Category Archives: Africa Twin

A Tamiya Africa Twin. Joy!

Getting your bike fix in the Quebec winter is hard. But then Tamiya shines a bright light on the subject with this 1/6 scale kit…

It’s pretty big for a model and is made from hundreds of plastic and metal parts. All of it needs to be painted and finished with great care. Here is Tamiya’s post about the reveal.

As a young teen I was completely obsessed with the Japanese model maker’s products. Now they are making an Africa Twin. I suppose I’m going to have to wait until it comes out, but save all my pennies because it’s not cheap.

Aah the nerd joy of building a mini version of your own bike. 
Tamiya is so burned into my psyche that I dragged Anne to the factory shop in Tokyo. It was like going into Willy Wonka’s factory for me, with all the weird tools and odd things that could only come from a Japanese company there to buy.

She’s gone to sleep

I have covered my feelings about how much Quebec hates motorcyclists here, but one of the most frustrating elements of this is that you are forced to take your bike off the road for four months. They don’t actually ban you from riding your bike in winter, they simply introduced a law that says you must have officially sanctioned winter tyres on your motorbike.

Of course, they don’t exist

Now I don’t want Ginko to live on the deck all winter… even under her super waterproof and breathable British Oxford cover…

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This means finding a place for Ginko to hibernate Continue reading She’s gone to sleep

Playing in Death Quarry

What a lucky boy. I got to ride Ginko‘s sibling for a day in true a Adventure scenario. We out for the day filming a video using Honda Canada’s press bike, a black Africa Twin with a manual gearbox. I rode it some 300km on road then spent the whole day riding around an abandoned asbestos quarry. It’s very weird stuff.

The manual was an odd change. I thought I would forget to use the clutch, but it was completely natural to return to the norm. The action of the gearbox was really slick but we spent an hour riding out of Montreal in really bad traffic which brought home the advantages of the brainless changes of the DCT on Ginko.

When we got to the dirt I really noticed how great the DCT was. Using your hand and foot to change gear whilst man-handling a big bike around this very rough environment meant unsettling yourself. A dirt bike is a totally different thing, but on this beast it was my preference.

I’m also more into the silver. Maybe I am truly biased? I’ll link to the video when it comes out. It’ll be very cool.

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Mosko Moto Reckless 80 Pannier System

[Update: Added the unpacking video and post trip review]

I went south of the border to pick up a lot of my stuff for the TAT yesterday and with it was the pannier system that I’m very much looking forward to using. I really love the companies ethos, which is to openly develop their products and make stuff that they personally want to use.

imageOn first impressions I am really chuffed with the system. Everything seems of a high quality with really hard wearing fabrics and straps.

They system is basically a harness in which dry bags slide. The details are superb and you can really see the head scratching that went into the design of all the little details.

Unfortunately the Africa Twin has huge hips in the form of grab handles that cannot be removed because the seat is attached to them, but for now here are some mounted pics. I don’t have time to mess with it before the TAT but hopefully someone will make a more minimal handle system.

Mosko Moto page for the R80.


So how did I find the system after the trip? Read on…

Well my judicious research paid off because I really can’t imagine a luggage concept that would be better. I had no idea but non-motorcyclists can’t really comprehend what is required of a luggage system, illustrated by the slow realisation of my friend Ishita. When showing her my photos from after the trip she asked about waterproofing. I don’t think it occurs to most people that everything you have with you needs to be protected from the worst of weather.

“So was your stuff waterproof” she quizzed.

“er.. yeah” I said with a dumbfounded expression “..of course!”

I suppose that people who ride around in cars don’t have this constant paranoia that when it rains everything you own is going to get drenched. Unless you’ve thought hard about what is in where and how to prevent it getting soaked. The blokes at Mosko had this dilemma that is normally sorted out by having some drybags and strapping, tying or bungying them to the bike. They fixed it because other manufacturers have come up with ideas like Wolfman’s ‘rack and a million irritating clips’ idea and Giant Loop’s ‘stick a zeppelin on and fill it with crap’ solution, but Mosko stopped and designed this saddle. I think they looked at those harnesses you see on donkeys and modelled it on that.

It’s cool. You divide your crap up into the three dry bags and just slide them into the donkey pannier thing. Other more fiddly crap can be put in the flaps that go over the centre bag; stuff like iPhone cables, leatherman, headtorch. Maps go on the corresponding flap, which you can unclip and pretend you are first world war officers around a campaign table. It really worked like that when Adam and I got lost in the Utah desert.

Then there are two pouches on each side donkey pouch. I stuck less accessible stuff in there like inner tubes, tools and chain lube.

