Hard Travelin'
HARD TRAVELIN'
TRAVEL
DIRCK CRUSER
SALTY OLD Woody Guthrie, last of the down-to-earth, dirt-under-the-fingernails American folk singers, the voice of the Dust Bowl farmers, was a true travelin' man, and his song, "Hard Travelin'," exudes his familiarity with fast rattlers, hardrock mining, and the damp cold of the jail cell. "Hard Travelin'," is a hypnotic, bluesy song, and when it began running over and over through my mind as I rode eastward out of California, I felt as though Woody was on the saddle, too, and glad to be giving his feet a rest.
A few years back, when owning a motorcycle was still a hope and a prayer to me, I decided that, for me, a cross-country run would be the most enjoyable and interesting use to which a bike could be put.
At last, one July day, I found myself whistling southward through the damp darkness of pre-dawn U.S. 101 on a firm capable Honda Scrambler, a smooth-running machine, though still a stiff shifter after only 600 miles from spanking new. With me I carried a bedroll, two Army ponchos, a canteen, mess kit, and various smaller items such as toilet articles, camera, canned food, maps, and other little do-dads designed for camping trip comfort. I thought the light rain was far from an auspicious beginning and wondered what the rest of the trip held in store. Subsequent events revealed more action than expected, and it began that very day! I left Carpinteria at 4 a.m., sporting a sweater, gloves, and leathers, top and bottom over my clothing, and still I shivered in the drizzle. By 10 o'clock I had shed shirt, glove-liners, leather pants, and sweater; the July wind blows hot in the Mojave.
At Ventura I had turned off 101 and cut over to U.S. 99, jogged onto U.S. 6 at Newhall, and dried out in the early morning sun. I streaked across the Joshua tree high desert to Victorville and picked up the main drag, U.S. Route 66, at Barstow, where I knew the hot country really began. I stopped for coffee, to shake the last vestiges of comfortable innerspring mattress sleep from my eyes, and from my memory. As the sun and the temperature climbed, the reality of the trip began to sink in. I noticed that the loaded Honda was getting a lot of attention from breakfasting tourists; I had thought that Hondas in California went as unnoticed as surfboards and bikinis! I received some stares, too. Apparently leathers still evoke visions of Eddie Rickenbacker or the Red Baron. I began to feel like a freak, and to avoid any lurking carnival sideshow men, I hurried off into the deserted wasteland of dry lakes and lava beds, where the only shade was beneath the road, in one of the numerous underpasses built back in the 1930s to cope with flash floods. I found the temperature under the road to be nearly the same as in the sun, and after watching those 36-year-old 4 by 12s flex a good 3 in. each time a truck passed above me, I decided to stick out the heat to Needles, and then celebrate the trip by downing the biggest milkshake I could find. The heel of my left foot told me that the bike was running much hotter than normal, though noticed no change in performance.
At Needles I pulled into a crowded little hamburger stand and ungratefully left the Scrambler simmering in the sunshine. When unbuckled my helmet, I thought the world had exploded: everyone seemed to be shouting, and the jukebox sounded as though it were installed in my head, and at full volume. Until then I hadn't realized that my new and well-padded helmet had been keeping me in a world of silence. Normal sound was amplified by contrast. The local custom-car set made it obvious that they were gravely doubtful of my courage and masculinity because I was wearing leathers. When told them I used seat belts in my car, too, they were thoroughly convinced of my cowardly nature. In any case, the road rash of my pre-leather days has convinced me that it is a good idea to put the hide of some other poor critter outside one's own. It wasn't many miles later that I shed the leathers, though, but in deference to the sun rather than to the Hot Fudge Heroes.
The sight of the Colorado River symbolized real progress. At least I had outrun California. But I realized I had forgotten something: swim trunks. Never had water looked so inviting. It was about that time, as though to get my mind off the heat, that old Woody Guthrie made his presence known. That song began buzzing around in my brain. Woody added new words to it:
I been ridin ' that red hot desert,
I thought you knowed,
I been burnin ' up rubber tires,
Out on that road,
I been sweatin', I been cur sin', And then too y'know I been thirstin',
I been havin ' some hard travelin ', Lord.
Once he had begun, he didn't quit, and the dotted lines kept time with the music as they flashed by.
Kingman, Ariz., was coming up. There I hoped to give the Honda its 1000-mile servicing, but it wasn't in the cards. The local dealership had an unlikely appearance, to say the least! One or two small bikes languished among the wheelbarrows and lawnspreaders of a hardware store. The proprietor probably was quite familiar with the inner workings of a rotary mower, but my 300 Scrambler was a bit too much. To complicate matters, Uncle had called the regular mechanic away to play soldier for two weeks. I decided to go on to the next dealer on route. But there was a delay; Kingman became a turning point in the trip—liter ally.
