Bike Odyssey 2014 – Day 18 (June 3) – It wouldn’t be a bike tour without…

…a bike problem. Joe’s Sportster sputtered before starting, at our first stop en route to Arizona, and at the second, ‘fatal’ stop it wouldn’t start at all. Made that all too familiar dead battery noise. I knew a mynah bird that could do it perfectly. It could also do an immaculate engine-turning-over-but-won’t-catch. The bird lived in a 2nd hand car showroom in Richmond. Made those sounds to every customer – not a good sales pitch for the company. I bought a car there, and it broke down within 100 miles. The sales folk said, Gosh, tee hee, what bad luck. Then they discovered that when I paid for the car I had written them (purely in error) a cheque for 250 pence (pennies) instead of pounds. They were not pleased. Happily today the filling station was full of bikers, who produced jump leads and started Joe’s bike. It got us to our Arizona destination, where we have a promise of jump leads for the morrow, when we head for nearby Flagstaff and the Harley dealers there. They have a new battery reserved for us.

Bikers’ conversation goes the same every time, much like horse riders on the plains back in the day. ‘Where y’ headed?’ ‘[Destination.] Where you headed?’ ‘[Destination.] Where you comin’ from?’ ‘[Point of departure.] Where you comin’ from?’ ‘[Point of departure.]’ Silence. ‘Ride careful.’ ‘You too.’ ‘Look out for the other guy.’ (This has replaced ‘Look out for injuns.’) Joe bought a souvenir miniature of the state flag of New Mexico. Like me he has fallen under its spell and likes it best of all the states we’ve seen.

Today was a long old day. Usually we stop every 60 or 70 miles, but with Joe’s shock-revived battery in mind, we headed off again and completed the day’s 250 miles in one rush. Very blowy day, out on the plains. Not much to see except fake forts and trading posts and ‘Indian cities’ (one building – selling knick-knacks) and fake dinosaurs. Happily the plains dwarf them all. I let my mind play over the profound, unanswerable questions of the cosmos, such as Why Couldn’t Paul Write a Tune Worth a Damn after John Died? (No emails, please, citing Silly Love Songs or Mull of Kintire or Band on the Run. Think quietly about Blackbird and remain silent in the face of mystery.)