” which bore no resemblance at all to the English version, and some “Home Fries” (sautéed potato chunks in their skins) and another great coffee mocha (for the sugar rush...).

Relaxing in the sunshine once more it was difficult to get moving again, but with bikes to ride we managed to drag ourselves away, and headed out of town and up the coastal road (Highway 1). Any road that follows the coast is going to be winding, and this was no exception, hugging the coastline in a series of lefts and rights that had me grinding the footboard some more (hoping that the rental company expects this sort of thing, it's only natural after all!). We rode all the way up to Bodega Bay before stopping again for a bottle of fizzy drink and a rest in the sunshine, before it was time to start heading back the way we'd come.





By now the sun was at its hottest and it was like riding in a fan-assisted oven, so we stopped at the side of the road, by an old school (1871 – positively ancient in American history terms) to cool off and take another photo of the Harley.





We stopped again in Fairfax for a final drink before rejoining the freeway and back into San Francisco, crossing the Golden Gate bridge for the last time, in a very strong side wind. We then had to cross the city to get back to Thunder Road and drop the bike off, but the riding was easy and the traffic light and predictable. With so little time to explore the city (and the fact that I'm saving that treat for when I can come again with Tracy), I only caught glimpses of City Hall, some weird-looking church on a hill and a grassy square...

Dropping the bike off was also trouble-free, and then it was back to “riding bitch” on Steve's Shadow back into the descending fog all the way back to Half Moon Bay, with my backside getting sore and my knees complaining. Back at Steve's I changed out of my bike gear and completed my packing and checked in online, before we loaded the bags into the car and joined a long traffic jam out of Half Moon Bay and on to the airport.

It was odd saying goodbye to Steve. We've only seen each other on 3 occasions – the 2 weeks of “NEO” in Boston, when he came to the UK and stayed with me for a day or so, and these last 3 days. I've always believed that there are some people you meet in life that will instantly become friends, people who are genuine, open and just good company. Steve is one of those people, and the last 3 days riding, chatting, drinking and eating with him have proven my theory. They've been what I like to call “best days”, days that you wish could last longer, and that you know you'll look back on with great fondness in years to come. Thanks, Steve. Hope it's not 11 more years before we get together again...





Once at the airport I dropped the big bag off at the drop-off, rip-off point (paying an additional $15 for checking a bag in, and a further $50 because it weighs more than 50lbs [66lbs actually]), then passed through security and went in search of something to eat. The spicy won-tons and noodles were not a match for the food Steve had found or prepared, but were not too bad. Then it was time to board the plane.

The flight itself was not one of the best, as sat in the entire row in front of me was a mother with her 4 incredibly badly-behaved children. Screaming, hitting each other and generally making a complete nuisance of themselves – including the mother, who seemed to slap one or other of the kids every 5 minutes. Sleep was not going to be possible, so I finished reading my book, then the in-flight magazine, write the blog (the in-flight magazine states that Alaskan Airways are conducting trials of in-flight wi-fi, but not on this flight, unfortunately, as I quite liked the idea of updating the website at 36,000 ft) and try to avoid slapping the irritating mother myself.

Finally we descended into Anchorage amongst dark grey skies, and the crew announced that it was 11.20pm, an hour behind San Francisco, and now 9 hours behind the UK. Despite the time, and the grey rainy skies, it was still light outside... after all, this is the “Land of the Midnight Sun” as they say...

Before I'd even made it to the baggage collection point I was met by Jeff (the Van Man) and we chatted and idled the time until my bag arrived, which we then dragged to the waiting van and threw in the back (not literally, it does weigh 32Kgs!). With Jim Jones (an American also on the Trans Am) due in at “0.01am” we went to check on his flight, only to discover that there were no flights arriving at that time (the closest being one in at 1.01am). As the hotel is only a short drive from the airport, Jeff suggested he took me there and came back for Jim (who I was sharing a room with) later. I agreed, and off we set, only to discover the main route to the hotel was closed and so Jeff navigated us across town, disorientating me completely in the process. But he must have known what he was doing because we arrived outside the hotel in short order. A very old looking building in downtown Anchorage (dating from 1936 on this site, the hotel first being established in 1916) and listed in the “National Register of Historic Places”, it looked comfortable enough.

