The Story

Day 14 – The End of the Road

Victorville, California to Santa Monica Pier, Los Angeles – 205 km (127 miles)

Route 66 Complete – 3,948 km (2,451 miles)

For fourteen days we'd settled into the same routine.

Early breakfasts. Bag drop. Helmets on. Engines firing into life. Another day somewhere along America's Mother Road.

But this morning felt different.

The excitement was still there, but so was the realisation that this would be our final ride together. After all the planning, all the anticipation and nearly 4,000 kilometres across eight states, today we would finally reach the Pacific Ocean.

It was a strange feeling.

Part of me was looking forward to getting home to Scotland, seeing family and sleeping in my own bed again.

The other part wished we could somehow keep riding.

As always, Steve and Chantelle had everything running like clockwork. The bikes had been fuelled the previous afternoon, the bags were loaded and, just after eight o'clock, eighteen Harleys rolled out of Victorville for the very last time.

A couple of days earlier Steve had given us a choice.

Follow the traditional Route 66 into Los Angeles...

...or take a detour through the Angeles National Forest.

It didn't take long for the group to decide.

Steve checked with EagleRider, got the approval and changed the route.

It proved to be one of the best decisions of the entire trip.

Within minutes the desert landscape began to disappear behind us as the road climbed steadily into the mountains.

Everything changed.

The heat eased.

The scenery became greener.

Pine trees replaced desert scrub.

Long straight highways gave way to sweeping bends that seemed to flow endlessly through the forest.

This was sensational motorcycling.

Our first stop was the small mountain town of Wrightwood.

It felt more like an alpine village than Southern California.

We grabbed coffee at the Village Grind, stretched our legs and enjoyed the cool mountain air before climbing back onto the bikes.

Then came what was probably the finest stretch of riding of the whole trip.

The roads twisted effortlessly through the Angeles National Forest, climbing higher before eventually beginning the long descent towards Los Angeles.

The scenery was breathtaking.

In places you could still see the scars left by recent wildfires, blackened trees standing silently amongst the new growth.

It was beautiful.

It was peaceful.

And then I noticed Rob had gone unusually quiet.

We'd all been taking in the incredible scenery, but it was obvious something had changed.

Later he shared that the ride had made him think about Margaret.

About how much she would have loved those roads.

How much she would have loved sharing another adventure with him.

The tears came, and none of us needed an explanation.

Sometimes a place has a way of unlocking emotions you've kept tucked away.

Watching Rob in that moment was incredibly moving. None of us tried to say anything. We simply let him have the moment.

It was a reminder that this trip had become about far more than riding Route 66.

Steve eventually pulled into a scenic overlook high above the valley.

The bikes were lined up beneath the trees while we took in one final spectacular view.

There were hugs.

High fives.

Handshakes.

Smiles that said everything words couldn't.

Kevin and Rob shared a quiet hug too. Earlier in the trip they'd discovered they had both lost their wives, and without saying very much at all they seemed to understand exactly what the other was feeling.

Those moments stay with you.

Eventually Steve gathered us together.

"Right folks... one hour to Santa Monica."

The finish line was finally within reach.

The first twenty minutes continued through glorious mountain roads before, around one sweeping bend, Los Angeles appeared through the haze.

Soon afterwards the freeways began.

Anyone who has ridden through LA traffic will know it isn't for the faint-hearted.

Multiple lanes.

Constant lane changes.

Heavy traffic.

Thankfully Steve guided us through it all with the same calm confidence he'd shown every single day, while Chantelle quietly made sure nobody was ever left behind.

Then we saw the signs we'd all been waiting for.

Santa Monica.

Because of renovation work we couldn't ride directly onto the pier, but that hardly mattered.

We'd made it.

Fourteen days earlier we'd stood beneath the Begin Route 66 sign in Chicago.

Now we were standing beneath the End of the Trail sign overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

There were hugs all round.

Photos.

Laughter.

A few watery eyes.

And eighteen people trying to take in what we'd just achieved together.

We wandered along the pier, taking countless photographs before looking west across the Pacific.

It's funny how somewhere you've imagined for so long suddenly becomes real.

Lunch at Bubba Gump quickly disappeared as an option after seeing the queue, so instead we sampled Japanese-inspired hot dogs from Japadog.

Only on Route 66 could that somehow feel entirely appropriate.

Eventually it was time for one final ride.

Santa Monica to the EagleRider depot wasn't glamorous.

Traffic lights.

Busy city streets.

Stop-start traffic.

But somehow it felt fitting.

Not every great journey needs a dramatic ending.

Rolling into EagleRider brought another mixture of emotions.

Engines switched off.

Helmets came off.

Panniers emptied for the last time.

The bikes that had faithfully carried us across America were handed back.

Just like that, it was over.

After checking into the Hilton near LAX, several of us jumped in an Uber to Ross Dress for Less.

Somewhere over the previous two weeks we'd all accumulated considerably more Route 66 souvenirs than our suitcases had originally been designed to hold.

Additional luggage became essential.

That evening EagleRider hosted a farewell dinner at TopGolf.

It summed the whole trip up perfectly.

Relaxed.

Fun.

Unpretentious.

Steve swapped two wheels for four and drove us there himself, proving he was just as comfortable behind a steering wheel as he was leading eighteen Harleys across America.

The ladies all looked fantastic, although golf in heels perhaps wasn't quite what they'd expected.

Food, drinks, golf and a live rock band made for the perfect final evening.

Classic rock echoed across the driving range while our group laughed, competed and relived the stories that had become part of the trip.

The Welsh boys.

Campbell and Jacqui.

John and Sandi.

Kevin.

The Wild Sogs from New Zealand — Rob, Brenda and Pete — with Pete never missing an opportunity over the previous fourteen days to remind his Scottish friends of every rugby score, sporting result and piece of Kiwi superiority he could think of.

And, of course, Steve and Chantelle.

Looking back, it's impossible to overstate just how good they were.

Every hotel.

Every fuel stop.

Every unexpected change.

Every rider.

Every bike.

Nothing was ever too much trouble.

They somehow made moving eighteen people and eighteen Harleys across America look effortless.

As the evening came to an end, there were hugs all round.

Two weeks ago most of us had been complete strangers.

Tonight it genuinely felt like saying goodbye to friends.

People often think Route 66 is all about the road.

They're wrong.

The road is spectacular.

The scenery is unforgettable.

The riding is world class.

But what makes Route 66 truly special are the people you experience it with.

Fourteen days.

Eight states.

Nearly four thousand kilometres.

Countless memories.

One unforgettable adventure.

The road ended at Santa Monica.

The friendships won't.