Mounting the donkey thing is a bit of a pain because you need to get it centred and in the right position fore and aft but that’s really moot because you only have to do that once in a blue moon. I’d just pull the mount straps once in a while to make sure it was all doing okay.

Security was on my mind a lot at the start of my trip and not at all at the end. I wore a CamelBak which contained all the essentials; passport, cards, cash, which left me a bit more at ease to leave the bike. I think that because the system is so neat creates a psychological barrier to anyone wanting to fiddle with it, a bit like opening a car door, it’s really obvious if anyone has been monkeying with it. Added to that, they would have to be pretty familiar with the straps to undo anything.

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West Coast -All the kit

The whole thing is covered in Molle webbing on which you can attach other pouches or strap random crap. Mosko sell some additional pouches especially for this but I wanted to limit my space so purposely didn’t buy them, of which I was glad. There are also some metal loops sewn into the back flap which was awesome for strapping a fuel can to.

The disadvantage over rack mounted panniers and systems (like the derided Wolfman above) is that you can’t have a passenger on the bike, but really, who wants a passenger when you are riding off-road? The system is designed as an off-road solution so, to me, that doesn’t come into it.

Speaking of which I fell off. Quite a few times. In order it was: Mud, Sand, Dirt, Gravel, Rock and the bags don’t have anything to show for it. They are super durable. There are a few patches on the dry bags where some kind of compound or chemical got on there and the first layer of rubber is coming off, but I have no idea what caused it. For all I know it could have been an alien bug or a truck ejecting acid?

If you’re undecided on a system go and get it; you’ll be delighted.

By the way; I paid the full going price for this thing and have no affiliation with Mosko Moto

 


Here is the rather long video of me unpacking the whole thing…


 

Africa Twin – The War Horse

Bikers often stop and look at Ginko, most think she’s a BMW but often they look at the graphic on the side and exclaim ‘oooh… an African Twin, how’d you like it?’

‘It’s the best bike in the world’ I exclaim back, in a calm tone.
The thing is, most people who own bikes have this weird loyalty to their bike. I think they need to justify the pain of motorcycle ownership and their particular choice. I chose Ginko for a very specific reason. I needed a bike to ride a thousand miles on road then five thousand off road and another couple of thousand back.

I’ve owned and ridden sports bikes, dirt bikes and adventure bikes and the Africa Twin checks all those boxes. On the road you can cruise at 100mph and have plenty spare, then dart onto a track and be crawling up a 60° rock slope at less than walking speed. It’ll keep up with a sports bike in the twisties and plough through sand and mud. In town it’s quiet and sedate with a subtle thrum which turns people with ‘how big is it?’ They’re always surprised when you tell them.
On the dirt the traction control is magic. Leaning into a dusty corner you only need pin the throttle and she’ll perform the perfect powerslide which is often the only way of aiming to the corner without coming to an awkward stop. With the peach of an engine you can achieve things you would have thought impossible. It’s a tractor and a drag racer in one. Magic. How the engineers managed to map the fueling, cam timing and ignition to make it that flexible I don’t know? A large, low, bow of humbling gratitude to them.

And the suspension?? Ohh. That feeling when you bite into a fresh eclair. It’s incredible what the suspension has had to deal with. I honestly had no idea until I was in Idaho, riding an awful trail through the Craters of the Moon national park; a windy, desolate wasteland of volcanic rock and extremely rutted tracks. I looked down at my shadow and saw the front wheel doing extreme duty, following the terrain like a stalking cat at warp speed. In the Rockies I was leading Adam along a fast undulating dirt road and crested a small rise to see a four foot wide trench. My natural reaction of decades old mountain biking is coast over on the rear wheel (manual) but instead I grabbed some throttle and unweighted the front wheel. The suspension took the brunt and we came out unscathed. Incredible for a 500+lb machine with full luggage, fuel and water aboard. Maybe this is why Adam dubbed it “..like a Japanese War Horse”; a samurai wouldn’t look out of place on it.
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Being a completely average male human (I have sample sized everything) is useful in the ergonomics department. I can stand on the pegs and hover there for hours or sit and be about as comfortable as a tank of fuel lasts. The screen was a major point of annoyance. On the way down to the southern states my head was being buffeted in a major way. Imagine a pair of irritating children, one on each side of your head slapping your helmet in succession. It gets old quickly. The screen also delivered air directly into my face which wasn’t helpful. Luckily Matt in Arkansas solved that problem with a makeshift modification using a brand new chainsaw shield that he butchered. I also added some Sugru to the bottom of the screen because I thought the steel GPS and screen mount would eventually succumb to fatigue stress. It helped a bit, but if you plan on any extended dirt riding with a GPS where it was designed to go then a strengthened screen/GPS mount would be a must. The only other complaint I have is the passenger footrests which have bruised the back of my legs because they stick out at a right angle, but the flip side is they act as rear crash bars.