With Jeff having confirmed that Jim hadn't somehow managed to beat us back, he set off into the night to get him, whilst I checked in. I was given room 209, but when I tried to open the door a voice shouted from inside that “You got the wrong room, buddy!”... Double-checking the number on the door (209), the number on the key (209) and the number in my head (209), I concluded there must be a mistake (my powers of deduction, even having been up for 19 hours straight are amazing!) and went back to reception. Will, the desk clerk, was most apologetic and quickly sorted me out with a replacement room – a suite – and said he'd put Jim in a single when he arrived (as he had no other twins available). Result! A large bed all to myself, with coffee facilities for the morning. Grateful, I collapsed into bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep...

After a much better night's sleep, I woke again at 6am, showered and updated the blog with yesterday's adventures... Here's hoping this is the start of a repeatable routine, as it would be nice to think I can keep the blog up-to-date almost daily... But I suspect that as I get more into the trip, I'm going to wake up later and later...

Whilst I wrote the blog, Steve put on some coffee and then made us some pancakes (served with maple syrup, naturally) and some little savoury sausages. They were delicious. Who knows, I might even turn American on this trip...

Breakfasted and with the blog up-to-date we changed into our biker attire and got the bikes out of the garage, before I shattered the early-morning peace and quiet by starting the Harley. It's not got any quieter overnight... And of we rode, out onto Highway 1 again, with the air cooled by the early-morning fog and with the salty aroma of the ocean filling our nostrils. Into San Francisco city so Steve could drop off some checks (sic) at the bank, riding up and down hilly streets, and watching out for all the STOP signs, avoiding the trams (which were all very modern, more like Manchester's Metrolink than the quaint old ones in the movies). With the bank job done (!) we rode back out of the city, via Golden Gate Park with powerful smells of fresh basil (it must have been something else that smelt like basil, as wild basil doesn't grow in the park), and once again over the famous bridge, which was again shrouded in dense fog, the tall support stanchions disappearing just 20 or so feet above our heads, as though they led up into the heavens (or perhaps a land of giants tending to their golden geese – I'm sure I heard “fee fi fo fum” at one point whilst crossing). Once over the bridge we continued along the freeway for a few miles before heading off on a winding road up towards Mt Tamilpais. This road was treat (the first of many today) and despite some occasional slow-moving traffic we managed to get into a rhythm leaning this way and that as the road wound its way up the hillside, with spectacular views over the bay to our left.

Eventually we descended into a small town by a wide sandy beach called “Stinson Beach” where we pulled up for a coffee. From here we rode out of town a few miles and then took a right turn onto a narrow road leading up into the mountains proper (the Bolinas-Fairfax road). Avoiding the brightly dressed mass ranks of the Lance Armstrong wannabee club, huffing and a puffing their way up the mountain, or hurtling downhill using all the road (get out of the way!), we made our way upwards. Whoever said that American roads are predominantly straight has obviously never been on this one, which twisted one way and then the other, with some of the right hand turns in particular being well over 270 degrees, badly cambered and with cyclists hurtling down right where I wanted to be. Challenging is the right word to describe this road, especially when riding a very heavy, very long, Hardly-Turning. But fun, oh, yes....

After an eternity of turning this way and that we emerged onto the ridge above the tree-line, and with the fog still covering most of the bay way below us, it looked for all the world as though we'd ridden into heaven itself...





But we weren't at the top yet, so we continued on our merry way, stopping to take several photos of the incredible vistas (I'll create a separate gallery for them or the blog will get too big!), before rounding a left hand bend and being completely stunned by the view over to San Francisco city, still shrouded in a dense fog...




If you look closely, you can see the Golden Gate Bridge leading from the Marin Highlands to the city in the top centre. Leaving the summit behind, we rode back down and then took the turn towards Fairfax and repeated the left-right-left-right-left-oh-my-god-RIGHT of the way up but going down. Stopping at the oh-so-photogenic reservoir at the Tamilpais Watershed in the now searing heat, we stretched and tried to get life back into muscles that were beginning to ache from the effort of hauling the bikes round the turns. But it felt good, a feeling enhanced by the spectacular scenery...





