travellingbennetts

According to the gospel of shipping, in the beginning of March 2025, there was a ship, the Ever Unicorn. We tracked its progress from Brisbane through pirate-infested waters to Busan in South Korea. Picturing Busan was easy; we’d watched Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End, so knew our motorcycles were cursed and pirate blood was required to swap the container onto the Delaware Express to LA. Delaware Express? That’s a seriously commercial shipping name, but thank you anyway for your personal blood contributions Johnny Depp and Keira Knightley.

The second part of the beginning was the end of May 2025 QF15 – Brisbane to LA. Check in for a 5 month stay was a worry, but the biggest drama was that we didn’t use the USA bag drop which caused staff bedlam. OK, still only 30 minutes to get into the lounge, spent mainly in the queue for security. A 13 hour flight later, we landed in LA. No dramas, apart from the ankles. I’d been into the US only a few weeks previously for work, and that had been incredibly easy. This time there was a bit more scrutiny, 5 months? What are you doing here for 5 months? Helmets displayed to prove we’re riding motorcycles. Are you retired? Luckily I didn’t hear this question, and Cindy quashed any issues with a firm yes. Welcome to the USA.

A cab to the hotel, which was sensibly near the port that the motorcycles had landed at. Shame that we weren’t in Africa and needing to pick the motorcycles from the port, they were bloody miles inland at the shipping agents. Not to worry, the San Pedro area was fabulous for de-jetlagifcation, but tragically we arrived on the last day of Fleet Week. Fleet Week is a huge US naval event, with every bar and venue packed. Our first evening was in San Pedro Brewing, and it was going off with a healthy mix of full dress uniform and whatever the opposite is. The first IPA and wine of the USA under the belt, we managed to keep it together long enough to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

Day 2 started with the alarm – never, ever risk a sleep in otherwise the jet-lag body clock is potentially reset when one awakens at 12 noon. Plenty of stuff to do in San Pedro, we decided the Battleship Iowa was the go. Down to the port we went, plenty of helicopters taking off which was cool, but the gate to get into the Battleship was closed. But it is only closed Christmas and New Years Day? Yes but the frenzy of Fleet Week had exhausted everyone to the point that only the cleaning and portable toilet recovery people showed up for work. Right, the San Pedro Maritime Museum, also only closed Christmas and New Years Day. And a new rule – the day after Fleet Week. OK, we’ll walk a long way to a German Biergarten lunch spot. Closed. It’s a Tuesday for heaven’s sake. Right, the supermarket to the rescue.

That evening, we decided the Fish Market was the go, mainly because it was open. First a drink in an utterly deserted bar, then a bike hire to kill some time riding the full length of the San Pedro waterfront. Interestingly, on display out the front of the museum was the propellor from the USS Canberra, the only US warship ever to be named for a non-US city.

A small drama next – conversion. The US have units that only people over 80 in Australia are still comfortable with, thinking mph, fluid ounces, gallons, it really is an imperial world. At the Fish Market conversion shortcomings had consequences, I selected a 32oz beer. 32? Not sure but that sounds like a small snifter. Well yes if a small snifter equals 0.95 litres, in a flimsy plastic cup. OK, need to remember that 32oz is huge. But after 32oz I could no longer remember that I was Duncan, so called it a nil-all draw.

Day 3 was huge. Into an Uber, let’s head to Compton and to the bikes. That happened with no issues, except the Uber driver seemed concerned that we were being dropped off at an abandoned warehouse. Yeah, that’s where it all happens we assured him. In the front door, we said we are here to get our bikes. All these places do is handle overseas vehicles, so our statement was somewhat lacking in detail, but our contact was there so out the back we went.

There they were. We gave them a quick once-over, and they were just as when they’d left home. Now for the hard part – connecting red and black wires to red and black battery terminals. This is a cruel yet essential task for starting the motorcycles and riding them away. The potential for this to go pear-shaped and south is always running through the mind from the moment they are dropped off back at home: 1) The warehouse will be 50°C and 180% humidity and have the lighting of a medieval cellar. 2) One will accidentally drop a battery terminal bolt down into the dark unexplored recesses and I’ve forgotten to pack a spare. 3) One will accidentally pull the terminal off the wire on the GPS and render navigation impossible. 4) The battery will have gone flat, or flat enough to not turn the motorcycle over after the tiny amount of severely degraded fuel takes its own sweet time getting to the injectors.

But this was not our first rodeo. The temperature and humidity is out of our control but was actually very pleasant. The lighting was woeful but expected, so a head torch was deployed. A battery terminal was dropped, but the extendable magnet quickly recovered it. The terminals were secured without any coming apart. Then the big one. Turned the key, everything came on as it should. Pushed the start button. A side note here – after a big overseas trip, this had never worked, and getting them to turn over was like the definition of insanity – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. But they both started like they’d been ridden 3 minutes ago. All we needed to do was set the units to US gallons and mph and all was good.