I gave quite a few people rides. I wanted them, mainly, to experience the incredible gearbox. Most think of it as a car automatic but it’s clearly not after a few hours of riding. The novelty soon wears off and you begin to trust when and where it shifts. It was a complete boon on the super tight switchbacks in the rockies where I often chose the steeper rock line to the outside looser one. The clutch did an unreal job of keeping me trucking, often at sub-walking speeds.
There are five modes:
Drive – on the road it feels like an ancient single cylinder. Chugging is the only way of describing the feeling and sound. Most bikers would want to shift so the engine revs a bit freer, but it has so much torque that you can just throttle around anything. When I was riding long stretches with Adam I could stay in 6th for hours and chug along next to him with astonishing fuel economy
Sport I – Like drive with a little more pep, I used this on most of the Colorado passes and through the Oregon back trails. With the G button it was like riding a slightly more modern 650cc single.
Sport II – For roads where you need power after the apex and really great engine braking this is my preferred. The bike would magically shift down when it sensed an upcoming corner and hold a gear for the next flip flop of a tight ‘s’ bend.
Sport III – If there is some idiot in a sports car who wants to try his luck then hard shifts and neck snapping thrust is at your disposal. I don’t select this much because there is so much torque available low down and the revs aren’t really that nessecary. It makes the bike sound cool on overrun too… If you happen to pass some Harley riders.
A/M – A little button on the right hand bar selects manual mode for mountain bike like shifting. Hit the button and the bike won’t shift, even into the rev limiter. The only real place I found this useful was in deep sand or mud where the rear wheel needed to spin to maintain forward momentum. Even in this mode the bike would shift down automatically to prevent you stalling.
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The clutch engagement is aways spot on when you are in a normal situation but on tight u-turns on dirt it’s a bit of a pain in the ass to be honest. I dropped it once when it was very late and I was a bit buzzed. That very subtle clutch drag you do on a tight turn is impossible to judge, even after seven and a half thousand miles. Also when I was really disturbed (like after the whole ‘oil exploding out of the front of the engine due to an idiot Honda tech’ debacle, I actually still try and grab the invisible clutch lever.
My only real bugbear is the electronics. I would often start and stop the engine on very technical terrain to enjoy the silence, have a wee or chat to jeep drivers. When you turn the key again the dash lights up and the bike acts like a forgetful narcoleptic. All the settings disappear and you are left with full traction control, drive mode, ABS on and gravel mode off. It’s actually dangerous sometimes because trying to climb a steep stony switchback in default could end with the bike going nowhere and you falling to a horrible stony death. So the routine of switching on, drive to sport I, traction control to I, ABS off and gravel mode on became a regular chore. Very boring.
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With this comes the side stand cutout. You can’t engage a gear without raising the stand. Now you’re thinking ‘Jason, that’s stupid, why would you want to do that?’ Well; say, theoretically, you’ve dropped your bike in deep Arkansas sand and you are desperate not to have to pick it up again because it took all your remaining strength to pick it up… theoretically. You really want to walk next to the bike with the stand down so you can motor it along and lean it down when the bike gets away from you. Not possible. By the way this also, theoretically, can happen in New Jersey quicksand…. and Mississippi mud.
Hopefully some clever person will come up with a solution to this problem because, in the end, it’s just software and then we will have the perfect bike.
After over 10 thousand miles on a single trip my opinion is firmly cemented. It would take a lot to surpass this bike, so much so that I am even thinking I’m not worthy of it. I hate to think that Ginko will be sitting in a garage over winter then on my deck in milder weather waiting and waiting for her next big adventure when all I have to offer is a quick blat down a dirt road. She yearns for adventure.

Fear of Lightening

Eating fine food and recounting stories to Mitch and Rhys, cousin Adam and Carolyn’s great friends, seemed like a surreal parallel life from living in a tent and getting covered in dust every day.
I visited the enormous REI and picked up a pair of discounted travel shoes because I lost another pair of flip flops from the agressive bounce of the dirt, and a mesh sack to put my drying clothes in on the outside of the panniers. I was secretly hoping to pick up a travel chair but they are a bit too much cash and a bit big. I also spotted a phone holder in the bicycle section for $25 that looks just like the $250 Touratech one. Bargain. I had been using an ill fitting pouch with a clear cover that was cooking my phone. It was no fun waiting in the heat for my phone to cool down whilst in Oklahoma. Remember the pics on the plains? They were the result of pouring water from my CamelBak over my phone to revive it.