Finally we descended into Fairfax itself, where we parked the bikes and found a likely-looking Italian restaurant for lunch. It was now 1.30pm, and we'd set off at 9am, but had only covered some 80 miles, an indication of how winding the terrain had been. Glad of the chance to relax and drink something (a glass of Peroni, of course, and several gallons of ice-cold water) and eat (a delicious Fettuccine Carbonara) , we took full advantage of the restaurant and watched the world go by for a good half hour...

We did have to drag ourselves back outside into the sunshine again, though, as the day's riding was far from over. Refreshed we headed out onto the highway (wasn't that a line in a song?) up Highway 101 and onto Highway 37 (the Napa-Sonoma highway) and into wine country. I even had time on these long straight roads to try the Harley's “cruise control”, which enabled me to cruise past Steve and wave to him with both hands... cool! Taking Highway 12 (are you with me still?) into Sonoma, we stopped on the main street and went into a frozen yogurt (sic) shop. I've never had one of these before, but it was great. Like ice-cream but not as unhealthy, although by the time I'd added a few chocolate-based toppings it probably had more calories than a large pizza...

Back on the bikes again, we ditched the jackets in the panniers (it was very, very hot and the traffic very light) and rode along the “wine road” out of Sonoma and passed endless vineyards and “wineries”, stopping for the inevitable photograph...





By now it was getting on a bit and we were still some miles from home, so we filled up with gas and water and put our jackets back on before heading back on Highway 101, from Santa Rosa back to San Francisco, this time heading up onto the Marin Highlands for a view over the Golden Gate Bridge. Despite 40-mile-an-hour winds, the view from the gun emplacements (now without guns) was stunning. The bridge is simply HUGE, and the stanchions are 746 feet tall, rising almost level with the Marin Highlands themselves...





Crossing the bridge again and heading back via the Golden Gate park (more smell of basil, and this time accompanied by an aniseed smell) we took Highway 1 back into Half Moon Bay, put the biks back in Steve's garage and poured ourselves a well-deserved beer. At the end of a 10-hour riding day, we'd covered just 220 miles, but ridden some of the best roads I've ever been on...

But the day still had one more treat in store. Steve rustled up some New York Strip steaks, served with fresh steamed asparagus (cooked to perfection) and a side-order of curried chick peas...

Now that put the seal on it...

Woke at 6am after a restless night, despite having a comfy inflatable double bed in the middle of Steve's living room. Guess that's the price to pay for a long flight followed by good beer...

Updated the blog whilst Steve slept, then had a cup of coffee and some toast to help us prepare for the day. The weather was once again foggy – being so close to the ocean, Half Moon Bay (and most of San Francisco as we'd discover later) has a period from late evening (around 6-7pm) where the fog descends and the temperature drops dramatically until around mid-day when the sun has burnt away the fog and the temperature rises significantly. This morning was no exception, with visibility down to around 300m, and the sky obliterated by a thick white blanket. After breakfast we sorted out some riding gear for me, as I could hardly ride the rented Harley whilst wearing my BMW Rallye jacket and full-face crash helmet...

So wearing Steve's leather jacket and an over-sized “half-helmet” (more like a badly fitting hat!), my motocross boots and BMW trousers and my GS gloves, we got Steve's bike out of the garage. A Honda Shadow cruiser, it's a Japanese “Harley look-a-like” with a very small pillion pad on the rear “fender” onto which I climbed behind Steve. His first remark was “that's us overloaded” and I guess he was right, but only because he's 6' 4” and hardly small himself... My first thought was how comfy this was compared to Richard's ZX12 I rode pillion on when we dropped my bike off at the freight company all those weeks ago...

