The Story

Day Thirteen on the Bikes – Kingman, Arizona to Victorville, California (6 July)

Some days on a journey become legends before you've even lived them. We knew this would be one of those days.

It was our longest ride since Oklahoma, our hottest day yet, and the one everyone had been talking about. The Mojave Desert was waiting.

420 km (261 miles) 3,743 km (2,324 miles) so far

By now our morning routine ran like clockwork. Breakfast at 6:30, bags packed, helmets on. Official departure was 8:30 but Steve suggested that, if possible, we leave a little early. Nobody needed asking twice. By 8:20 we were rolling.

Our first stop? The petrol station directly across the road from the hotel. We've become remarkably efficient at the fuel-stop routine.

By 8:30 the bike was already showing over 30°C. We all knew what that meant.

Our first real destination was Cool Springs, said to be the inspiration for Radiator Springs from Cars. Apparently I'm one of the few people on Earth who still hasn't seen the film.

Unfortunately, we arrived to discover Chantal had picked up a puncture. Steve asked the group to continue on to Oatman while he stayed behind to organise the tyre change. We wandered through the gift shop, took the obligatory photos and then headed off.

The ride to Oatman was magnificent.

After days of long, straight highways, Route 66 suddenly came alive with sweeping bends, climbing through rugged desert hills. It was the first genuinely twisty riding we'd enjoyed on the trip and everyone had a grin hidden behind their helmets.

Only twenty minutes later we rolled into Oatman.

If ever there was a town straight out of an old western, this was it. Wooden verandahs lined the dusty main street and every building looked like it belonged in a John Wayne film. I half expected a lone cowboy to step into the middle of the road with a Colt .45 hanging from his hip.

Instead there were Harley riders, tourists... and donkeys.

The famous Oatman burros wander freely through town, happily posing for photos and accepting snacks from visitors.

The asses, on the other hand, are mostly found a little further east... somewhere around Washington, I believe.

We spent an enjoyable hour exploring before Steve and Chantal arrived with the bike repaired and we were back on the road.

From there the temperature began climbing with serious intent.

Our next stop was Needles, where crossing the Colorado River also meant crossing into California — the final state of our Route 66 adventure.

The McDonald's there had one overwhelming attraction.

Air conditioning.

Some grabbed food, most simply ordered cold drinks and sat quietly enjoying the cool air. My iced coffee tasted like one of life's great luxuries.

Just before Needles the bike thermometer showed 43°C.

Around midday it reached 44°C.

People often imagine riding creates a refreshing breeze. At 44 degrees it feels like somebody is pointing an industrial hairdryer at your face.

Normally I'd crack the helmet visor open for airflow.

Today it stayed firmly shut.

Fortunately that proved to be the hottest point of the day. For the rest of the afternoon temperatures hovered between 40 and 42 degrees before finally dropping to a comparatively pleasant 35 as we approached Victorville.

Next came another Route 66 icon — Roy's Motel & Café at Amboy.

Motorcycle parking had thoughtfully been placed under shade.

It may have been the most appreciated piece of town planning in California.

We were now crossing the Mojave Desert and it felt exactly as you'd imagine — vast, empty, beautiful and relentlessly hot.

Lunch was at Dairy Queen in Ludlow.

A burger, chips and blessed air conditioning.

Perfection.

Steve judged the conditions brilliantly all day, shortening riding stints and adding extra cooling stops wherever possible.

One of those stops turned out to be one of the surprises of the trip.

The Bagdad Café.

Inside, someone clearly understood motorcyclists.

As we walked through the door, Born to Be Wild blasted through the speakers accompanied by scenes from Easy Rider. Then came Black Betty, followed by Sweet Home Alabama.

One room had been set up with drums and guitars, and while we were there a young guy was happily jamming along.

It was quirky, unexpected and absolutely brilliant.

Something strange happened while we were there.

Apparently the group took a photo without me.

The problem is... I have absolutely no recollection of missing it.

I wasn't in the toilet. I hadn't wandered outside.

The only logical explanation is a brief alien abduction, followed by a highly effective memory wipe.

Thankfully Andy's camera later proved I had in fact been there all along.

Mystery solved.

Almost.

Not long afterwards Campbell and Jacqui pulled alongside Steve signalling they were running low on fuel.

Steve led us into another service station but told us not to fill up immediately.

"I've got something to show you."

In a petrol station?

Curiosity got the better of us.

He led us inside to a glowing neon sign that simply read:

Beer Cave

It wasn't a cave full of beer we appreciated.

It was the enormous walk-in refrigerator.

Ten overheated bikers standing in refrigerated bliss may have looked ridiculous to everyone else, but to us it felt like heaven.

Five glorious minutes later we reluctantly emerged to refuel.

One of Chantal's greatest contributions on this trip has become legendary.

The ice-water drenching.

Armed with a hand pump and a container full of icy water, she happily soaks anyone prepared to queue up.

The pump makes a noise remarkably similar to a seal barking.

Every time Sandie steps forward she squeals as the freezing water hits her.

Every single time.

And every single time she comes back for more.

I'd also invested in a cooling vest, plus an ice-soaked skull cap and neck tube.

The desert air dried everything completely before the next stop.

It's astonishing how quickly 44-degree air can evaporate water.

The final run into Victorville took around fifty minutes before we checked into the hotel.

Naturally, the first stop wasn't our rooms.

It was the swimming pool.

After a day like that, climbing into cool water felt almost medicinal.

That evening Steve had organised a group dinner to celebrate our second last night together.

Earlier in the afternoon, Pam had suggested buying Steve and Chantal a Route 66 T-shirt each for everyone to sign.

It was a wonderful idea and quickly became our secret mission.

Before dinner we gathered, signed the shirts and prepared a few words.

Once everyone had ordered drinks, I stood to make three toasts.

The first was to absent friends.

Several in our group had lost loved ones recently, while two couples were about to become grandparents for the very first time.

It seemed fitting to remember those we'd lost and those we were still waiting to meet.

The second toast was to Steve and Chantal.

Our guardian angels.

They had safely guided us over 2,000 miles on unfamiliar roads, through incredible scenery and temperatures most of us had never experienced.

As the signed shirts were presented, both looked genuinely touched.

The final toast?

To us.

Because we'd nearly bloody done it.

Just one ride remained between us and the Santa Monica Pier.

Tomorrow Route 66 would come to an end.

What a journey it had been.

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