The perpetrator of my fate was a young girl in an aging Ford sedan, making leisurely progress eastward out of town. She was passed by the two cars ahead of me, and as I swung out to pass, she did it: a left turn! As I slid home, zeroed in on her left rear door, I had time to yell a supremely sarcastic, "Hey, lady!" and then, wompl The bike lay mortally wounded in the gravel, bleeding gasoline, and my left leg was in violent revolt as I hobbled over to trade verbal shots with the lady driver. I felt sure the trip had died a-borning, in hot, dusty Kingman, but after a cooling-off period in a nearby grocery store, where I learned that, a) the girl had no insurance, b) my knee was almost totally out of commission, and c) the bike was still rideable, if somewhat cross-eyed, I regained a little cautious optimism. Having little faith in the local Honda man, I checked with the long-distance phone operator and found that there was no dealer in Flagstaff, the next city on Route 66. Thus I was forced to detour to Las Vegas, 100 miles northwest, for service and now greatly needed parts. We were an unhappy sight, making our bent and painful way up U.S. 466 under the scorching sun.
That first day had been a long one, and by happy coincidence Lake Mead campground was at the right place at the right time. I wasted no time finding a clearing, did what I could to patch up the bike, washed a quantity of battery acid off the once-shiny gray finish, and prepared to sack out. I discovered an impressive dent in the tank, a credit to any man's knee! The Honda interested a man camped nearby, and since my destination was North Carolina and he hailed from Charlotte, we had something in common. He told me about his 125-cc Harley Bi-matic, the fastest thing on wheels (for the first three blocks) in Charlotte, back in '48. Silence and darkness finally fell, but not the temperature, which had formed an evil alliance with my knee to keep me awake. My shoulder, too, which had demolished a Ford window that day, chimed in. I started on by dawn's early light and by 7 a.m. was at the doorstep of the Las Vegas Honda shop, "Scootersville," disassembling broken parts in intermittent rain, a welcome relief from the heat.
I been havin' some hard sleepin',
I thought you knowed,
Skeeters bitin', peepers peepin', Way down the road,
Dreamin' dreams I shouldn't oughta, Dreamed I knowed that farmer's daughter, I been havin' some hard travelin', Lord.
Some skillfully applied force to the fork, $30 in parts, a visit to a hardware store for a brake return spring, a tune and oil change, a delay of five hours, were all that was needed to put me back on the road to Kingman, my favorite town. My spirits were up-I was on the way again-briefly.
As I was approaching Hoover Dam, the engine cut out. I responded with rather fatalistic annoyance. In the blazing mid-day sun on a narrow rock-walled shoulder, I unhappily discovered that the Scrambler's tool kit contained no fuses, as had the kit in my old Super Hawk. My cursory (pun intended!) search for a short revealed nothing, so I reluctantly wrapped the burned out fuse with paper foil and successfully proceeded another half-mile before conking out again. Still I saw no wiring faults and simply substituted a ball-point pen spring for the bad fuse. This took me into the dam itself, which was crowded with tourists. Considerately, the bike stalled at a parking space this time. To remove the seat I had to unpack all my gear. I found a suspicious looking battery cable, taped it, packed a beer can poptop as a fuse just for variety, cranked up, and cruised off. The fuse-holder now stayed encouragingly cool to the touch. It seemed I could make it at least to Kingman to buy fuses.
I should mention that Arizona highway patrolmen are among the most courteous I have met. Some miles south of Hoover Dam I was stopped and informed that the Honda was trailing white smoke. It took a policeman to discover the symptoms of my trouble. The brake light switch had shorted. The wiring was burning itself to ashes. I disconnected the switch and went on to Kingman trouble-free, except for a sudden and tremendous rainstorm which thoroughly soaked both me and my gear, flooded the road, and provided giant, stinging tire wash from passing traffic. Farther down the road, another curious policeman stopped me to check the bike's license tag. It was a paper temporary tag, and because earlier it had started to tear off the fender, I had it in my wallet-no wonder he was curious. This was the last time during the entire journey that the total absence of any legal identity on the bike was questioned! By the time I reached Kingman the sun had dried out my clothing, and better yet, my sleeping bag.
Still somewhat naive for my old age, I returned to the Honda dealer in Kingman for a fuse. Of course he had none; I didn't bother asking about the brake light switch. I found fuses of the correct amperage in an automotive store, and hurried past the site of yesterday's mistake, out of Kingman, and on toward brighter days. I knew that bad luck was all past history when Woody started in singing again:
I been havin ' some hard luck time, I thought you knowed,
I wished my bike 'd stop'd on a dime,
Back down the road,
I hit my brakes, I hit that car, And now my brains are all ajar,
I been havin ' some hard travelin Lord.