Pulling out onto Highway 1 and joining the morning traffic I was instantly struck by how different riding pillion is to riding “up front”. First, all I could initially see was the back of Steve's head (until I realised I could peer round the side). Second, I was sat there like a sack of spuds, completely at the control of Steve and at the mercy of the elements. But I trusted his riding (otherwise I'd not have been sat there) and despite my oversized helmet needing an occasional push back on my head, felt completely safe. The weather was cool but not cold, and once my eyes had stopped streaming I could enjoy the view – or at least the bit of the ocean visible before the fog engulfed it. Highway 1 is “one of those roads”, as it twists along the coast into San Francisco, a journey of about 30 miles from Half Moon Bay. They're in the process of building a tunnel to by-pass some of the curves, which will be a real shame, but is necessary as the road keeps falling into the ocean. Not today, though, so we rolled along, leaning into the curves and occasionally crashing over the bumps with the extra weight of me compressing the rear suspension almost to the bump-stops...

Once in the city, we rode around for a while trying to find the hire-shop. Even with the benefit of Steve's i-Phone and Google maps, and his excellent knowledge of the city, this took a while, especially as the shop lacked the “Thunder Road” sign we were looking for, and had recently moved... But find it we did, and we were met by a nice guy with a “California beard” (one of those weird little goatie things but with no moustache) who took my driver's licence and credit card and proceeded to give me a collection of forms on which to sign my life away. With the formalities done, but his computer not able to print the rental agreement, he introduced me to his mechanic “Bob” who had ridden from Alaska to San Fran before settling down, but harboured lingering desires to complete the rest of the Pan-American Highway (the trip I'm shortly to start). After chatting with Bob for a while and selecting a helmet that fitted from the collection available, the guy showed me round the bike and finally the computer behaved long enough for the rental agreement to be printed and signed. Now we were ready for the off...

Well, nearly. With a huge Harley-Davidson Road King Classic at my disposal, looking spectacular in black and chrome, I have to admit to being a little intimidated. Sitting on the bike and hauling it up off the side-stand I realised how heavy it was. Probably weighs as much as my fully laden GS, but with the weight much lower, and harder to hold up when leaning slightly. And then there's the foot controls. On a normal motorcycle, these consist of a small round “peg” on which you put your feet, and delicate-looking “levers” for the brake (right side) and the gear-change (left side, click down to go down the gears, up to go up, except for 1st which is always down... sounds confusing but isn't once you get used to it). On the Road King, the “pegs” are foot-boards, long enough for giant-sized feet, and the “levers” are huge. The rear brake is like the foot-brake in a car, positioned at the front of the right-hand foot-board, and impossible to control delicately when wearing motocross boots. The gear-change is a lever with both a front (used for changing up) and a rear (used for changing down) either side of the pivot-point. Fortunately, it's possible to just use the front part of the lever in the conventional way, but the controls still felt alien, and coupled with the weight, caused a few butterflies in my stomach. But starting the engine killed all the butterflies, or at least deafened them, and everything within as 100-yard radius. It also had me giggling like a schoolgirl. Just what I'd wanted, a LOUD Harley. With the engine on idle, the sound was like the rumble of the gods, even if it also sounded a little like Brian Blessed bellowing the word “POTATO” as fast as he could (next time you hear a Harley, listen closely and you'll hear it's actually asking for that particular vegetable). With my nerves quietened by laughter, Steve and I set off into the San Francisco traffic, with me leaving the 1st - 2nd gear-change for a little longer that I would normally do, not because of the wonderful noise the bike was making, but because I couldn't find the gear lever with my left boot...

By the time we'd ridden past the new baseball ground, and past a tall ship in the dock, down the side of the bay and on towards Golden Gate Bridge, I was a fully-fledged Harley rider, and my worries had gone. I could concentrate on the traffic (very well behaved) and the scenery (gorgeous), all the while with a fantastic sound-track of thumping Harley engine. When we came round the corner of the bay and could see out to Golden Gate bridge, it looked like someone had cut the top off, as the fog still hung over it. No photo opportunity today, then. But I still got to ride across, as we headed for Saualito, a really beautiful little town on the bay, with views over Angel Island, the bridge and Alcatraz, and with a huge yacht complete with helicopter anchored up. We pulled up and grabbed a delicious coffee mocha and sat in the sunshine discussing the ride and where we'd head next to try and avoid the fog.





