The U.S. Embassy says "Yes"

On Friday, 2 days ago, I went to the U.S.Embassy in London for my Visa Interview. What a day! I do not remember being so bored for a very long time. But the application was at least granted, so the trip is on. Some details follow later, as the event should definitely be regarded as part of the trip.
After my last entry, I received today, a wonderful e-mail from Son and New Daughter. They have sparked me up again, and although I was still determined to go, I admit that I was somewhat confused as to why I am going. They sent me a “Motivational PowerPoint presentation”, but what do you expect from a teaching Army Officer and a Secondary School teacher. It did bring some lacrimal secretions to the eyes, but this hard biker is hardly likely to admit that again, so we’ll forget that bit. They ended their message with two quotes:-
1) You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself. ~Alan Alda
2) You'll never be complete if you don't have a go. If you take the bike and it's crap, then it's crap, but you tried. You can always get on a plane home. It's not a war zone. If it's brill - then perfect!

The second quote is Son and New Daughter’s, but although the language is definitely not as poetic as Alan Alda’s, and shows more than a hint of their Yorkshire common sense, it seems to me to have as much impact!

I also received a comment, my first, from Nancy. Obviously she empathized with my feelings, but clearly she must also be my generation and brought her kids up playing like we did! Thanks so much for bothering Nancy…you must be a teacher or work for Social Services! Encouragement much appreciated.

Now, Friday should have been simple. Appointment at 1330hrs, paperwork all in order, passport available, $100-00 pre-paid, pop in for chat, explain why I wanted to visit and that I am a very English, conservative, well behaved chap (except for the 3 speeding points on my driving licence), and then go home. But the first complication was that I had to go to Twickenham to collect a rotting motor scooter from the front garden of the flat that Daughter has just vacated. Daughter moved closer to her work in the City(London, England) last weekend, to Clapham, which she had previously assured me was “The New Kensington”. That was just before the sad shooting, three days later, of a 15 year old boy there, a fact which rather increased parental concern rather than confirmed the aspirations towards its SW1 neighbour. I had to take a trailer on the car, but my motor cycle trailer has a strong thief proof lock on the hitch, and of course, on Thursday night, when I was about to set off, I couldn’t find the thief proof key, because I had put it in a safe place. So, I had to take the farm trailer, a slightly difficult problem, because the wiring was just a bit wrong, in that indicating left in the car, flashed the right side indicator on the trailer and vice versa. This meant of course that as one drove, one had to remember to indicate the opposite way to the way you wanted to turn, in order to notify following traffic. Of course, if you wanted to notify oncoming traffic, while waiting in the middle of the road, you still had to use the correct indicator position, but it told the cars behind that I was turning left. After about 2 hours of this, you get the hang of it as your cerebral hemispheres become schizophrenic, which is only really a bit difficult when you then get out of the car for a wee at a service station and turn left into the ladies instead of right into the gents. With "Spike" ready at hand, the sudden confrontation by a bilateral row of cubicles with no urinal in sight, and two ladies washing their hands, convinced me that the trailer lighting needed disconnecting, so, after beating a hasty retreat into the men's room opposite, I returned to the vehicles and attached the trailer board which I had in my boot instead and spent the next half hour re-setting my cerebral settings to default mode.
I had decided to stay overnight in Evesham at my old working house, as it has not yet sold. I had a good night’s sleep and set out at 9.00 o’clock to go via Oxford to arrive at Twickenham about 11.00. I have not mentioned that it was my intention last weekend to take my 17 year old Rover 827i to have its MOT test. The previous week it had been serviced and almost as soon as I got home afterwards, whilst doing some filing, I found the old MOT certificate which was four months out of date, although obviously it is properly taxed and insured. Somehow, these things have got out of sync over the years. In addition, within a day of getting back from its service, the electrical connection underneath from the engine to the speedometer had become disconnected so the speedo was defunct. However, in fourth gear the revs ratio is 2:1, so at 3,500 revs the vehicle is doing 70m.p.h. and that is easy. Trailers however are only allowed to travel at 50, so I reckoned that 2,500 revs would be the right level to keep her at on the motorway. Nice day, going well through the hills of the Cotswolds, through beautiful Moreton in Marsh,(Gloucestershire, England), Chipping Norton,(likewise) and on to Woodstock(definitely the original,Oxfordshire, England, not New York State, U.S.A.) Now on the main road through Woodstock, as one has past Blenheim Palace gates, on the right, there is a very obvious speed camera, which everyone who passes through there knows about well. I slowed down to ensure I was at the 30m.p.h. limit, 1500rpm, should be 30, but as I passed the cameras, there were two flashes as first the car and then the trailer, like a pair of “moonies” had photographs taken of their rear ends. I was horrified! I couldn’t believe that that I had been caught in this damned trap; I was even following a car at the same speed and I didn’t see any flash on his rear. Then I realized, I was in FIFTH gear, and the ratio is 2.4:1, so my speed was probably almost 36m.p.h.! B--locks! I have just got my brand new photo driving licence with my piffley 3 points on it