In my luxurious slumber I was thinking about helmets too. The problem is that riding by myself is dandy with my lovely Shoei, but as soon as you are following someone dust becomes an issue and you need goggles. I had been looking at a Bell Adventure helmet but, despite the amazing value, the extra cost had prevented me from picking one up. The gods must have been looking down on my because on searching the motorcycle section of Craigslist Denver for ‘adventure’ up pops the perfect example at a price that QVC watchers would be dialing for.
Joe the Jeep gets me the slightly farther distance than I thought and Ralph explains that his other half doesn’t really use it. The helmet is perfect and as we chat I realise Ralph lives in his amazingly well equipped Mercedes Sprinter Van. Being an aerospace engineer he has completely decked it out for comfortable and stealthy living, including a hydraulic lift on the back for his bike. It’s weird because Anne spotted one in Valle Bras du Nord and said it would be cool to do that. What is fate telling us?

It was a great pleasure to sit on the front porch with Uncle Peter and give my perspective of the magical farm he had in Zimbabwe. We spent a lot of time there as a family and it is a big part of my makeup. He also had some great insights about the family that I never knew; like my terrifyingly posh great grandmother thinking my grandfather was a failure whilst sitting having tea in the garden of his beautiful mansion in Salisbury (Harare).

I picked Adam B up from Denver International and the next day we spent making the Whitehead’s garage look like a mechanised refugee camp by spreading the contents of our panniers across the floor. The theme of the next part of the trip was set by Adam disassembling his bike and fiddling with the carburettor to adjust for the altitude and fitting a longer stand that required more hardware.

By the time we sent some stuff home (my helmet and the maps I had already used) and farted about it was much later than we really wanted but said our goodbyes to the incredibly patient and thoughtful Whiteheads and we’re off into the setting sun.

The cardinal rule of adventure travel is: Don’t travel at night. We cruised Denver’s southern edge and Adam had a problem. His rear tyre was loosing pressure. We stopped, checked, stopped, checked the came across a bar. Cowboys and food. Real cowboy dancing with his lady and real cowboy drinking a beer at the bar; stools with horse saddles and two English blokes dressed like astronauts.

Back on the incredible but darkroom black twisty road I dropped Ginko simply turning round and we called the night. The crash bars that I had imported from SW-Motech in Germany were worth their weight because the hard dirt road would have destroyed my radiators. Through the darkness we hoped we’d find a little spot to kip and rounded a corner to see what looked like a Mexican tent festival in one of the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) sites. Pickups and communal tents with drunk Hispanics loudly talking about romantic entanglements with hot nieces.

We needed sleep and set up camp sharpish in a spare spot to be woken by wood chopping at 2am and more loudness so at 5am we broke camp and headed off into the mountains. Down the beautiful snaking Tarmac and into more arid climbs Adam’s Suzuki started spitting oil. We stopped and for the second time his petrol tank was off and we were in the back of a filling station hiding from the heat with a bike in bits. We secured a hose and fiddled more then were off up the dirt.


This may get dull, but Colorado has some truly stunning scenery. We rode up through forests, cattle plains and incredible valleys then up to our first pass. I didn’t really know what to expect from a pass but there was some pretty extreme riding for someone on a 225kg machine with full luggage. At one section Adam warned me that he had stopped before a rock garden but I had to push through and Ginko did her best and powered through the baby head rocks and boulders to eventually crest the summit and down the other side to Salida. By now Adam’s DRZ 400 was spewing oil again and we found the workshop of Dustin who was recommended to us by some blokes on the trail riding KLRs. Despite not knowing us from Adam (see what I did there??) Dustin dropped what he was doing and delved into the problem, pulling hoses off and going to his computer to look at parts diagrams. In the rain of the car park Dustin worked out that the breather tubes were blocked and needed attention so Adam and I decided a motel was the best choice and he set about fixing the problem under the canopy of our pet friendly room.


Excellent pizza was had in the cute little mountain town of Salida that night and we retired to arise and start all over again, but this day would be the most epic. The passes in Colorado take you over the high peaks in a way we never ever expected. There are very steep rocks to climb and loose rocky switchbacks on extremely exposed ledges. Epic is an over-used word but it really fitted this day. I think we crested four passes and descended loose corners and ledges with extreme sketchiness whilst trying to avoid the jeep traffic of the devotees that make the pilgrimage to trundle up the magnificent mountains.

