CHAPTER I

ACROSS AMERICA BY MOTOR-CYCLE

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.]

ACROSS AMERICA

BY MOTOR-CYCLE

BY

C. K. SHEPHERD

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.

LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.

1922

_All rights reserved_

_Made in Great Britain

by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_

PREFACE

A few months after the Armistice of 1918 was signed, when the talk of

everyone concerned was either WHEN they would be demobilized

or what they would do when they WERE demobilized, two young

men were exchanging views on this same subject in the heavy atmosphere

of a very ordinary hotel somewhere in London.

One was wondering how near, or how far, were the days when he would see

the old home-folks once again "way back in Dixieland."

The other was wondering what form of dissipation would be best suited

to remove that haunting feeling of unrest, which as a result of three

or four years of active service was so common amongst the youth of

England at that time.

"How about getting married?" suggested the one.

Then followed a long pause, wherein the other was evidently considering

the pros and cons of such a unique proposition.

"Nothing doing," he replied eventually--"not exciting enough, old

man." Another pause--"And when I come to think, I don't know of any

girl who'd want to marry me even if I wanted to marry her." And as

if to give a final decision to any proposal of _that_ nature, he

added--"Besides, I couldn't afford it!"

"But I tell you what I will do, Steve," said he, "I'll go back with you

across yon herring-pond and have a trot round America."

So that was how it happened.

Two or three months later, when I arrived at New York from Canada,

I purchased a motor-cycle and set out to cross the continent to the

Pacific, and I have it on the best authority that this was the first

time an Englishman had ever accomplished the trip on a motor-cycle. If

it is so, I don't wonder at it!

The whole trip, which covered just fifty miles short of 5,000, was

undertaken quite alone, and although spread over about three months,

constituted a day or two short of a month's actual riding. For the

benefit of brother motor-cyclists who may be interested in such

details I may add that I dispensed entirely with the use of goggles

from beginning to end, and except at stops in large towns on the way

I wore no hat. I think that when the motor-cyclist gets accustomed to

doing without these encumbrances he will find the joys of motor-cycling

considerably enhanced.

The total number of replacements to the engine alone comprised the

following: Five new cylinders; three pistons; five gudgeon pins; three

complete sets of bearings; two connecting rods, and eleven sparking

plugs.

The machine was entirely overhauled on four occasions between the

Atlantic and the Pacific, and on three of these by the recognized

agents of the manufacturers. The engine cut-out switch was the only

part of the machine that did not break, come loose, or go wrong

sooner or later. I was thrown off 142 times, and after that I stopped

counting! Apart from that I had no trouble.

Contrary to what the reader may think, I paid considerable care to

the machine, particularly in the early stages. For the first three

hundred miles I barely exceeded twenty to twenty-five miles per hour

in order to give the machine a good "running-in" before submitting it

to harder work. At the end of the trip I had spent more in repairs and

replacements than the original cost of the machine, and I sold it at

San Francisco for just over a quarter of the amount I paid for it three

months before.

And I am still as keen a motor-cyclist as ever!

The machine was of the four-cylinder, air-cooled type, and I have

nothing but praise for the smooth running that this type affords. I

have ridden scores of machines at one time and another, but never have

I driven any motor-cycle that for luxurious travel could I even compare

with the one mentioned in this narrative. As regards reliability,

however, I must leave the reader to form his own opinion from the

facts, which occurred exactly as I have stated them. Nothing in this

book is set down in malice, and I can only hope that my case was

exceptional so far as the frequent breakdowns were concerned. I must

admit that the conditions were exceptional and that anyone crossing the

United States on a motor-cycle might expect trouble sooner or later.

The reader may observe that I say little of tyre trouble throughout the

story. That is for two reasons: the first is that there is nothing at

all interesting in the narrative of repairing a puncture, for instance;

the second is that I had very little trouble indeed to complain of.

With the smooth, even torque that is so characteristic of four-cylinder

engines, tyre trouble is easily halved, and practically all that one

has to fear is the terrible condition of most of the roads. I arrived

in San Francisco with the same tyres as I had when I started, and they

were still good for several hundreds of miles more.

Petrol consumption, too, was excellent. Those who have not known

high-powered, four-cylinder motor-cycles would probably think the

consumption would be about forty miles to the gallon. On the contrary,

I found my machine much more economical than the same-powered V-twin.

As far as I know I averaged about 75 m.p.g. "all on."

The journey was comparatively uneventful. I never had to shoot anybody

and nobody shot me! In spite of the relative wildness and barrenness

of the West, there were always food and petrol available in plenty.

I spent most nights at the side of the road and experienced neither

rheumatism nor rattlesnakes.