and now I have got another 3, almost certainly, and another £60-00 donation into Tony Blair’s “Build a bronze of me bigger than Maggie’s, at public expense” fund. Worse than that, I also now realize that the hunt for me on the Registration mark files will probably also check my Road Tax is paid and MOT in date, because last year all MOT’s became computerized on a central record computer. Double B—locks! That’s probably another 3 points and another £60-00 fine. Almost a full house of points and £90-00! That’s almost enough to pay for one of Tony’s tiny eyes! Well, if it is, I bagsy push the pencil in to make the statues pupil! Shaken, but not overly stirred, I pushed on, and arrived in Twickenham about 11.15, which was actually getting a bit late, so I could not go to Daughter’s ex-flat to load the scooter now, and would have to go straight to the station to get the train into London centre. I passed three garages on the way and wasted another 25 minutes asking in vain at each one whether I could leave the car with them for the afternoon to get an M.O.T. done. All had a waiting time of at least a week before they could fit me in, so this bale-out plan of “I was on my way to get an M.O.T.” failed miserably. Resigned to purchasing Tony’s eyeball, I parked on the virtually empty top floor of a multi-storey car park near the station, lateralizing the car and trailer across three empty bays. I had intended to dump all the prohibited stuff with Daughter who works in Queen Victoria Street in the City, but time was moving on too fast now, and at 12.15, I hastily switched off my mobile phone and put it in the glove box, together with my SatNav, bunches of keys, pens, credit cards, and every other item I could think of that might prevent my access to the important interview with Uncle Sam. It was raining, but I couldn’t take the umbrella,(remember the poison pellet tip is not allowed,) and so I proceeded with haste downstairs to the station. It’s a long time since I bought a train ticket, and when I last did so, I went to a desk with a bridge shaped speaking hole in it and bought it from the cashier at the desk. Now I was faced with a touch screen cash machine, which I am pleased to say was very user friendly and spewed me out four pieces of thin card rapidly with 30P change from a £5 note. I passed one of them through the entry gate only to find that this one and one of the others were actually only receipts and the other two were the outbound and return tickets. On the platform, the sign indicated a train to Waterloo in 3 minutes, and I was able to get a sandwich at the snack bar as by this time I was very hungry and would also have liked a coffee, but there wasn’t time. Arriving in Waterloo station some 25 minutes later with sandwich now inside,rather than outside me, I went down the steps to the Underground. Another touch screen cash machine, but this time, so many options of which Zone and what time and where, that I was quite confused. A man approached and asked me if I wanted to buy an “Oyster”, and I thought for a second he was selling counterfeit watches, but it turned out to be an alternative cheap ticket entitling several rides on the underground from a re-chargeable swipe card. One trip would have been £3-70 and the “Oyster was £5, so I handed over the cash , grabbed the card and set off down the tunnels and stairs to travel to Oxford Circus Station. It crossed my mind as I pushed and shoved and went down the grubby staircase what a poor impression some of the London Underground would make on visitors, but then I was delighted by the clean, modern trains that I traveled on, even though they were pretty full.
Now, I used to live in Maida Vale, and just off Russell Square, for nine years when I was in my late teens and early 20s, and I walked most of central London and knew it like the back of my hand. Grosvenor Square, off Upper Grosvenor Street lies between Regent Street and Park Lane, at the end of Maddox Street. It is about half a mile walk, south west from Oxford Circus, so why, when I arrived at the latter, did I come out and walk East down Oxford Street, and arrive almost at Tottenham Court Road before I realized that I was walking in the wrong direction? Seriously, with my 9 year knowledge of London, this does not bode at all well for a 9000mile Wild West Road Trip on a motor cycle. The time was now 1.25p.m. I had 5 minutes to reach the Embassy. “There will be no refunds for missed appointment times”; “No responsibility will be taken for your non admittance to the building”. A taxi!….it now had to be a taxi. Damn. £6-80 lighter for my 800 yard journey, I arrived outside the Embassy at 1.40 and was confronted by a queue of about 40 people held back by a girl in a yellow fluorescent vest with a clipboard and sided by two policemen in flak jackets, one with a sub-machine gun and the other with a closed pistol holster strapped, with the butt facing forwards, alongside his left knee. Now, the sub-machine gunner, definitely looked the biz, but really, what self respecting gun-slinger would carry his revolver back to front in a closed holster at a level that only a right handed anthropoid could draw in a hurry? Wyatt would have had his star of him straight away, but I’m not sure that he would have emerged so well at the O.K. Corral against the other chap. I went up to the front of the queue, and very apologetically said that I was a bit late for my 1.30 appointment and would it still be possible for me to be seen. She just said, “join the back of the queue”, which I did. At 2.10, I reached the front, and could then see that, 50 metres in front of this, there was a much bigger queue about 4 or 5 people wide. The girl ticked off my name and said that they were running a bit late. She told me to join the new queue second on the left. This was the 1.30 queue with about 50 people in front of me. The 1.00 o’clock queue was on my left with about 20 people remaining in it, and the 2.00 and 2.30 queues were on my right building up well. We were stood in the