Suitably refreshed, we disturbed the peace and quiet by firing up the bikes and rode back over the bridge again (still covered in fog), through Golden Gate park and then picked up the “Skyline Highway”, a road which meanders across the top of the mountains above the bay, with spectacular views on either side, made all the better as the fog lifted. With a short stop for Steve to ditch his jacket (it was already getting very hot – but I kept mine on, still thinking “safety first”), we rode for what seemed like hours along the twisty road, leaning the Harley over far enough to have the footboards touching down (not that far, really!), and laughing like a drain. Then remembering I'm supposed to look cool not a fool, and adopting a Harley-stare instead. That lasted until the next bend and the sound of the engine roaring as I wound it back on again, and the broad grin was back again. Guess I'm just not made to be cool...

After a fantastic ride we pulled up at a lunch-stop, Alice's Restaurant, where there were many bikes parked up. This is the San Francisco equivalent of the burger-van at Devil's Bridge in Kirkby Lonsdale... sunshine, great bikes of all styles (cruisers, sports-bikes, fully-laden tourers, supermotos, etc) and the food... the burgers from the van don't taste like this! I had a “Le Mans Burger”, a 1/3 pound sirloin burger with sauteed mushrooms, onions and Monteray Jack cheese (my mouth is watering at the memory) and we shared a portion of the best beer-battered onion rings I've every tasted. Boy, is this the life... As we sat and watched the bikes come and go, we were joined by a procession of supercars – 2 Ferraris (599 and 555), an Aston Martin Vantage convertible, Porsche GT4 and an Audi R8 – which were driven by a large group of well-healed, suntanned Americans (thin, too, but then this is Californ-IA)... but the odd thing was, they all had their names written on sticky labels attached to their shirts! This must count as a “coach party” for rich Americans in California...

Just before we set off, Steve took a picture of me sat astride my Harley outside this wonderful place... do you think I look a little like Marlon Brando (in the Wild Ones)? Or more like the geek in Wild Hogs?





From Alice's we continued the ride, over to San Gregorio and down to Santa Cruz along the coastal Highway 1 and with the incredibly intense smell of the ocean in our nostrils and watching pelicans soaring in formation on the wind. We stopped briefly in Santa Cruz, another beautiful little town that reminded me of the centre of Chester but with sunshine, where we checked Google maps once more whilst drinking iced coffee (or ice with a hint of coffee), before setting off again up Highways 17 and then 35 before taking a very interesting little road up into the mountains. And interesting is the word, as it became a single-lane road twisting steeply up into the woods, before emerging on the the top and re-joining the Skyline Highway. This stretch had us both laughing out loud, as the bends came relentlessly, some turning back on themselves so much we were getting dizzy. It reminded me of a pass I found once in the Alps, and it had the same effect on my arms, tiring them out through the sheer effort of turning the bike one way, then the next. When we finally rejoined the Skyline we found a rest stop to pull over and get off the bikes for a while...

The final run back into Half Moon Bay was back along the main road we'd come in on from the airport (was that only yesterday?), and once filled up with “gas” (where a nice middle-aged American woman engaged us in conversation before commenting on my “wonderful axe-ent”) we put the bikes back in Steve's garage and poured ourselves a well earned beer – another pint of Steve's now-named “Sloppy Hog Brown Ale” - and reflected on the fact we had only done 177 miles. Seemed a lot more!

After a couple of beers, we decided against Steve's original plan of a BBQ (way too tired!) and went out for dinner. The restaurant he chose was “The Miramar” perched right on the beach with fantastic views out over the ocean. With a table sat in the window we were entertained by watching pelicans diving into the ocean for fish, a dolphin playing in the shallows, a seal bobbing up and down watching the fishermen stood in the breakers casting their lines as far as they could, and a fishing boat seemingly lost going this way and that in the descending fog... and that would have been perfect enough, but the food, well, I've run out of superlatives already... starting with a shared plate of breaded fresh calamari served with a spicy dipping sauce, I then had a “pasta pescadores” - a plate of linguine with 2 lobster tails, mussels, salmon, clams and calamari in a rich tomato sauce (I only managed to eat half of it before almost bursting) whilst Steve had a creamy seafood linguine with a similarly exotic mix of fresh seafood. All washed down with a couple of locally-brewed beers. Just fan-tastic...