Coming down to a clearing I thought I saw a mirage. Ginko was standing in on a flat spot with some blokes around her. No it wasn’t Ginko, I was riding her, it was another Africa twin! Then behind I saw another one! Weirdly there were now three of these unicorns in the same place. We got chatting to the owner of the red one who actually works for Honda and bought his at full retail because they are so hard to get hold of. Rely and Ann were fantastically enthusastic about our travels and have offered to replace my shameful KTM umbrella with a nice Honda one. I just need to work out where to get them to send it! Only after chatting for a while did I realise that we were at the continental divide so Anne snapped a pic of us and we set off down a lovely smooth road to file up at Sargent at the bottom of the pass.

On one descent I needed to make way for a Jeep, stupid descision, and moved up onto an off camber loose cutting where my front tyre couldn’t quite take the load and I lost her. We soon righted her and we’re back to the challenge.
Sitting chatting at the store in Sargents a dude pulls up on a bike, the kind you peddle. He looks like he is coming to work, riding a cheap hybrid and wearing leather slip ons. This dude, Chris is the real deal. He makes me feel like a total fraud all dressed up in my adventure pyjamas because he has cycled from Huston, Texas headed to Washington state. Adam and I adopted our Cycle Surgery past and lubed his chain and checked over his bike then gave him the candy bar he requested and huge props for his efforts.


After Sargents we climbed a wide road up to a farm on the hill and saw encroaching lightning and rain so donned the gimp suit and Adam his oh-so-cool Belstaff jacket. We were both extremely worried about getting hit by lightning and made a navigation error. Actually the road moved. The maps and GPS told us to go up a two track technical little farm road and turn up a wash that was impossible.

So, to set the scene: it’s raining we’re lost and we are scared of being killed by lightning so we have a wee. Adam then asks if my camelback was under my gimp suit and I freak out because it’s lost. Backtracking to the farm where we put the gear on, down the technically hard track the bag is not there. The cute cat is. Making a plan Adam heads back up the difficult track and I go down to Sargents to see if I left it there.

I’m freaking out because my whole being is in that bag and it would be a disaster to the trip if I lost it.  Against Adams wise advice I speed down the road and meet a pickup who flags me down and I slew to a stop in a cloud of dirt. The true gent of a man, Blake, had seen it and picked it up. He had to go through it to see who owned it and took the initiative to look at the inreach to see where we were going. I owe this bloke a lot.


Next time on our travels.. Generators, cinnamon and coyotes.

Click here to read the next instalment – Colorado to Utah – Dr Zeleaky

 

Cheating Oklahoma

Saying the words “I’m riding across the USA” is a pretty easy action. Anyone can do it. “Yeah, I’m riding coast to coast”. It’s when you get to states like Oklahoma that the scale slaps you in the face and you end up cheating.
I really love riding on dirt. My mentor cousin in my post school banishing to work on the farm, and my gold standard of manliness, Mark Impey once said of me lusting after a sports motorbike “you’ll get bored of that thing very quickly because you love disappearing down dirt tracks”.
Well in Oklahoma there is a massive amount of ground to cover and it’s all perfect mile by mile squares. The trail goes a while, turns left 90°, goes for a while, turns right 90°… You get the picture. The Saint said ‘skip 2 days of Oklahoma and I did. Kinda.

So on to Boise City I go at a very sensible speed because I’m worried about wearing my knoblies. I head. North and wait for the interstate. A dashed line goes past on the rolling map on the GPS and I turn left (west).
Fine


So the. I realise I’m in yet another state and I’ve really diverted from the #TransAmericaTrail. We’re in Kansas now Ginko. At the next turn I turn left (it really is that easy to navigate over these distances) and a town appears. Cute, very ‘cowboy film’ with a wide Main Street, shops of caring and random sorts. Uniquely for me it has red brick streets. Not just the main drag (actually that’s just boring Tarmac) but the little side streets.
I decide to head west a bit farther and see a little burger joint with horses. My brain assumes they are fake, then Anne came to mind percussively: Eat Jason. Horses. and I slammed on the brakes for a quick ‘U’ turn.

Off with the helmet and peer at the smelly beasts tied to the ageing Coca-Cola sign of the burger place. I pull the screen door and quickly learn the knack to opening the sagging wooden one. In the relative darkness are men who work for a living. They all stare at me as I wrestle the portal into this most local of lunch spots.

I order a $4 cheese burger and follow the riders out to their horses to quiz them.


A reporter then appears and must have thought I was a much better story than his father in law getting up to equestrian mischief and our interview devolves into a chat. Apparently there USA town where the yellow brick roads. Follow the follow the follow the follow the, follow the red brick road mustn’t have had quite the same ring!
I then bump into more locals, Jake and Farmer. Yes Farmer is his name. I had to check that too; total character. Whilst Farmer was writing me a Karma Card on his lottery numbers notes Jake was interested in the route.