road, which had been blocked off to a single file one way traffic by massive concrete blocks, and the Embassy was surrounded by high security fencing, so that, for some time, I could not actually see where we were heading. I was quite astonished as everybody around me seemed to be talking to someone on their mobile phones. One or two were listening vacantly to ear phones from hidden music generators under their coats. Several business men were carrying laptops, Families of non- British were holding carrier bags and knapsacks. I could have phoned Daughter to tell her what had happened. I could have phoned anybody on my contact list just to while away the time. I could have written most of this, had I had my laptop, but I had been good and obeyed the rules to the letter. I had expected to be ushered through a security check at the front door to a plush reception room and ushered into an interview room. These people clearly knew something I didn’t. Periodically, the fluorescent waiters and waitresses, passed amongst us with polythene bags for our electronics and prohibited items, all of which could be deposited at the security control point, on arrival there, and collected afterwards. WHY DON’T THEY TELL YOU THAT BEFORE! And yet, I know, that had I turned up with my mobile, I would have been the only one and would not have been allowed in! After about and hour, as people vanished from the front of the queues, it became obvious that they were entering what seemed from 100yards back to be a square concrete public lavatory, and I only saw some occasional few coming out at the back. Was this some sort of bunker? Was there perhaps an underground entrance to the Embassy through the toilets? Were the undesirables actually being transferred by some direct underground rail network to a waiting CIA flight from the middle of Oxfordshire? Waiting around for so long with no book, paper, phone, or companion, (or urine bottle) and already having counted the number of windows on the South side of the Embassy twice, one’s mind begins to play tricks, especially the slightly pre-senile mind. As I saw the front of this block, I could see that this was only a screening unit; pass your bags through an X-Ray machine, take off your belt, grab your trousers and shuffle through the body scanner. Beep beep! Of course, I bleeped even with my trousers round my knees. The guard asked to see the bottom of my shoes. Were they going to try to open the heel? No, no further checks, passed fit. I was hustled out of the back of the toilet and found myself inside the Embassy compound. People pass through slowly and in single units, so actually it is not surprising that I had not realized that there was a constant traffic of individuals. Walking back the way we had come along the front of the building and into a door the other side, but now inside the ring of steel, here we were given a number, and progressed to another room up some stairs. I asked the number lady how long it would take now. It was 2.55p.m. She told me that it was “heaving” upstairs and it would be another couple of hours, but if I couldn’t wait I would have to make another application. The upstairs room was not uncomfortable, there were plenty of comfortable chairs, but then neither was it the plush reception room, reflecting the World’s largest, wealthiest, capitalist democracy. It was really rather like a luxurious station foyer with a row of shielded counters down one side and two large computer displays like train departure boards hanging from the roof. My number was 508. The room was indeed heaving, but I was pleased to hear the constant calling of numbers and directions to one or other of the counters. When I arrived it was number 458 being called, and within 10 minutes this had increased to 470. I felt encouraged, but there were a lot of lower numbers being called as well, which I did not understand, and very few people seemed to be getting up from their chairs. There was no refreshment area, and by now I really was gasping for a drink and a pee. The numbers were climbing however and I didn’t want to miss my appointment. So I hung on. After half an hour, my number came up. Fantastic, desk 6. Very pleasant English black lady, chatty and welcoming. Passed over my documents, duly put my fingers of each hand and then my thumbs on the fingerprint reading screen and answered one or two brief questions. “You’re biking over there then”, she said, “how wonderful. Have a great time” She stuck a bar code on my passport and stamped the papers. She gave me another paper and told me to fill it out and take a seat. Well, that was easy, passed! Very simple, and now almost done. Fill out form and off. I sat down and looked at the paper. My heart sank. It stated that my documents are now being processed in readiness for my interview. I should wait until called to desks 14 to 24 in due course and that the numbers may not be called out in order depending on how long the interviews take. The obverse was to fill in my name and address for delivery of my documents in due course. I sat down again and returned to read, for the third time, the only magazines in the room, a US Tour guide, which is actually 70% advertising and general travel information, and 30% a bit of information from the Tourist offices of each of the States. A further hour passed. It was now 4.20p.m. “508 to counter 23 please.” I got up, my back was stiff, my knees grumbled, and went to counter 23. A pleasant young man in his 30s with a soft US accent greeted me. He asked me what was the purpose of my visit, was my wife traveling too, what was my job, and then when did I retire and where was I going in the States. I gave him a brief itinerary, and he was seemingly interested. He was polite, courteous, welcoming, and then excused himself a minute or two while he checked something on his computer screen, presumably some sort of security scanning about me. Obviously clear! “I am pleased to be able to grant you a visa” he said. “It will arrive by secure messenger in a week or