In the following pages I have endeavoured to portray America and

Americans exactly as I found them and as they appealed to me. If at

times I perchance may give offence to any who are lovers of all and

anything American, I do it without intent. Suffice it to say that

before I went I had the highest opinion of anything that came from that

worthy country, so that it cannot be claimed that I am one of those

"Pro-British-every-time" individuals who delight in criticizing other

countries and other peoples in order to gratify their own sense of

national or other superiority.

Finally, I will ask the reader to be patient, or at any rate, not

over-critical when he or she may confess to being bored. For the sake

of making this a complete record of my wanderings I have included that

which may lack interest, and as I can lay claim to no graceful diction,

I may, I am sure, rely on the reader's indulgence towards the narrative

of quite an ordinary, unaspiring, British motor-cyclist.

C. K. S.

BIRMINGHAM, 1922.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PROLOGUE 1

I. TRAFFIC IN NEW YORK

My Efforts to Become Americanized--Reflections on New

York Traffic--Dissertation on American Roads--Coney

Island--Equipment for the Journey 5

II. NEW YORK TO PHILADELPHIA

Companions in Distress--"The Playground of the World"--American

Proclivities towards the Superlative--A Lapse into

Philosophy--Introduction to the "Detour"--The Good Samaritan

Rewarded--Philadelphia--Adventures with a Garage Proprietor 12

III. PHILADELPHIA TO WASHINGTON

Prosperity in New England Villages--Motor-cycling de

Luxe--Peregrinations of a "Tin Lizzie"--Insights into the Inner

Life of an American Highway--Humouring a Negro--Self-conscious

Scruples--Illuminated Signs--Hotel Life in Washington 22

IV. EXCEEDING THE SPEED LIMIT

Experiences of Brick Roads--Approaching the Alleghanies--The

Lust for Speed--And Its Consequences--Queer Methods of Enforcing

the Law--Stranded 32

V. ACROSS THE ALLEGHANIES

Soliloquies of the Humble Poor--The Subtleties of Advertisement

Hoardings--Corn in Egypt--The Peregrinations of an English

Sovereign--A Whiff of Good Old London--Appreciation of

Nature in America--Lizzie Reports Sick--Lead, kindly

Light--Auto-suggestion as an Aid to Sleep 42

VI. THE DIXIE HIGHWAY

I Make the Acquaintance of the Ohio River--Lizzie develops

Acute Indigestion--The Irony of Henry Ford--I administer

First-aid--Hero-worship to a Rag-and-bone Merchant--A New

Use for an Old Tree--The Ubiquitous Columbus--The Friendly

Tram--The Dixie Highway--Eulogy to the City of Dayton--My

Extravagant Taste for Cake--An alfresco Meal--A Final Burst

of Extravagance--Home Once More 51

VII. CINCINNATI AND ONWARDS

Cincinnati--A Memorable Day--Aspersions on an American

Repair Shop--Chess-board Roads--The Humour of Decorated

Telegraph Poles--Soliloquy on the Pike's Peak Highway--Effects

of State Boundary Lines--Indian Corn--A Luxurious

Bathe--Indianapolis--The 3 A Club--What Constitutes a Good Road 60

VIII. INDIANA AND ILLINOIS

How Dirt Roads are Cultivated--A Brush with a Road-plough--How

Flivvers "get through"--A Bad Patch and a Good Samaritan--The

Subtleties of General Merchandise--I attract a Crowd in

Springfield--Taken for a Movie Actor--Future Cities of

Illinois--Illinois River--The Mississippi at Last--I sleep on

a Railway Embankment 70

IX. STORMY WEATHER IN MISSOURI

Hannibal--Infantile Automobilation--Rain in Missouri--I get

Annoyed--Railroads v. Highways--Kansas City 83

X. RESULTS OF A BREAKDOWN

Kansas City--I visit Lizzie on her Sick-bed--I visit an Editor

in his Lair--Kansas City gets My Story 89

XI. THE SANTA FÉ TRAIL

Westward Again--The Santa Fé Trail--Mosquito Nets--Into the

Great Prairies--I sleep in a River--Pie--Prairie Towns--In a

Thunderstorm--Colorado Reached--The Map proves not Infallible--A

Detour to the Heart of the Rockies--Rain Again 94

XII. THE ROYAL GORGE OF ARKANSAS

A Strange Dwelling--I am Taken for an American--Supper in

Style--Sleep in Style--Breakfast and Lunch in Style--The Sun

Once Again--Housebuilding at Speed--An Appreciation--The

Rockies--Pueblo--Pike's Peak--The Royal Gorge--The Lust