I said my goodbyes and headed off again at my tyre saving highway speed.
I had gone 40 miles when, with feet up on the crash bars in total cruiser position I see flashing from behind. More cops? I stop and Jake comes bounding toward me. “You might need these.” My precious #TransAmericaTrail maps in their map pocket had fallen off the back of my pannier beaver tail. I must have forgotten to clip the thing in place. Jake and Farmer chased me for 40miles out of their way to return my maps. Amaze.
A single lane road with vast landscape either side was my company for the next 4 hours. The sky reminded me of science fiction landscapes where the grain silos are given scale of distance by the haze in front.


I get the chance to chat to Anne over my helmet Bluetooth system and then an hour later I’m in a Boise City motel room doing the disrobe, bath, wash clothes dance.

The town is the last outpost of Oklahoma with nothing to draw anyone but railway workers, local farmers and some oil men. It’s pretty remote so 6AM breakfast sees the train of retired farmers cycle through the cute little cafe for their morning Joe, the chirpy proprietor attending to them without even asking. I purposely sit at a longer table and break the ice with a particularly frosty old dude. Wow he was hard work to warm up but eventually I told him where I came from and he said “Northern or Southern Rhodesia”. That was a surprise. It seems that his church had sent some missionaries our way before I was born and Southern Rhodesia became just Rhodesia and the Zimbabwe.


As the regulars rolled through in a succession of smaller and massive pickups I got chatting to a very bright eyed bloke who was keenly interested in the maps, the bike and where I had been. We talked vehicles and Terrell offered to show me his Mutt Jeep in a ‘shop across from the cafe. He’d been in the service and, like my Dad with his Land Rovers, had developed a kinship with this particular model; a Ford built independently coil sprung intermediate between the Willys and the Hummer. Unusually I was unaware of the model and took keen interest in Terrell’s description of how he is restoring it, using money from his ever declining well profits.


I had to cut it short because I had a very long way to go, in fact I rode around fourteen hours that day, starting through more farmers fields, dodging irrigation runoff and seeing the most wonderful herd of tiny deer with strange antlers.
I managed to drop Ginko again. Deep tractor ruts through sand and mud revealed hidden goop with nowhere to go and I was in the cotton. It took all my strength to right her after removing the dry bags.
New Mexico was a total change. It seems the state line drawers must look at the topography and go “yup, this is a different state; Joe…. Draw the line here this is New Mexico!”. It really looks like cowboy films and the riding got better and better up one over hills through the canyons. I passed through a farm after riding through a valley and then up a very steep switch backed road up onto a plain and I was in Colorado.


Again the countryside changed to rolling hills with mountains in the background. I had to ride carefully because fuel was an issue but eventually I got to a small stop in Trinidad where the open smoking culture of Colorado was truly evident because of the huge choice of implements on which to toke being offered.
Up and toward St Charles peak riding in national forest and open grazing I saw the rain ahead and donned the gimp suit. Not a minute later the red dirt turned to mud and I was climbing a very Welsh looking land up up up and down into the valley.
Ginko told me the time was getting on so, sitting on the side stand and wondering round looking at my phone for an official campsite I decided to head north to Denver. I’d be a day early, but better that than get soaked in the woods, knackered from a huge day.
I inflated the tyres hit the slab, entering Denver with some culture shock of being in a big city again. Not since New Jersey had I seen so many cars. I was then in the bosom of family eating delicious lamb kebabs in the beautiful modern garden of Cousin Adam and Carolyn’s Denver Red brick with Uncle Peter. I was shattered and very glad to be in a familiar surrounding with loved family who I’ve known since before I can remember.

 

To read the next exciting instalment click here – Colorado Rockies – Fear of Lightening

Saas and Okies

Powering away from the Motel that morning felt great. I had washed all my clothes in the bath, as I did today. Sweating that much makes you stink… and I’m not normally a sweaty person. I’ve actually taken to keeping one of those crunchy little water bottles that people dispose of so readily and every time I see a creek I fill it up and tip it over my jersey and trousers.
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The flat part of Arkansas is pretty horrible to ride on a bike. The roads seem to be either constantly being graded, which is a sandy nightmare or 6″ thick gravel, like a rich person’s drive. If you ride a motorbike you’ll know the terror of the gravel; tottering along with the wheels seemingly under some demonic control. Yeah? Well I did that for most of a day at some clip too. The technique is-
Hold as tight as possible whilst seated and hope your bowels hold….. or is it Stand on the pegs and lighten your grip? Easier said than done. I’ve now mastered the Paris Dakar ‘ride like a racehorse jockey’ stance.