two. Take your blue form to the courier desk”. “Thank you” I said, “a long wait but worth it”. “Have a nice trip” he replied. Thank God he didn’t say “Have a nice day”. I think I might have screamed and undone all the good impressions. Another half hour at the secure courier service desk. Charge? Yes, of course! £13-50, but an added £20-00 for a delivery before 8.00a.m, which let’s face it, is almost obligatory if you don’t have the luxury of being able to wait in at home for an unknown number of hours and unknown number of days to sign for a packet delivered at extraordinary expense. Why can’t they use Registered post? So, the delivery actually cost 2/3rds again the cost of the whole visa process. Good work if you can get it! I finally left the Embassy at 4.45, and had to rush on the tube to Bank to see Daughter to get the keys to unlock the scooter , return to Waterloo, get the train to Twickenham in the middle of the rush hour, get the car and trailer and go to Daughters old flat. Hug with Daughter revived my strength. It is so wonderful to see your kids grown up, happy and doing well. Chuffed with job, ambitious and enthused with new start after move to new flat, flatmates and “Neo-Kensington”. I arrived at old flat about 6.15, and fortunately easily loaded the scooter into the back of the trailer and away. Now I had hoped to be away from the Embassy about 2.15 after my personal interview in the smoking lounge over a Miller Lite, but now I was almost 4 hours behind my imaginary schedule. At 6.30 however, I left Twickenham quickly and easily on the M3, but of course, I hit the M25 at Friday night rush hour. The upshot of this being that the first 20 miles took an hour and a half, and then the remaining 80 another two hours. I arrived back at Evesham exhausted and dehydrated at 9.45p.m Had a quick “Admiral’s Pie” and fell into bed just barely undressed. Have to say that overall, it was a cr-p day, with one or two highlights!
On Saturday morning I woke with migraine at 5.00 and that, combined with the desparate need for a pee after the couple of pints of squash and decaf I had to rehydrate before bed, necessitated getting up. I had an Imigran and a coffee and a fag and hung about in the conservatory and garden for an hour while the headache subsided. At 7.30 I set off back to Yorkshire. It was wet and misty, and progress was slow with the M6 under its usual extensive two lane closure road works. (In retrospect now,I wouldn’t mind my £60-00 fine going towards 24hr, around the clock, rapid roadwork repairs, rather than to the pencil point in Tony Blair’s bronze eye.) When I arrived home, I told Wife that the farm trailer lights were a problem and she said that she had noticed that too, but it did not seem to have made any difference to her driving it around for weeks on the back of the Pajero, although what chaos and signal confusion she left in her wake God only knows. (She has no points on her licence of course! Also, she seldom actually signals, so perhaps not much harm was done!) It transpires that she had rolled on the electric plug and cracked the casing so had bought a new casing and put it on. The plug unit is circular, as many of you will know, with a cut out slot that goes at the bottom. Wife had put new cover on upside down, so left was right and right was left! Brilliant. As if I haven’t got enough of a battle on my own against imminent senility, she just had to help! I think Alan Alda’s quotation needs some amendment in my case. It should read “You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your institution. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is somebody else.”

Thank you to the U.S. Embassy for certifying me

Next week, I will now really be planning a bit more of the trip in a new “little black book”. Keep in touch.


Best wishes, Doc

"I have a dream" (apologies to the great Martin Luther King)

A light hearted blog is fine, but I don’t feel quite so light hearted about it at the moment. This is a long blog and a selfish blog! Over the last week I have actually been getting cold feet about the whole U.S. trip. I have had some sleepless nights with all this lot going over in my head and condensing into some sort of rational expression of why I feel like I do at the minute. It’s not anything to do with the planning, or the extent of what is developing, far from it, I have always looked forward to that right from the original simple concept I had of travelling Route 66 about 40 years ago. At the time it just sounded like a fun thing to do, and with the Rolling Stones’ version of the song, epitomising my old feelings of the loves and freedom of my youth in the 1960’s, I always knew that one day I would go to do it. “It winds from Chicago to L.A., more than 3000 miles all the way”…yes, that’s where I want to go for an adventure. But, of course, in the spirit of Easy Rider, I always knew it would have to be on a custom chopper Harley. I wouldn’t want to do it in a car or on the bus. I want to feel it, smell it and soak it up. I want to “live” The Mother Road, to see the sites of the 1920’s and to meet the people travelling on it and living and working along it. I want to see the changes in the character of the landscape and countryside and be a part of the great trek West. But my first desires to go and do it really did start in the 60’s, and I was then in my 20’s. I did not even ride a motorbike then but I was going to. I passed my bike test when I was 47! I’m now 60 and although my head feels like it always did, my body is a different matter altogether! In the 60’s, I saw myself like Dennis Hopper, a sort of biking hippy, with my long hair tied back in a pony tail behind. I saw the girl on the pillion, mini and roman sandals, blond hair flying in the wind, clinging in affection to my waist and leg resting on mine, my back and her bra-less breasts mingling our sweat, as we threw up the dust in our wake Westwards. But, long before this “free love, free life” dream trip, I had particularly wanted to see the Old West.