Back at base we watched a bit of telly before crashing around 9pm again. Exhausted, at the end of a great day...

The day of departure started early, very early, as I woke at 2.37am just a few short minutes before the alarm was due to go off. Getting up whilst trying not to disturb Tracy – she'll appreciate those few short minutes later – and into the shower to wake myself properly. Seconds later, Tracy appears. Seems the few short minutes were just that – few and short...

Tracy made me a cup of tea whilst I got showered and dressed, and then we loaded up the heavy bag into the boot of her Mini and I drove to the airport, with a growing sense of anxiety as to whether I'd be able to get checked-in (as the Air France website had been refusing to acknowledge my booking yesterday) and whether my big bag would be too heavy (we'd weighed it with me holding it on the bathroom scales and it was >25Kgs). Once at the airport my anxiety was for another reason... having to say “Goodbye” to Tracy, knowing I won't see her or hold her again for 5 months (148 days to be exact)... so we said our farewells and had a cuddle I hope will sustain us both, and I dragged the bag into the airport building.

On the big screens it stated that the Air France check-in desk for my flight to Paris would not be open until 4.40am... and it was now just 3.30am... Still, that would at least give me some more time to get more anxious...

I went and tried the auto-checkin kiosk, but it didn't show the Air France logo, so I dropped the bags on the floor and stood around prepared for a long wait. I noticed a weighing machine, so weighed the big bag... 31.6kg... oh, dear! And with an absolute max of 32Kg per bag I was now even more anxious... After a few minutes someone official appeared and asked those on the KLM flight to Amsterdam to check-in, so I tried the kiosk once more, and this time the Air France logo appeared. I quickly retrieved my booking (first sigh of relief), but also had to fill in my destination address in the US, which is when I realised I didn't have Steve's address with me... so I just entered “Half Moon Bay, CA” and went to the desk to check the bag in. And that went very smoothly, although I was told I should have split it as the check-in allowance is 2 bags of 23Kg each! (Now if the Air France website had been working, I'd have known that...). I also didn't have any issues with carrying on my helmet bag and my rucksack. Second sigh of relief. Just Steve's address to sort out now. So I contacted Tracy and she logged onto my home laptop and retrieved it for me... Third and Final Sigh of Relief...

Once through security (again without problem), I grabbed some breakfast from Burger King (the lesser of the two available evils) and started to people-watch. The airport seemed full of groups of young women (I'd guess 19-25) and group had their own “identity” - mostly bright vest tops emblazoned with the individual girl's names - “Charlotte”, “Shaz”, “Charmaine”, etc. You get the picture. Once my hunger had been addressed, I wandered off and found somewhere to sit and read the paper until the flight was called. That's when I found the card and letter Tracy had put in my book. Suffice to say reading them had me filling up with tears, not a good look for a hardened Adventure Biker! (but it was very uplifting, knowing that I have Tracy's love and support).

The flight to Paris was quick and uneventful, and I passed the time reading the paper and in-flight magazine (too early for the book!). The turnaround at Paris CDG was very quick, and I only had enough time to grab a bottle of water before boarding. Once on board and with my luggage safely in the overhead bins (another worry resolved) I sat down and broke out the book. I've recently started reading “Ghost Rider – Travels on the Healing Road” by Neil Peart, the drummer from Rush who lost his 19-year old daughter (in a car crash on her way to University) and wife in the space of 10 months, then set out on a solo bike trip to try and deal with his grief. It's a bit heavy going at times, especially as David was the same age when he was taken from us, but I can relate totally to the stages of grief he's going through. The book kept me occupied for almost the entire flight, with a snatched hour of dozing and 2 poor meals to break my rhythm.

