From My Notebook in 1975: Coming to the Promised Land

If you remember, I came through the US border at Nogales with remarkable ease. It was late afternoon on a Saturday in May of 1975. I was tired after a day of riding through hot Mexican desert. My bike was limping along and would only run on full choke. I had no real sense of the distances I would have to cover in America and imagined myself to be practically there – in Los Angeles, that is. I stopped as soon as I could after about thirty miles. My notes became very sketchy, and need fleshing out to make sense.

To Rio Rica – campsite. Met young guys – one Viet vet – to girl friend’s house – soup, sandwich. Beer. Slept in hammock. Next day couldn’t get gas – man gave me some from truck. Talked about trying to get work – made it sound difficult.

Rode on through Tucson, Phoenix, into Mojave Desert.

Surprised at distance without gas – at desert itself – as hot as Mexico. Wind and sand. But the freeway made it seem less hostile. The Colorado River took me by surprise. Took a $3 berth at a KOA site by riverside. Much friendship and hospitality (beer generosity) – swam in river.

This was my first introduction to the snowdrop community – I was amazed by the RVs with their huge awnings, Astroturf and white picket fences. I can still remember how delicious was the ice-cold Coors. It never tasted so good again.

Next day more desert and high crosswinds made life quite difficult.

The bike would only run well at about 50 mph, so I was limited to the right lane, leaning over to compensate for the wind. The big trucks passing on my left cut off the wind abruptly, giving me some bad moments until I learned to deal with it.

Into LA – but it wasn’t.

I must have had an address for the Triumph offices in Duarte, but I had no idea that Duarte was a separate city. A young Englishman called Brian Slark received me with a handshake and a beer.

Just the other day Neale Bayly sent me a picture of Brian as he is today, from the Barber Museum in Alabama.

At this point I think it best to repeat what I wrote in Jupiter’s Travels:

I looked around Triumph’s prosperous offices with an optimistic eye, anticipating some sort of unspecified “good time.” Sure I wanted a beer, and a shower and a chance to change my clothes and even to rest for a bit, but what I really wanted was company, nice enthusiastic, appreciative company. As a Hero I naturally assumed that people would be tumbling over themselves to accompany me. All the keen athletic executives in the front office were extremely cordial. All the pretty girls at their stylish mahogany veneer desks smiled very nicely at me, but as the minutes passed my bright eyes glazed over. I wasn’t making contact. In spite of all the niceness, I knew they couldn’t really grasp who or what I was, and maybe, even, they were too preoccupied with other matters to care.

I must have been a strange sight. The desert sun had burned me very dark and printed a goggle pattern on my face. My shirt was threadbare, and my jeans were shredded across the knees and awkwardly patched. My hair was unfashionably short and disheveled, and I was a bit crazy at the thought of having actually arrived. I imagined myself to look quite romantic. After all, I was the real thing, but their nice, orderly eyes gradually convinced me that I was a bit of a mess, and the best thing I could do was go and clean up.

The credibility gap widened into a yawning chasm and never closed. They were unfailingly nice to me, and materially generous. They took the bike into their workshop and promised to give it all the care that could be lavished on it. They gave me another bike, the same model, to use in the meanwhile. They took me to a hotel about ten miles away and booked me in at their expense and left me there until the next day.

My hotel room was at ground level and had thick glass sliding doors instead of windows, with two sets of curtains. I had a square double bed with freshly laundered sheets every day. At the foot of the bed was a big color television set. There was a writing desk, itself quite a decent piece of furniture, and in the drawer was a stack of stationery and leaflets describing all the hotel’s services and telling romantic tales about its supposed history. I read them all avidly.

The bathroom had apparently been delivered by the manufacturer that morning. Everything in it was still wrapped or sealed by a paper band guaranteeing 100 per cent sterility. Not even the boys from homicide could have found a fingerprint in there.

They kept me there for ten days, a slave to luxury. That’s all for now. May I remind you that Jupiter’s Travels in Camera makes a really gorgeous Christmas present. If you ask me nicely I’ll knock $10 off the price for the holiday season (enter the discount code askingnicely when you checkout before 18th December.)