We had our first TV in 1953, which, like many other families, was bought to watch the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth the Second on 2nd June. The first children’s TV I can remember, apart from Muffin the Mule and Andy Pandy, were cowboy series, (though I think we may even have had a glimpse of Rolf Harris that far back…it seems like I’ve watched him all my life!) The cowboy films were wonderful black and white adventures from highly respectable, clean, shiny, caring and loving cowboys and lawmen, who told you to do the right thing and be good for your mum and dad and look after your sister! Possibly the first who I can remember was Roy Rogers and his horse Trigger. Even then though, at 8 or 9 years old, I thought he was a bit soppy. He never really did anything very exciting apart from lassoing the baddies and firing shots which always ricocheted off rocks ( a sound we always mimicked with our two finger and thumb guns) and he frequently sang, which was not really how we young cowboys and Indians behaved when we were dressed up in our fancy dress outfits. Not REAL cowboys, although they might be allowed to sing a bit round a camp fire. In the 50’s, dressing up as cowboys and Indians was common place. Over the years, it seems to me, children’s dressing up changed to pirates or spacemen or soldiers. Finally, it seems to have almost gone altogether as children hardly entertain themselves now, and games have to be done around some electronic gadget in some world on a screen in an armchair, indoors. How sad things have got as the country has got more prosperous, and what are children missing in their imaginative exercise and play? Back then it seemed to have been safe to play out, to go to the woods, to ride our bikes for miles, to camp out in the garden, to ask a stranger the way. Back then, we walked to school, all quite safe and unaware of any risks, although in retrospect I am sure they must have been there. But crime, especially against children was rare, and I never remember hearing of anyone at my primary, or indeed my secondary school, ever being accosted or getting into trouble as a result of what is nowadays called “stranger danger”. Back however to cowboys, and in 1953, almost all boys had a cowboy outfit, complete with tassles and a sheriff’s badge and a six shooter of course. Most of us wanted to be cowboys rather than Indians, because, in those days, as it largely still is, it was the White Americans who told the Wild West story, and, of course all Indians were usually seen as the “baddies”, (with the notable exceptions of Tonto, who was the Lone Ranger’s sidekick, and Chingacskook, who was the Last of the Mohicans, although sadly I could pronounce him but never spell him! The Mexicans were also a good second bet as baddies, but came in frequently rather later in such films as The Magnificant Seven, when I suppose it seemed to be in vogue to become more sympathetic to Native Americans). Much the same way I suppose, as even 50 years ago, most British people saw the Commonwealth peoples and others in what we now refer to rather superciliously as “Third World Countries” as lesser peoples because of their lesser industrial and economic achievements. Some nerve when you think that these attitudes were true only because, on both sides of The Atlantic, we had been the oppressors and the harvesters of their wealth in the first place! Well, back to Cowboys and Indians. So, we boys were the cowboys, and our sisters were occasionally allowed to be Indians or sometimes, if they were really respected and O.K. girls, they might be cowgirls, or Annie Oakley or somebody who was usually called “Jane”(after Calamity Jane) or odd names like “Lou” or Jessie” which in England are both either boys’ or girls’ names, or sometimes a squaw because you didn’t kill squaws but could take them hostage! Because my Mum hated guns, trying to get a decent six shooter was very hard. She did not believe in wasting money on a good gun, which should, of course, have been silver with a plastic imitation horn or fancy wooden handle and shoot the very loudest of caps. You could buy caps in a little circular box of little loose discs which were put on a striking plate in front of the hammer and shot one shot when the trigger was pulled, or, preferably on a coiled strip of paper which had a hundred on a strip and fed up automatically from a magazine behind the imitation revolving magazine so you could keep up repeated fire. Loose ones were one penny, and those on a strip two pence. (Old money) To start with, in the early 50’s only red slightly cardboardy caps were available and sometimes they worked and sometimes they didn’t. Later blue paper caps in strips came out which cost a few pence more but made a much louder bang. The burned cordite from caps had a wonderful smell, a bit like the clean phosphorus burned smell from a match, and this was something which gave us the feeling that we had real guns and we would sniff at the bit of smoke that issued from the barrel or from around the firing plate, or blow it as we had seen our film hero mentors do. I only had a cheap black pressed tin gun which did not actually look like a cowboy’s revolver but more like a black pressed metal Mauser pistol. I would emphasise here that this was not because my parents were in any way mean or did not spoil us a bit, but simply because of my mother’s real objection to guns of all sorts. Sadly, my pressed tin gun only shot one cap at a time and I was only allowed 10 caps on a ration from the box as Mother didn’t like the bangs either. ( Hitler and the Blitz ruined parts of my childhood by making my mother terrified of loud bangs, including thunder and cap guns! As children,we spent every thunder storm in the cupboard under the stairs, and it was years before I actually experienced the full awe inspiring glory of a major thunder storm). I can remember saving my pocket money for months to be able to buy a silver six shooter and holster from the window of the local toy shop on the Wickham Road, in