Now here is an admission that I’ve been thinking about whilst wrestling this giant bike. I grew up on small off road bikes and thought ‘no problem… Pffft, silly mid life crisis Adventure bike, I’ll just POWEEEEERRRRR through everything looking incredibly cool whilst I fishtail out of every corner and roosting dirt on the admiring crowds cooing at my incredible adventurousness.’
No. Not at all. It’s more like… Shit! Gravel on the outside of this off-camber corner, there might be some hick in a truck coming so I can’t take the rut… I’ll just Poole round at walking pace. All those people that say the Africa Twin “doesn’t have enough power, I mean the BMW has loads more, and the KTM… well… have I just put a canoe in my pocket or is that power? WOOF!”
They can suck my trench foot toe. This trip requires finesse and judgement. I mean… It would be great to spolsh into every water crossing with a abandon but that wouldn’t be wise. I tend to stop… look and gently meander through. I can’t imagine dropping Ginko in a slimy bottomed creek ford and trying to right her.

So poodle I did… Then POOOOOOWER… then pootle etc. Until I saw TAT written on an old shop. So I use the amazingly effective ABS and come to a stop. Out pops Percy who offers me a cold drink and some crackers. Him, his son Glenn and his friend from down the road Al maintain the ’TAT shack’ near Trenton, AR (oops, I seem to have been calling Arkansas AK!). It’s kind of Percy’s retirement hobby, that and the horses. It’s at odds with the “piles of crap I’ve collected over the years” adorning the shop that he uses an iPad and flat screen TV for the horses. In there is a large board dedicated to many #TransAmericaTrail riders and a some books that Al makes every year with photos of the ones that have stopped.
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Al often sees #TransAmericaTrail riders from his sawmill a mile down the road and calls ahead to Percy who greets them. What an amazing experience. I asked Glen if he had a hose so I could wet myself down and he led me to his mancave (oh if I could dream) where I scored more ice. Al and Glen admired Ginko, with her weird gearbox and we were off again to the gravel. By the way everyone – SHE’S NOT A FREAKING BMW!!! I need to get a sticker made.

Very shortly after the shack was some of that talcum powder like dust which is nasty, and a pretty big water crossing where some rice fields had leaked. The umbrella came in useful again.

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And onto the levies. High speed riding like flying above the fields upon these magnificent bits of engineering I came upon a cool looking cat on a three wheeler enjoying some tunes after work. I came alongside when Jordan pulled over to let me past and we chatted. After the now usual ‘where, when why’ questions I asked about food and he directed me to the burger joint in town where his mom worked. We parted and I went to freak her out by sticking my head through the order window and asking for her by name. Jordan appeared and we chewed the fat under the fans of the outdoor seating area. He drives combines on the farm and is a lovely kind bloke. His biggest concern is paying for health care for his growing family because he earns too much for Obama Care. Thinking about what he was saying on the levy overlooking the town was insightful of the cultural outlook of the people I met. Pointing at the rails he described how most black people live on one side and whites on the other. We were at the crossing, and so is he as his mom turned out to be a lovely white lady who makes a great burger. He’s not going to vote because he thinks it won’t make a difference.

More farms, gravel, farms, massive projects with giant machinery to dodge. ”What you building” I shout to the driver of one stepping down from above head height to refuel. He plops down to the oily squelch I’ve wobbled through to round the massive dam scoop and he replies in a thick Texan accent. ”This here is gonna be a dam Sir”
It’s about half a mile long scar in the land like a meteor strike. Bigger than any Dam we ever built… maybe besides Kariba ;).

With failing light I do the zig zag through the countryside looking for a place to camp. Again everything is deserted because of the heat. I look at maybe a church with flat green grass surrounding it, but locked doors bar that idea and I furrow a path down another gravel road to have a bug splat me in the eye. I stop. Stop engine, remove dome, gloves, rub eye (it’s a self cleaning mechanism you know?) and hear dogs.
When I look over my shoulder I see some mean looking dogs, Trump garden signs, a flamed dump truck a cherry picker and a random assortment of buildings. There’s a scary looking 8ft tall dude with a beard staring at me. I leave Ginko on the road and approach the demise line of his property and wave hello. There is a castle doctrine in Arkansas – you know what that means?! Matt comes bounding up and enthusiastically introduces himself instantly asking if I need to rest or want anything. And so I come across incredible generosity. Matt and Janice are looking toward the good life. Un-reliant subsistence seems the goal with chickens (amazing scrambled eggs Matt), cows, pigs and even Guinea Fowl chirping down from the shed roof alerting them of my presence. Matt is no redneck. He lived in Oz for 30 years and has the most comprehensive knowledge I have come across in a man. Microscopic electronics to animal butchery. Incredibly resourceful. He’s a keen HAM radio operator with the top licence and enough equipment to reach anywhere with the quality of a good radio broadcast.
I slept on their couch and when Janice left in the morning for work Matt set about making me a screen to try and combat the terrible buffeting I was getting from the wind. Being a life long biker he knows the suffering that turbulence can bring. He has the most beautiful Harley. I’m not really into them but I’ve seen two I like, both owned by people I got to know in a short space of time. Matt’s is the top dog with subtle and showy in one package: All chrome with silver and gun metal paint embellished with blue pinstriped scallops. Tell you what. He’s a very brave man taking that down his nasty gravel road. Oh and the screen he made from a chainsaw face shield is magic.