The panniers packed and the Garmins stroked, we were into the gear and riding the slalom through the field of cars. Out the gate, we were on the wrong side of the road which meant it was now about to get real, we were on our own. But we needed some fuel to actually ride the USA. To a nearby servo, we confidently pulled up to the bowser. Tried the card, which didn’t work because it needs a matching Zip Code. Seriously? Is that still a thing? OK, Cindy inside with cash. No worries, bowser lights up. Nozzle deployed, and gasoline 87 flavour selected as Triumph say this is regular so fine. Pulling the trigger like I’m playing Call of Duty, but nothing is happening. I notice a weird stiff rubber sock on the nozzle, could this be related to the non-flow? I read a sign on the bowser, the sock is installed due to California’s Clean Air Act, which doesn’t allow petrol smells to waft about. It seals beautifully around car fuel filler inlets, but the hinged motorcycle cap doesn’t allow this. The Eff Word is starting to come into abundant usage about now. Are we the first people in California history to try to fill up motorcycles? Cindy back inside, and out comes the attendant. He believes we are the first people in California history to try to fill up motorcycles, and can’t understand why the rubber sock doesn’t seal neatly over something. He was a trooper though, and managed to fill both bikes because he knew how the stiff sock worked – it needed to be pulled back underneath, which is extremely painful to do.

OK, we were all over that ridiculous concept, and could hit the road to Indio. Those who have ridden the Bruce Highway will quietly nod when I say that the LA freeways are very familiar to us, even though we’ve never ridden them before. Generally fast moving apart from the congested bits, there are people in a lane that is so wrong for the speed they are doing it is ridiculous, and people merging at mobility scooter speeds. But we have seen it all before. Off the freeway, we were connected via the intercom, and screaming started. My recollection; “My pannier! OMG my pannier! Oh the humanity!”. I pulled over. The thinking was – panniers are a binary thing, they are off, or on, there is no such thing as a ½ on pannier. Turns out I was wrong, Cindy’s pannier was ½ on. People were even beeping at her, it was leaning over that far on the bottom lugs.

So back up the road I marched, checked it out, and jammed the pannier back on. I’m not suggesting a miracle here – Cindy’s smalls not exploding across the county isn’t up there with the dividing of the Red Sea – but it was physically improbable that it hadn’t fallen off. No delay, and on again to Mission Viejo, not far from the coast south of LA. Then fantastic roads through to Indio, which is not far from Palm Springs. Hence, gambling is a thing. So is sweating, Palm Springs and the valley are notoriously hot.

Day 4 plan morphed a bit because Joshua Tree National Park is not very far away from Indio. OK, let’s take a look at the Salton Sea. A small summary for those who can’t be naffed googlin’, the Salton Sea is a below sea-level depression formed in the Colorado River basin. It used to be a sea that came and went, then it went. But the ground is extremely fertile, so lots of farming, then improved by irrigation. Until the entire Colorado River broke through the canals in the early 20^th century and filled the depression. Farmers were pretty casual for a while, and lots of run-off went into the sea. By the 1960’s it was a super popular place with resorts, celebrities, ski boats, the lot. But the run-off contained fertilisers, and got less and less, so apart from a few massive flooding events that killed all the celebrities, the sea got smaller and more saline. These days it is so salty that no fish can live in it, and the seafront houses are nowhere near the sea. Tourist numbers have dropped to the point of insignificant, and it seems to have become a haven for odd characters.

Some photo taking and time in the visitor’s centre with a very helpful and knowledgeable dude, we started the climb from -262ft down and back through Palm Springs up toward Joshua Tree. We were still getting into our zone here – what about lunch? A diner of course. What is good about the US is wrapped up in the diner experience. Food, in serves that require calibration but is infinitely tailorable to suit. A menu with big pictures. Jolly service. And old-skool plastic straws, none of those Australian cardboard horrors that taste of remnant homeless man sock.

Into Joshua Tree, we hit the motel, a bit out of town but comfortable walking distance to the Indian restaurant and convenience store. That set us up well for Day 5 – Joshua Tree NP. We’d checked it out, and decided on a couple of must-do’s. The Cholla Cactus Garden for one. I wanted the Geology Tour Road, but then saw it – sand and corrugations. Almost certain death for Cindy as a pillion, so we decided cacti gardens were fine.