Shirley, Croydon. where I was brought up. I passed regularly to make sure it was still there, and it was. I finally managed to save up the 7shillings and sixpence ( equivalent of 37.5 Pence in todays money, but then a stamp cost 2.5pennies, equivalent of 1.25 Pence today) for the shining Peacemaker (Made by the Lone Star Company )with cap magazine and it was my pride and joy for several months until the trigger mechanism finally broke and would no longer operate the hammer. The old bits of gunpowder eventually always corroded up the spring mechanism, and they couldn’t be repaired because they were put together with integral rivets rather than screws. It disappeared soon afterwards,( I suspect to the dustbin, though was never certain!) and shortly after that my cowboy dressing up days seemed to come to an end. Probably my favourite cowboy in those days was Hopalong Cassidy. He was played on screen by William Boyd, who always reminded me of my maternal Grandad, who I loved very much. Slicked back silver hair, black and silver cowboy dress with all silver accessories and a wonderful white horse. Those of you of similar age will remember his theme tune song, the same as you will know the Robin Hood theme song and the cowboy who used to end his show with “Hiho Silver, away!". Those younger ones of you will just have to imagine! When I grew up and found out a bit more about the actor, I discovered that the likeness to Grandad ended there, since, off screen, he had had quite a flamboyant life and several wives. He was beloved, however, of many children throughout the world and, I suppose, epitomised the good guy in his on- screen life and actions. Hopalong was a defender of women, the weak and the wronged, and fearless catcher of baddies, whom he never killed, but occasionally mildly wounded, disarmed or fought with his fists tied up and arrested. He always managed to capture the baddies and turned them over to the sheriff but he frequently reformed the younger ones and persuaded them into becoming contrite and apologetic goodies, who could then be trusted to stay and become good useful members of the community through which Hoppy had passed and maintain his high standards for the benefit of the town in the future. But Hoppy could never stay longer than doing his job. He always said his goodbyes to grateful and loving townsfolk and rode off with one of his several sidekicks, on his silver horse, with a backwards wave, over the horizon. All very satisfying stuff and, I guess, though “politically incorrect” in many ways by today’s standards, probably a great deal more help in encouraging best behaviour in children than many contemporary children’s serials!
In my early teens, I was to find new series of cowboy films, the two in particular which I enjoyed, after the dressing up stage, being Gunsmoke with Matt Dillon, and Wyatt Earp, with Hugh O’Brien.. Both these series, portrayed something of the legendary law man, Wyatt Earp, and Hugh O’Brien, the clean cut, good looking, white shirted, smart and smooth spoken Wyatt was really something. My sister thought he was gorgeous. Even my mother liked him! He had the legendary Buntline Special revolver, which was the first time I heard of this legendary weapon and of Western story writer, Ned Buntline. I can’t say that I have ever read any of Buntline’s works, and I would not be surprised if he was not much more remembered for these legendary guns than for anything he ever actually wrote. I remember an episode in which he gave this weapon to Wyatt,(Hugh O’Brien) although the actual fact of this or indeed whether Wyatt Earp himself ever used the Special is in some doubt and Colt apparently do not have record of such a gun on their books. It is thought that 6 were made. Probably modified from a standard Colt by another gunsmith, they may have had rifled barrels and were given by the author, to several renowned law men. Wyatt Earp was the most well known of these, although oddly, despite all his fame, he was apparently never a full Marshall and was usually a deputy for a short period of local unrest. Over the years I became interested in the history of this real man, and although I understand the story better in historical facts now, as far as they can be separated from legends and the story Wyatt himself told, I started to want to see some of the places with which he was associated, Dodge, Wichita,Tombstone, the O.K. corral. In my head, I know that they aren’t truly actually there, and it seems that he was a superb gun fighter, but probably in fact a bit of a crooked lawman out largely for his own ends. I know he was no great hero, more of a very cool and lucky living legend around whom myths were built up, some probably encouraged by himself. I know that what I shall see are modern cities with bits of Hollywood style reproduction. The wooden shanty towns and cattle corrals would never have lasted; nobody thought of them as anything special. But I still want to go there. I don’t see Wyatt Earp, I see Hugh O’Brien, Matt Dillon, I see the movie Tombstone, I see what is in my head. It will probably be as disappointing as my teenage visit to the sites of The Holy Land, where the venerated Holy Places have become exactly the sort of Horrors of Religious pomp and politics and greed and opulence that Our Lord himself would have ranted against as idolatrous. I see the real Holy Land in my head again now, and I suspect that after I see the “Old West”, that will be where I will continue to see that too!
Since I have had a Harley, I have wanted to be a part of the great annual rally at Sturgis in early August, It seems like a sort of biker’s equivalent of Mardi Gras. I need to feel the throb of 15,000 bikes together and feel a part of the big family of two wheel riders. It’s a boy thing! A large ride-out on large roads, the festival , the ethos, custom bikes I shall never ride, the companionship, the fun. Maybe not The Red Wings nowadays, I reckon my time for their initiation is passed! I wonder if anyone else there will not have a tattoo!