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I left the Davis’ sad I couldn’t get to know them better (didn’t get a photo of Jan either) and headed toward the Hills. More riding through tracks and trails, farms, woods, creeks and roads in the incredible heat I rounded a corner and saw Scotland. Thinking of Jenny (my long time friend and colleague) I selfied at the seemingly deserted town, fiddled with the inreach to try and get it to Bluetooth to my phone (fail) then came across a little shop. It was lunch and I could nearly see if it was open. I saunter in, probably complaining about the heat and am presented with a #TransAmericaTrail sign in sheet. Wow.

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They too have #TransAmericaTrail memorabilia and I’m the 13th to pass through this year. Lucky because I get chatting to the lovely lovey family that run the place. Jonathan takes my order and makes my lunch whilst Becky and Bill quiz me; Savannah probably thinks I just talk funny. It always takes some time to explain not only the trip, but also my background. Again, they seem genuinely interested and ask very relevant and thoughtful questions. It’s a shame that Buck is selling the place and I hope that people as kind and thoughtful take over. Becky not only offers to wash my disgustingly smelly clothes (I could never let her!) but then pays for my lunch. I couldn’t refuse her, it wasn’t allowed.

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Up and up into the Ozarks where I was promised cooler weather, but not a hint. Through deserted woods roads, higher until that time to sleep again. It comes round so quick. I pull into a camp… ”there is a public campground down the road, we have this church group who booked the whole place”. Bit of a shame, all I wanted was a patch of grass. So I pull into the remote county campsite that is completely deserted, set up and use one of my panniers as a water hauling system to wash and use the stove to boil more drinking water. The tap is a way up the road. A weird couple does the rounds in a white sedan in a really creepy way which gives me the heabies and I get into my tent and try to write. I fail. It was so hot that, lying on my mattress, phone above me, my elbows dripped with sweat. I ended up waking at 4am because I was being eaten by tiny tiny ants and was sweltering, so packed and set off.

I managed the rest of Arkansas and a fair chunk of the incredible Oklahoma, the start of which has a great river in which swimming is a must. I met Larry there. He fishes whilst the raucous young floaters drift by. He says the biggest fish he got was when they are about, so doesn’t mind them. Larry works in a can factory but says he preferred his first job in a plant nursery.
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Over the plains I went to the incredible comfort of the quality motel in Bartlesville.

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I donned flipflops and shorts, white tee shirt and left the helmet to enjoy the wind in my bald for the first time in a city on the way to Murphys. There, the dish to try is a burger on toast covered in cheese, fries and gravy. A ate until it looked like road kill and gave up. There Roger (the codger) and Brian entertained me with great craic. Roger seems a favourite of the ladies that work the place. He’s into oil and was familiar with the place where I took the pics. I actually snuck in there because the trail was too low. When hearing of my architectural work he suggested I visit the tower that I spotted on the way to the Resturant; the advantage of no helmet! It seems that Frank had his hand in Bartlesville and his tower here is his only ‘skyscraper’.

Brian came on his flamed Screaming Eagle Fat Boy and joined Rodger and I in to car park to kick tyres. I gave him a go on Ginko and he loved the gearbox.image He wanted me to ride his Harley but I had to refuse because in flipflops I’d be a menace. It seems Brian is a victim of the awful separation of Indians (is that politically correct??) because his family are completely disparate, so much so that he had to convince the hospital that he had a solid base of friends to take care of him otherwise they wouldn’t give him a new liver. Rodger and 9 others were there for him and he looks very very well now. Super cool with hair to accompany that Oklahoma helmet law.
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The main problem with this trip is having to move on from all these wonderful people. Even the intimidating looking geeza at the milkshake place in Salina, OK was a thoughtfully generous person, looking carefully at my maps and giving all the knowledge he could.

Now I have to hit the interstate, for my own well being and the time needed to meet Adam in Denver; I just hope my rear tyre lasts so I can enjoy New Mexico. The Saint should know; I have pinned the OK dirt – 100+ club!