We arrived slightly delayed (anxious about the time Steve will be waiting), but were soon off the plane and in the massive queue to get through immigration control. I was hoping for a “Visa holder” fast lane (to make up for the special trip I had to make to London to get the Visa) but no joy, so I had to join the queue with all the other non-US citizens. Eventually I got to see the immigration officer who asked me what I was doing and when I told him I was here to ride a motorcycle from Alaska to Argentina, he produced a copy of “The Long Way Round” from his rucksack and started talking about a trip he was planning from coast-to-coast... seems everyone is a biker these days!

Through immigration control and on to baggage collection where my bag was going round-and-round on the carousel (another worry dealt with), so I grabbed a trolley, loaded up my bags and headed out through customs and into the arrivals hall. Which is where Steve was waiting, looking exactly the same as he had done the last time I'd seen him, 11 years ago at my house when he visited the UK whilst working for the same company as me (I'd first met him on the “New Employee Orientation” programme run by the company, which was 2 weeks in Boston MA, and was more of a 2-week drink-a-thon than anything else). I must still at least resemble my former self as he recognised me straight away too (although that could be because he's seen my pictures on here and on Facebook!).

We loaded up his car and he drove us back to his house, a traditional US-style bungalow with a nice garden in Half Moon Bay, just south of San Francisco. He then poured us both a pint of his own brew (calling it “home-brew” would be doing it a disservice, as it's more like a micro-brewery brew). He'd been brewing this specially for my visit, as he wanted to try an “English Ale”, and had gone to lots of trouble to get hold of Kentish malt and hops. And it was worth the effort, too, as it was lovely – like a stronger flavoured Marston's Pedigree. Steve was a bit disappointed with it as he'd skipped the ingredient necessary to prevent it from being cloudy (which is was), but he shouldn't have been... and so we sat in his back garden, chatting (about all sorts of things), admiring the hops he's growing (yes, he's THAT serious about his beer), and drinking beer. In the sunshine. Finally, I could feel the anxiety of the day ebbing away...






After a few more beers and a shared Pizza, we thought it would be a good idea to stop drinking for a while (the beer was strong, about 6%!), and so went for a walk across Highway 1 and onto the beach. Where I had to go and paddle in the Pacific Ocean, of course.






Having wandered up and down the beach, whilst Steve pointed out the landmarks, we headed back to the house and drove up to “The Brewery”, a micro-brewery up the bay. Here we sat outside under a now cloudy sky (still warm, though) next to a gas “fire-pit” and drank a couple more beers before I started to feel myself flagging and we headed back to Steve's, turning in around 9pm, at the end of a very long, but very enjoyable day...

I guess you could call today "Day Zero" as it's my last day at home before I fly out in the wee small hours of tomorrow morning.

Now you might be expecting me to be all gushing with excitement, dancing round the room whooping with antici......pation for great things to come. But you'd be wrong. Whether it's the effects of a slight hangover following a session in the City Arms in Manchester yesterday afternoon at the end of an unsuccessful shopping trip (at the end of which I concluded I'd stop trying to buy new stuff and just take what I already have...) which was followed by a great Thai meal in the Siam Orchid before the train home; or whether it's because I've still got stuff to do; or whether it's because I'm finally getting close after all this waiting, waiting, waiting - I'm not sure.

Some of the last minute tasks are proving challenging, too.

I went to the doctors yesterday to get a prescription for my blood-pressure medication, which I need to take daily, and the chemist is struggling to find sufficient tablets to cover the 5 months I'm away. They're promising to have the last batch ready this afternoon. Let's hope so.

Then there's the small matter of finalising the packing. It doesn't matter how many times I do this, I still get the impression that I'm not organised enough. Sure, everything is in the big bag, with just a few items to go in my hand luggage (and my helmet in its own bag as an extra piece of carry-on), but the big bag is way too heavy (27Kgs) - despite me cutting down as much as possible. Looks like I'll be paying an "excess baggage charge" in the morning...

I think my real problem, though, is I'm thinking more about being away from Tracy for 5 months than I am about what I'm about to do.

Perhaps I just need to carve out some thinking time this afternoon, once I've completed my latest "task list"...