Then there are the natural wonders that I have known about from geography lessons, from films and documentaries and books, Niagara, The Great Lakes, The Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, (and Yogi!) Yosemite, Utah, Giant Redwoods, Fall in the Blue Mountain country. And the Bridges of Madison County! I want to meet real American people and know who they are, rather than the clichéd sound bite people we see and hear about in the News. ( They can’t all need to have England written after London to know where we are talking about!)
So Sturgis dictates my anti-clockwise route which will be from Montreal via Niagara and the Great Lakes, Chicago, Milwaukee, Des Moines, Rapid City and Sturgis, South Dakota, Yellowstone, Montana, The West Coast and California, Utah and then the Great South route eastwards, across the great plains to the Appalachians in the Fall, Boston and back to Montreal.
So why then, with all this in my head, should I be getting cold feet when, at last, I am on the verge of searching out these dream places? It sounds stupid when written down, but it is a very real feeling. The truth is that I never saw myself doing these things alone and I don’t know if I can or really want to do it, by myself. I daresay that there are some people who enjoy their own company and are content with that, but it’s like visiting a gallery or a museum or having a meal out, or even a drink; it is so much nicer to share all the emotions and experience with another on the same wavelength. Something to mull over and discuss and savour again with someone who shared the experience. Despite the long held dream, I don’t think I shall actually ride the Mother Road from end to end. It no longer fully exists except in my mind. Making it up would not be the same. I shall travel bits of it, and the 50, when the heat is less in September and October on my way East from L.A., dipping in huge zig zags into Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas to see those places in my head, Phoenix, Tombstone, Tuscon, Silver City, El Paso, San Antonio, Laredo and Dallas. But really I wanted to do this whole 9000 mile trip with someone I love, and that is not possible. Like the Mother Road itself, sadly, only bits of all that still exist. I am older now and everything has altered or faded, or moved on, including me. Like the Mother Road herself, I wanted to feel her, smell her and soak her up. I wanted to “live” the road with her, to see the sites with her, and to meet the people and see the changes in the character of the landscape and countryside with her. I wanted to love with her, and then remember it for the rest of my life. I wanted to do it when I was young enough to really appreciate what living really means. Now there only seems the dream left.
So, no, I don’t feel light hearted about it, I feel quite heavy hearted. I do have cold feet because I am actually really sad that it will probably not be all of the great experience I had longed for. But, I will do it, I have to do it for me, because I may not be able to do it physically in the future. I am not 20 any more, and life flies by faster every year. If I don’t do it now I possibly never will. I’m just saying honestly, that I am sad, and a bit scared, to do it alone. Hopefully, what I come across on the journey will make it all worthwhile, and what I enjoy will stay with me forever, and what I don’t, my head will modify into the dream. Ride safe, Ride free. Let’s move on out Hoppy!

Best wishes, Doc

Would you like Belfast or London?

I spent most of last Sunday plotting some of the places I want to visit on a fairly large photocopy of the United States which I took from the Times Atlas. The place is so big compared to the British Isles that a map, which clearly shows all the places I had listed, would be enormous, and short of tearing out the pages from my 2002 road atlas of the States, I thought this was a reasonable start. The problems just have got worse. The scale is so small that the place names are not on it except for some major cities, although it does mark the States. Also it is in black and white and the mountains are so dark that they hide the writing so I have made numerous coloured highlighter blocks on it in roughly the ares of the specific states that I am going to try to see. Some other elements of this adventure became clear however. I plan to travel to the States in July and had thought to spend about 3 months there. That would allow me to visit with a 90 day visa waiver, but when I started to realise just how much I was trying to cover, I realised that I might just run over, so I thought that I had better apply for a proper non -immigrant visa. The other thing that became apparent was that I would have to arrange my times fairly carefully, although I do not intend to stick to a rigid day to day itinerary. I have places which I want to visit all over the States, although there are definitely some which I cannot do on this trip, such as Alaska, which is too far north west, and probably the south east, although I would have liked to try to see a space launch in Florida. I seem to have evolved a route which will take me in a large oval from the north east , across the northern states ,down the west coast and then up and down through New Mexico, Arizona and Texas and back up to see the autumn colours in the Blue Ridge Mountains. If I travel anticlockwise, I shall spend the hotter times in the north and west and then get to the Southern States when the summer is slightly less hot with luck. This fits in quite well too because I think my Harley and I really should treat ourselves to a trip to Sturgis for the August rally there, but that is almost a month into the trip, and I wonder whether, when only a quarter of the route round I should have enough time to complete the journey? It seems to be about 9,000 miles as far as I can estimate. So, hence, I have applied for a holiday visa, which will allow me up to six months. Not that I intend to stay that long, although, the last time I went abroad,to do a sabbatical post in Germany for six months, I ended up staying there for six years!
