Mike Hyde - Twisting Throttle America

For Joe Lloyd

My father-in-law, Joe, lives in Shropshire, England. He sent daily texts of support. He didnt have a computer but knew where I was every step of the way by plotting progress in his US road atlas. This was his sort of adventure.

T HE CABIN LIGHTS are dimmed as the plane descends into Honolulu. I look out of the window and see a jumbled mass of city lights that abruptly end in darkness at what has to be the waters edge. Isnt Pearl Harbour down there somewhere? Its always the same slightly tense feeling flying into a foreign city at night.

The moment the plane comes to a rolling halt, theres a loud ding as the seatbelt sign goes off. The inside of the plane erupts in a jostling crush of passengers stooping low under the overhead lockers, twisting up to lift down their carry-on and then forced to remain hunched and motionless for 10 minutes as the queue inches down the aisle. For the past 14 hours we have sat penned in, so why the stampede the moment the handbrake comes on? But then this is Hawaii. Bronzed hula girls waiting to place a scented lei around our necks. The sound of ukuleles and the scent of frangipani no doubt wafting throughout the terminal just down the air bridge. Why would you want to spend a moment more than is necessary in this stuffy steel tube when tropical smoothies and Waikiki Beach are minutes away? I leap up to grab my helmet and join the jostling jostlers.

My eyes briefly meet those of a German lady in the seat over the aisle from mine. We havent spoken, but I hate her with a passion that threatens to stop any plans I one day may have to ride around Europe. Let me complainsorry, explain.

As the plane took off she pointed to the ceiling and said to all around her, Lets go, ja! Thereafter, this woman completely dominated the time of the two cabin crew who had our whole cabin to service. When the plane crossed the international dateline, she pressed the crew-call button and asked what she should do with her watch. Her gluten-free meal contained gluten, naturally. A stewardess more or less filled out the fraus US immigration card for her, and I just knew what was going to happen when the choice of wine was presented. It is an aircraft. There is no wine cellar in the avionics bay. Thus you have a choice of white or red. And vot is ze vite? Sauvignon Blanc, maam. I take ze Chardonnay. Sitting less than a metre away, I was a captive audience to this awkward traveller. As the plane touched down, she clapped as if the pilot had made some revolutionary manoeuvre.

Whats your business in the US, sir? I crash back to reality, standing bleary-eyed and hopeful in front of an Immigration officer. He looks Hawaiian, but could be Mexican. Im riding a motorcycle around 50 states in 60 days and this is state number one. Oh my GodTwisting Throttle. Sir, you are most welcome in the US. Its an honour to have you. Boys, look whos coming in! Welcome to Hawaii, Mr Throttle, and here are some free smoothie vouchers. What he actually said was Really? Show me your return ticket.

And so it was that, a little frostily I thought, I was ushered into America. If youre from a friendly country you get a visa-free entry pass for 90 days. There is zero tolerance for overstayers. Be there on Day 91 and thats it for you for future entry. So I wasnt going to be able to hang around. 50 states in 60 days. Piece of cake. How it rolled off the tongue. Sitting at a computer back home, spreadsheeting the mileage, endlessly researching and mapping the must-do motorcycle routes, how manageable and straightforward it had all seemed. Suddenly, standing alone in a crowd at the baggage carousel in Honolulu, clutching my helmet and water bottle, the magnitude of the job ahead struck home.

This is a story of a motorcycle ride around a very, very large country. Two years before, Id ridden around the outside edge of Australia. It took 35 days and I rode 17,350 kilometres. This time the journey ahead was over 32,000 kilometres and I had proportionately less time. Not only that, there would be more bends, lower speeds, higher altitudes, busier traffic, and Id be riding on the right. I couldnt afford to overrun my deadline of 60 days. I had a haircut booked with Johnny back home. You may scoff. This guy knows how to use clippers and, despite sort of shaving your head rather than snipping anything, he gets really booked up, hes that good. I cant afford to miss the appointment. The pressure to finish the ride in time preyed heavily on me.

America. The very name, although a non-term geographically, sits in the subconscious of all long-distance motorcyclists. Perhaps its Easy Rider meets Don Quixote, the ghosts of Route 66, or just the images of US prairies, canyons and mountain passes that my generation grew up with. If I drew up a list of the 101 places Id like to plant my side stand in before I die, 80 of them would be in the US. I was one of those anal kids who could name all 50 states. In short, it was a natural choice of motorcycling destination after Aussie. I just wanted to go there. The other thing to declare up-front is that I suffer from the Biggest Ball of Twine Syndromean obsession with places that claim bizarre things, most of them roadside attractions, perfect for highway travellers like me with a fetish for inane and highly dubious claims. Therefore, if you read on you will be taken to the birthplace not of George Washington but of Captain James T Kirk. Not to the famous battlefields of the Civil War, but to the monument of Mike The Headless Chicken. Not to the grave of John F Kennedy, but to the final resting place of Colonel Sanders. Lonely Planet skirts around important American icons like these, so I feel I have a duty to bring them into your lives.

So Id crated up my Suzuki 1000cc V-Strom and shipped it to Vancouver, Canada, chosen starting point for the assault on the lower 48 states. I would rent bikes in Hawaii and Alaska. After I crossed the finishing line back in Vancouver, Id ship the bike home again. The Suzuki, veteran of the Australian ride, wouldnt have been my first pick of touring bike, but it was three very important things. Japanese, reliable, and the only bike I owned.

So it was 10.30 p.m. on a balmy evening in Honolulu, and I was mulling over the best way to get into Waikiki from the airport. The German woman had just climbed into a taxi. I pity the driver. Hell be Vietnamese and shell want to pay him in Euros. It will be a mess. But I cant be concerned with that. I have a lot of miles to ride and the journey starts now.