A Slice of American Pie: Part 6
From Log Cabins to Desert Metropolis

“Bloody birds” were the first words from Prince Charming. “I hate camping.”

We have so far slept in the lap of luxury and now we are at the foot of luxury. No, trodden on by the foot of luxury. We have spent our first night camping in the desert. Roll out the tent, sleeping bags, mats and fluorescent light powered by the bike battery.

Coming back from the hot showers, he sort of swaggered into the campground. I thought “it must be his motorcycle walk.” No, he had dropped his underwear into the toilet and then was subjected to loud country music from his fellow shower mate. Camping is not his favourite activity. American campgrounds traditionally have a campfire at each quiet private site, but, unlike Kiwi Kamping, do not have a kitchen block. You are on your own for cooking, refrigeration and clean up. With all that involved, it took us rookies two and a half hours to break camp.

There are so many images that blur past my eyes. I see the oil wells with pumps scattered across the landscape like giant preying mantises. The white house in the far distance of the endless flat, wasteland. The rows of windmills with the morning sun silhouetting them like brush strokes against the blue canvas. But we are long past them. Paul claims “there’s no safe place to stop” or “there’s gravel beside the road”. These do, however, seem conquerable when faced with a Harley Davidson shop. The bike can even do u-turns to get to them. I search for new negotiating tactics for photo-stops but they are “dust in the wind” to this heavily-in-favour-of-let’s-get-to-the-destination man.

It’s a hard habit to break.

One afternoon he pulled into a scenic outlook, much to my delight, only to be brought back to reality by the words: “Get off. There’s something wrong with the bike.” He had noticed a heavy vibration coming from the front of the bike, but following inspection could see no obvious problem. A few miles further it was time to take it to the experts, who found that the “Slime” material used to stop air leaks in the tyres had solidified into a solid mass, throwing both wheels completely out of balance. The tyres themselves had suffered so a new set was installed. I did my part by knitting while sitting amongst the mountains of chrome admiring the fine selection of tattoo’s wandering around.

Motorcycling is concentrated co-habitation that few husbands and wives are called to survive. It is close to having a Siamese twin adhered to you. Or to the bike. Twenty-four-seven. The same man who barks “where do I turn?” is the one you are supposed to cuddle up to, regardless of how sweaty and odorous he is. Communication is essential. Turning off the headphones is only advised as a stop-gap solution.

We are becoming a well-honed team. I hold the maps in a plastic folder and do the navigating from the back seat. At least when I’m awake. I have a bad habit of sleeping in the saddle. I am sure cowboys used to sleep while riding their horses. Paul usually finds out when my head falls forward and whacks his helmet. It’s also my job to ride side-saddle to lean over and grasp the water bottle attached to the side of the bike. I’m not allowed to wave to fellow bikers because I prefer the Queen’s wave from my throne. The bikie wave here is a tendon ripping extension of the left arm into the slipstream without the slightest motion of the wrist. Paul monitors the gas mileage (20 to 22 km’s per litre), checks the gauges, pampers the bike, and watches for café’s. We are covering between 400 and 800 kilometres a day. The extreme heat has curtailed many a day.

I successfully call for a photo stop in Llano, Texas. Such a slice of American life.

A sign by the town hall announces the Little Miss Sparkle Pageant Registration at the Courthouse Gazebo today. Orange and black balloons call attention to the event, next to the flagpole with the Texas and US flag at half mast, in honour of President Reagan. These fly over the list of the Llano County WWII veterans. Down the street is a memorial to those who died in the war. And, of course, yellow ribbons. They are part of the American scene these days, calling people to remember and support the soldiers in the war. The flags that fluttered from all the vehicles after September 11th have worn out and been replaced with decals. What a poignant mixture of American celebration and remembrances. And the good ole pick-up trucks rumbled by in endless procession on Main Street.

Three scorching days in the desert finally deliver us to Austin, Texas. I am greatly in need of a break as we swing off the saddle. I mean, seat. My boots are dusty and my jeans are dirty and hot. We stop at the first place we can find for lunch. We are back in civilization but yet another new one. We need translation for the Spanish sprinkled menu. On the deck is a Ladies Lunch attended by women manicured from their hair to polished toenails in bright sandals. I am aware of my clothes. I don’t even want to see my “helmet hair”.

The American Southern Woman has little in common with the New Zealand Southern Man and wouldn’t even make it onto the scale of the ideal woman that this rough and peculiar man seeks.

So like a chameleon I must pull out the civilized wardrobe that lives in the bottom of my miniscule bag: a combination of Teva sandals and purple Katmandu selections. And, to add worry to woe, they clash with my jewelled red-rhine stoned sunglasses.

We settle gratefully in a king-sized bed in an air-conditioned home with 5100 km’s behind us.