The paperwork is a bit of a problem. I am glad I have started to plan now. I shall need the visa, which is a major bit of expensive hoo-ha in itself, but I also need an international driving licence and a photocard driving licence and US motor insurance. I'm a bit sad about the photocard driving licence . I still have an old paper one, which has always been fine as far as I can see, and has an expiry date in another ten years time when I am 70. It's green and eco-friendly made from paper from a tree which has long since been paid for and replaced I'm sure, and has all the details which seem necessary for a reasonably sensible, honest and legal driver, who pays for his vehicle, insurance M.O.T. and road tax. In addition it has little pictures of the categories which I am able to drive, which includes a road roller ( though not a steam driven one) and a tractor. I really don't like the idea of yet another piece of oil dependent plastic with my picture and a chip. Everything seems to be plastic and chips now. So this will now join the numerous plastic cards jamming several fat card holders which we have to carry about wherever we go. We used to be able to smile and write a cheque with our address on the back, often verified by our paper driving licence when essential. The U.S. visa will no doubt also be a card with a photo and a chip. Anyhow, getting one is a story in itself. What a hassle! It may be the land of the free, but it's not free to get in and it's not easy either! First one has to visit their web site and download an Adobe copy of the application form. All the details filled in, it is then sent to the embassy who return it by some automatic system with a bar code on it ( not quite a chip, but close). You then print it out and save a copy and have to telephone the Embassy for a personal interview and to find out the cost of the visa because it is not written anywhere on the web site. Now, here's the catch...the phone call is charged at £1.20 a minute in addition to your phone charge. So, I telephoned the embassy and was answered by a scottish girl (who greeted me in polite fashion and Scottish accent and did not tell me at the end to "Have a Nice Day") This pleasant girl explained to me all the details of application which I had already read on the web site and then took my plastic details from me, my VISA card details, in order to off-load me of $100 which is the cost of my visit and issue of the visa. Now I don't like using my credit card unless I really have to. I would rather use my bank debit card and know I have finished the transaction, but, no, I cannot pay on my debit card or by a cheque on the day. ONLY credit cards can be used, and despite the fact that we are in the UK, the payment has to be made in U.S.dollars, so no doubt Visa will charge me extra for the currency conversion. That is taken off immediately she explained and is non refundable if I am unable to make the appointment or if I am late or if the visa is declined etc etc. She then asked me where I wanted to have the appointment for the interview. I was a bit puzzled by this since I thought that the US Embassy was in London (that's London,England of course), but she said that she thought I might perhaps like to go to the Embassy in Belfast because I live in the north of England. WHAT!!!! I agreed that Belfast would indeed be about equidistant but London might be more convenient as either a train or car would get me there rather than a boat, plane and a car or train. So I now have an appointment on a Friday later this month, and shall have to pay for a train, and a hotel and lose a day's work, in addition to the $100, and the £6-20 telephone charge. Not so much land of the free now! However, if it serves to prove that I am simply a retired, slightly eccentric and irritating old grump, rather than a terrorist, I suppose it will be money well spent...at least the current exchange rate is good, so it can't all be bad.
Today I got the paper work confirming the time of the appointment. It seems full of apologies and rules. I cannot enter the building with bags or sticks or electronic equipment, which presumably means phone, and possibly chips and umbrellas, and I have been warned that they are very busy and that my appointment time may be given to a lot of other people too. We are informed that there is nowhere inside to wait and that we should form an orderly queue outside, but there is no shelter, so in the event of inclement weather, we may well get drowned. It also says that collections of persons hanging about outside will not be allowed and that crowds may be moved on by officials. So, I can just see it now, it will be pissing with rain and there will be two hundred people all given the same time as me. I shall arrive on the train at King's Cross and there won't be any left luggage lockers available for security reasons, so I shall have to stuff on to the underground to go to Victoria to find a hotel, book in and leave my stuff. I shall get a taxi to the embassy which will be slow and cost me three times as much as I budget for because there will be a demonstration in Grosvenor Square. When I arrive, there will be a queue, and it will be drowning because we are not allowed to be British and carry an umbrella, because they may be used to inject Russian spies in the leg with microscopic ball bearings once in every thirty years.
The police will be asked by the Embassy to move everybody on because of the Iraq war protest which is occurring in the street and I shall walk round the block hoping to get back in time for the appointment ,which everyone else will also be racing round the block to get to as well. On arrival I shall be told that I have missed the time of my appointment and will have to re-book, losing my $100. I shall argue and be told that that sort of attitude is not wanted in U.S. tourists and that perhaps I might prefer to go on holiday to Belfast. I find that I have not got enough money left after the taxi to get one back so go to a cash machine and realise that I have had to leave my wallet, cards and phone at the hotel. It was one of the hotels in Victoria but I can't remember which because I paid for the room on my card and left the receipt and plastic door card with my bank card in the hotel room.
I don't know, Belfast is beginning to look quite attractive...

Best wishes, Doc