Home that night was a grove of pine trees east of Ash Fork, Ariz., complete with a big "home cooked" meal, the first one of the trip, and a solid night's sleep. An early start on a warm and pleasant morning brought me to Gallup, N.M., by noon, where a small, but friendly and apparently well equipped Honda agency provided materials and assistance as I replaced the bad switch and its wiring in the noon sunshine. Now the bike was completely functional again, and the engine was pulling as well as ever. Even the gearbox was nearly broken in.
An afternoon of uneventful but interesting touring through trading-post-dotted tableland and red-walled canyon ended in snarled rushhour Albuquerque. The traffic and a pause for an oil change left barely enough time to gather firewood before dark at my campsite 12 miles east of town. As usual I chose an inconspicuous spot and threw a poncho over the bike to minimize the chance of being spotted by unwelcome visitors. After dinner I left the cookware soaking on the far side of the bike and prepared to get some sleep. Just as I shut my eyes, an odd, lapping sound at the mess gear sat me bolt upright. The first thing I thought of was a wolf, but of course that was just my jumpy imagination and the effect of the full moon. I assumed I had a dog for a neighbor, assumed it to be a friendly one, and called to it in the most neighborly tone I could muster.
A hungry but gentle German shepherd, so shy that I imagine it had been belted around some in its day, peered around the fender at me. We became fast friends, and in return for my help in raiding a nearby garbage can "Woody" stood guard over (and on) me all night, proving once again that the dog is a man's best friend. "Dog-dumping" is one of my pet gripes (no pun intended), and if it didn't sound incredible I would say that I tried to get that big hulk of a critter to sit atop my camping gear so I could take him to the nearest humane society. I'll just report that in the morning I rode two miles east to a truck stop and phoned Albuquerque to get the proper authorities there to give the old dog a hand, because this "Woody" had seen some hard travelin', too. Then I took a couple of hamburgers back to him, but the scoundrel was nowhere in sight.
That morning, forest land dwindled into plains, and again high temperatures prevailed. As I crossed eastern New Mexico, the signs along Route 66 reading "Do Not Drive on Shoulder" constantly reminded me that my shoulder certainly felt as if someone had been driving on it! At the New Mexico-Texas border I took a brief snooze under a rare grove of shade trees to combat the effects of being stood on by a German shepherd during the previous night. In the Southwestern summer an Army canteen can't keep water cold, even though it is insulated with water-soaked felt, so I got a refill here and every opportunity. I also made it a policy to drink a quart of milk each afternoon. Refreshed with sleep and liquid, I set out across the warm expanse of the Texas Panhandle, and judging by its size I realized that it must be a very big pan.
I found hot, gusty crosswinds west of Amarillo and tiresome, oblique headwinds throughout the eastern Panhandle. The Scrambler responded by leaning to the right. Calm air leeward of roadside buildings made things interesting by momentarily snapping the bike upright. But the wind did nothing to cool the air. An occasional cloud was the only shade. Near the Oklahoma border I noticed that the speedometer faceplate was loose. One screw was gone, the other going, probably the result of the crash.
Oklahoma began with two grumpy bison, who surely would have charged the little Scrambler had they not been fenced in. Just before dark I spotted a likely looking campsite east of Elk City, in a triangular, wooded area bounded by Route 66 and two highway approaches. But on closer inspection the place looked like the probable home of the world's largest moccasins, and I had just passed a tourist attraction called "Reptile City" or some discouragingly similar name. The campsite was too thick with underbrush for a fire, but continued travel would have meant making camp in the dark. I settled for a cold supper and bedded down for a night of fighting insects, which included giant flying beetles. In my mind I tallied "next times"— swim trunks, fuses, insect repellent, mosquito net. A quick check of the bike in the morning showed the neoprene button at the brake light switch to be surprisingly worn, but in general things looked good. The plugs evidenced a healthy fuel mixture in spite of the fact that a thorough tune was overdue. I topped the battery for the second time of the trip, and wondered how seriously its life had been impaired by loss of fluid at Kingman. That morning I got an early start out of my little jungle and soon reached Oklahoma City.
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The engine was still coming on all 305 cc.
A good breakfast for me and an oil change for the bike (I had changed the oil every 600 miles) prepared us for another day of hard traveling. As we worked our way through the rural areas of Pottawatomie County, Okla., toward Interstate Route 40, old Woody started in and took my mind off the rather boring scenery.
I been havin ' some hard sleepin ',
I thought you knowed,
Skeeters bitin', peepers peepin', Way down the road,
Dreamin ' dreams I shouldn't oughta, _.
Dreamed I knowed that farmer's daughter,
I been havin ' some hard travelin Lord.