The JT NP happily accepted our NP pass, and we were in. We did a few walks, and tried not to fall over on any cacti or super rough rocks. Joshua Trees are in abundance, these look like a tree but are more like a cactus, the leaves are bloody spikey clusters on the ends of the branches.

A fun day apart from fuel regrets as I didn’t even think about the distances involved, we were back to the motel for a touch of early laundry and microwaved remnant Indian. A walk after dinner was the whole length of Joshua Tree. The pre-arrival impression of Joshua Tree was that it would be a Queenstown NZ fusion with Pucón Chile and Banff Canada – swarming with tourists entering and exiting essential oils, gift shops, and odd antiques establishments, but it is a really normal little town with normal businesses. We did find a quirky jazz bar though, the closest it ever got to our expectations.

Day 6 was serious progress, and marriage with the iconic Route 66 which we would have an “on again off again” relationship for a long time. There was a lot of South Australia with hills on this day – utterly barren desert. Surprisingly there are properties and houses out in this area – heaven only knows what they do out here.

And then the big moment – an intersection with a symbol and name incredibly familiar to anyone who has heard the Bobby Troup 1946 song “Get Your Kicks on Route 66″. Well Barstow at least. Amboy is notable by its absence from the song, but it sums up Route 66 perfectly – very quiet and well off the Interstate. As we pulled into Amboy, an aeroplane rolled up the street past the café. Does it use Route 66 to take off I asked? No, he is just moving it. Nothing else but Route 66 resembled a runway though so it was likely the stock answer in case the questioner works for the Federal Aviation Administration.

It was a bit warm so after refreshments we decided to get more kicks to Needles, where the prickly heat seemed appropriate. A big moment occurred with a crossing over the Colorado River into State No.2, Arizona. This was huge mainly because it meant the end of the stiff rubber socks on the petrol nozzles and the destruction of nerve endings in the fingers trying to hold it back. The pre-planning had shown a nice little section of winding 66 up to Oatman, so off we went. The scenery became very nice and hilly, and all was quiet, apart from swarming donkeys who blocked the road at regular intervals. Then Oatman, which is a true day-tripper tourist village, with even more “access all areas” donkeys. We parked in the main street, because there was a shoot-out going on between the sheriff and a loud lady and the street was blocked to traffic.

The loud lady having successfully shot the sheriff, the street cleared and we could have a nice lunch. A wander through the Oatman gift shops which showed that Harley riders were a significant market out that way, and back into the sweaty gear to continue onto Kingman. The photo obsession for this leg was the bike overlooking a grand vista, which was not that easy because the ol’ Route 66 road design team didn’t think driving people would want to pull over and take photos. But obsessions cannot be ignored, no matter how much risk is involved. Blasting up a rocky and narrow track to a lookout, I could only hope that there was enough room to turn around, and luckily there was.

Into Kingman, it was still jolly hot, but the hotel had good air conditioning. Kingman was truly Route 66, even with an archway people could park the car under to get a photo. We decided a wander up the street to get the lay of the land was a good plan, but only made it as far as The Grand Canyon Brewing + Distillery as it was too hot to continue. This was a fantastic place, with great wines and IPA’s and a fun lot of people and staff.

Day 7, a week on the road. Destination – Flagstaff, which is definitely in the song, and a good place to spend a couple of days for sightseeing. But the interstate is no way to get there, somewhere during the route planning we’d seen the old mining town of Jerome, and the road map looked impressive. So off up 66 to Peach Springs, where we ran into our first fellow foreign adventure rider, a Frenchman on an Africa Twin who had been all the way to Florida and back.

Then to Seligman, which is 66 tourist overload, with cars, diners, old memorabilia, and heaps of gift shops selling Route 66 stuff like T-shirts, hoodies, magnets, hats, and stickers. Of interest was the general lack of motorcycles, the feeling prior to hitting 66 was that it would be a Harley procession as everyone in the US who rode one would consider it a life-long pilgrimage dream, and 2025 was their best ever opportunity. Not so, it was small RV’s, families in people movers, and couples in cars.

A bit of interstate to Ash Fork, then south to Prescott. Then to Mingus, which sounds like a rude word describing something that could be genitalia – e.g. I’m applying ointment to my mingus is now in common usage. Onto Jerome via an incredible road. Jerome was a copper mining town, so is definitely not where a sensible person would put a town. Right on the side of a steep hill, it is motorcycling heaven, and only gets better as it descends into Sedona and off toward Flagstaff.

Into Flagstaff after an incredible day, we finally met up with another couple at the motel riding their Harleys in their trip of a lifetime. We’d survived our first week, with the biggest achievement actually getting into the US with no dramas whatsoever. The scenery we’ve come to expect from the US had been amazing, we’d had our first Walmart experience, and things can surely only get better as we head east.