"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