It was a hot Sunday for riding, and even hotter for standing still. There would be no place to buy a bubble shield to take the place of my old goggles, which were shedding their foam rubber backing, but sunglasses would do. Even a quart of milk was hard to find. Route 40 was hot, straight, and deserted. Gas stations were few and far between, and as I crossed over into Arkansas I was running on reserve fuel. I was probably a ridiculous sight, speeding along at 50 miles per hour in a racing crouch to conserve fuel, but it paid off. At the first sputter from the engine, the huge red letters of a filling station loomed into sight, and I coasted up to a gas pump at Van Buren, Ark.
For the rest of the day I followed Route 40 where possible. This wide new east-west route is being built in disconnected stretches. Near Russelville, Ark., it took me along the huge new Dardanelle Reservoir. Here was an overnight spot too good to ignore. The cool lakeside contrasted pleasantly to the boggy jungle the night before. Boats that sounded like little Yamahas at fantastic rpm churned up ripples at my feet, as I suffered through another meal just-like-mother-never-wouldhave-made. When darkness stopped the boaters, the pre-Independence Day celebrations began. During the previous two days I had passed innumerable little stands selling fireworks; those near Russelville must have done very well. The noisy evening was fittingly climaxed by the noise of a lone, unmuffled Honda 90 crossing the mile-distant causeway—a very impressive sound. After that, there were only fireflies, stars, and sleep.
Early in the morning I left a solitary fisherman floating on the mirror smooth lake and scrambled back up to the road to roll on to the next landmark, Little Rock. There I spent a sweltering half hour making the odometer readable. The faceplate had worked loose completely, obscuring my only safeguard against running out of gas. Farther on, in the bayou country of eastern Arkansas, holiday traffic was heavy on the two-lane road. A westbound woman convinced me to drive with my light on by pulling into the lane in front of me to pass. The road was dangerous in that respect, because its straightness tempted hedge-hoppers, and its bridges over countless waterways (Ditch No. 18, etc.) interrupted the shoulder so that in some places there was no escape route.
The Mighty Mississippi was a welcome sight, but slow-moving Memphis traffic was not. As I fueled up, I got word of two California riders only 20 min. ahead of me, bound for Nashville. The speed limit on Route 40 east of Memphis was 75 mph. For a time, the road was hot and boring, but after Jackson the country became green, hilly, and cooler. I aimed for Montgomery Bell State Park to spend the night, and stopped only to stock up on food in order to get there before dark. At a roadside rest area I noticed two bikes loaded with camping gear, but could not see if they bore California plates.
The pleasant state park provided a good night's rest, and even a hot water shower. A friendly young Tennessean on a 2-month-old Ducati 160 stopped to visit. His machine appeared fresh off the floor and had only a little over 1000 miles on it, while my 2-weekold Honda had rolled 2900 miles and looked like an enduro veteran. I couldn't complain, though, because the engine was still holding its tune, and only one more day of travel would get me to Ashville, my destination, where I could get things in showroom shape again. My two-dollar transistor radio greeted me with a rousing rendition of "Dixie" in the morning. I found myself out of coffee, and out of matches, which reminded me of two more "next times"—a cigarette lighter, and a flashlight for after-dark unpacking. Some more friendly Tennesseans confirmed my faith in Southern hospitality by inviting me to share their morning coffee. I admit I missionaried a little for the two-wheel sport as I talked with them.
That morning the battery again took water, and both the chain and speedometer faceplate required tightening. A winding road through the cool woods prompted Woody to extemporize a little on human nature, and he kept it up throughout most of the day:
I been mee tin' all kinds of people,
I thought you knowed,
Some 're mean an' some're kindly, On down the road, Some'llfillyour coffee cup, An' others wish you the worst of luck, I been havin ' some hard travelin ', Lord.
The mountains of Tennessee were pleasant to drive, although I saw two auto accidents and something even more startling-a dead horse, complete with saddle, lying on the white line as I rounded a bend. Dead or alive, a horse could be quite a hazard to a motorcyclist! In an isolated garage I met a BMW owner, who dug up from the back room, as casually as if it were a current phone book, the 1910 edition of Dykes' Auto and Motorcycle Encyclopedia. After that I wouldn't have been surprised to see him ride off on a vintage Excelsior. At last the faithful Scrambler brought me to the Smokey Mountains of the North Carolina border. Slow traffic and light rain didn't dampen Woody's spirit; he added a new verse:
I been ridin' since California,
I thought you knowed,
Finally comin'into Carolina, Way down the road,
When I get there, gonna put up my feet, An ' get me somethin ' good to eat,
'Cause I been havin ' some hard travelin ', Lord.
It wasn't long until we did get there, and in time for dinner, too. As I relaxed and savored that good chow, I glanced outside at the Scrambler. It was pointed toward the setting sun and rarin' to go. But Woody wouldn't hear of it, and just kept his mouth shut. The trip was over.
