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After three days of desert debauchery (thank you, Coachella), I decided to ride back from California to Chicago via Route 66. I’ve done road trips before, but I couldn’t resist riding across the Mother Road, by myself, on one of my favorite bikes, a Triumph America.
Here’s what I found out.
I started my trip in Los Angeles and had this idea of taking photos of my bike in front of a bunch of well-known landmarks. I pulled over here, looked at all the traffic, and changed my mind. I was itching to ride and didn’t want to fight the traffic.
The plan was to meet up with some friends for a detour to Palm Springs for Coachella. For some reason, they thought four guys riding in a tiny Mustang convertible would be a good idea.
Palm Springs is a weird place. Tons of cool mid-century modern architecture, like this place that belongs to Paul Frank.
Palm Springs is also littered with golf courses, a sport I’ve never understood. Seems like a huge fucking waste of space, time, and effort.
Another weird thing about Palm Springs is how the retirement-town vibe gets temporarily overrun by rich kids looking to party and take drugs. Note the Porsche and Range Rover.
…and note our Mustang. Politely parked in front of a fire hydrant.
Anyway, we had lunch (pictured above) and then partied for three days.
The abandoned pools and blitzed-out college girls were hard to leave, but I was ready to get on the road. Was getting restless.
The desert is hot as fuck; by noon it was over 100 degrees. I trust my bike but packed a dozen frozen water bottles anyway. Dying from heat in the desert is not on my top-ten list of ways to go. But I was excited to see Joshua Tree.
I rode into the little border town of Needles, CA. This was not the best motel.
Needles, CA
Needles, CA
As the sun sets in Needles, CA.
Next morning my bike was ready to go.
The next stretch of Route 66, between Needles, CA, and Flagstaff, AZ, was amazing. I rode for miles without ever seeing anyone.
I pulled over for a break and spotted this. Pat.
Everywhere I stopped, people wanted to talk. Old-timers especially, reminiscing about their old Triumphs. Seeing those geezers’ eyes light up was one of the best parts of the trip.
Colorado River.
Selfie.
Outside of Oatman, AZ.
Canada Mart.
Freedom is not free.
Last town bypassed by I-40. Williams, AZ. My last stop before pulling into Flagstaff.
I pulled into Flagstaff. The temp had dropped 40 degrees since I left the desert. It was late, but somehow I got roped into helping a guy tow his 1970s Toyota HiLux.
The first of several nights on Route 66 spent drinking whiskey with strangers.
Route 66 is littered with these kind of “Indian Art Centers.” Many years back we actually did a story on kachina dolls. That was enough for me to get my fill, so I didn’t stop at any of these. All I wanted to do was ride.
Everything gets stretched out in New Mexico. The rocks get enormous and exaggerated, and the sky broadens.
Junk.
The mountains are amazing here. Perfect place to go rock climbing by yourself and then cut your arm off with a pen knife.
That’s a big-ass, terrifying cross. Like…who the fuck pays for something like this? And for what reason?
This is every biker’s dream.
Texas is a huge, mysterious place, littered with animals, ranchers, and enormous spaces. Everything was big and kinda plunked down wherever. I stayed at a Holiday Inn across from a Holiday Inn.
Patriot Chopper. You can’t make this kinda shit up.
I pulled up kinda hard to the hotel in Amarillo and scared the shit out of a bellboy. We then walked into the lobby and had a nice talk about this terrarium.
66 in Oklahoma is beautiful. Bright green fields and little ponds and trees everywhere. It was one of my favorite patches of road — long, pretty, and quiet. This is the memorial museum.
One chair for every person who died.
“America’s worst crime. Oklahoma’s darkest hour.” Great plaque.
Weird cartoon Jesus and children. Terrible plaque.
This is an old-ass bridge. Yes, I’m the kind of guy to stop to take pictures of bridges. Ancient-looking leather pads held the joists up.
Dirt road to nowhere. Couldn’t help but see where it went (nowhere).
I did not go to this museum.
I had never been to St. Louis. It reminded me of Hartford, Connecticut — kind of pointless and sad. I ate at a Quizno’s and wanted to kill myself.
I stayed in room 632. Mind fuck.
St. Louis.
About the bike
I rode alone on a 2007 Triumph America with Triumph saddlebags and a Saddlemen tunnel bag. It was a perfect luggage setup, with just enough room and easy enough to pop off the tunnel bag at night. It also acts like a decent back rest. I test rode a pre-production Garmin Zumo GPS, which I liked a lot in the more urban areas. It was easy to use while riding, even with gloves on. I also rode with a Scala Rider headset, which was handy for making calls while riding, but I mainly used it to listen to music via Bluetooth on my iPhone.
I’ve got some older bikes that I love riding around the city and wasting time and dollars on tinkering with. But I’m not a gear-head. I like riding good bikes, not great looking pieces of shit. Like a lot of other city riders, I want to spend my time riding–maybe bolting some stuff on. One of the things I love about this Triumph is that it just rides. Buy it, put gas in, and ride. I had no problems with it. Wet, cold, heat — starts right up. Handles reliably and consistently. I love riding it. And that’s what matters.