for Taking Pictures--Picturesque Names--The Worst Road in

America--A Mud Bath--The End of a Perfect Day 106

XIII. IN SOUTHERN COLORADO

Strange Mountain Forms--Trinidad--A Flivver to the Rescue--The

Raton Pass--A Wonderful View--At the Feet of the Rockies--A

Phantom Road--Prairie-dogs--Companions--Lizzie sheds a

Sprocket--A Tiring Search--The Biggest Thing in Mud

Lakes--Wagonmound--Argument with a Linemaster 118

XIV. NEW MEXICO

Adventures with a Railway--Stuck Once Again--Assistance

from California--House-hunting by Caravan--Las Vegas--A

Wonderful Ford--A Mexican Village--Lizzie Clean Again--The

Travelling Tinsmith--Santa Fé at Last 132

XV. SANTA FÉ

Santa Fé--Adobe Architecture--The Art Museum--Where

Americans Hustle Not--In the Limelight Again 148

XVI. THE RIO GRANDE VALLEY

Departure from Santa Fé--La Bajada Hill--Albuquerque--The

Rio Grande--Indians--The Morals of Mountains--Socorro--Camping

in the Mountains: A Farmyard Episode 155

XVII. THE PETRIFIED FOREST OF ARIZONA

Magdalena--A Strange Metamorphosis--I Sport a Camp Fire--A

Strange Sight--The Petrified Forest of Arizona--Holbrook--Lost

in the Arizona Desert--Mosquitoes Again--Winslow--An Ingenious

Anti-speeding Stunt--That Cylinder Again!--A New Use for Old

Sign-posts--Meteor Mountain--The San Francisco

Peaks--Fairy-land--Flagstaff 163

XVIII. THE GRAND CANYON

The Lowell Observatory--Wonders of Mars Hill--Ptomaine

Poisoning--Flagstaff Dwellings--Towards the Grand Canyon--A

Wonderful Ride--The First Approach of Loneliness--The End of

the World--The Greatest of all Natural Wonders 178

XIX. THE MOHAVE DESERT

Lizzie Comes to Grief--Etiquette of the Road--The Tragedy

of Peach Springs--Kingman--Desert Vegetation--Yucca--The Art

of Rut-riding--The Tomb of a Town--The Colorado Needles--A

Marvellous View--Oiled Roads--Ludlow 192

XX. I REACH THE PACIFIC COAST

Comrades in Arms--Lizzie begins to Complain--Death Valley--An

Unfortunate Caravan--The End of the Desert--The Cajon

Pass--Los Angeles is Startled 210

XXI. LOS ANGELES TO SAN FRANCISCO

Los Angeles--Friendly California--Towards 'Frisco by Night--I

Dream a Dream--The Californian Missions--The Salinas

Valley--The Last Sleep--Lizzie gives it up Again--The Struggle

for 'Frisco--4,950 at last! 224

EPILOGUE 241

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

TO FACE

PAGE

Portrait of the Author _Frontispiece_

A Common Occurrence 26

An Awkward Stretch of Road in Indiana 74

The Midnight Couch 74

The Oldest House in America, at Santa Fé 150

The Art Museum at Santa Fé 150

Pueblo of Taos 158

The Rio Grande, New Mexico 162

A Petrified Leviathan 170

Lizzie in the Petrified Forest, Arizona 170

The Trail to the Grand Canyon 178

The Lowell Observatory, Flagstaff 178

San Francisco Peaks from Flagstaff 178

The Bottom of the Grand Canyon 188

Cactus Trees near San Bernardino 206

In the Mohave Desert 206

PROLOGUE

One bright morning in June--to be exact, the thirteenth (the

significance of that number will be apparent later), in the year of Our

Lord 1919 and in the year of American Prohibition 1, a small assembly

of mechanics, passers-by, and urchins witnessed my departure from a

well-known Motor Cycle Agency in New York.

The machine, a perfectly new and very powerful motor-cycle, was

dazzling in her pristine beauty. No spot or blemish could be seen on

her enamel of khaki hue. No ungainly scratch or speck of rust marred

her virgin form. Her four little cylinders, gaily murmuring as the

engine joyfully sprang into life, seemed to hide a world of romance

as if they were whispering to each other of the days that were to

come, the adventures and experiences they were to encounter, and the

strange lands they were to see. The purr of her exhaust, healthy though

muffled, smooth and even in its rhythm, was music in my ears. A thing

of beauty is a joy for ever, and to those who know the call of the

open road and who love to feel the rush of the wind and the glamour

of speed, such was this machine. Although she was in reality but an

organized combination of various pieces of unfeeling, soulless metal,

without even a name, and known only by a sordid number embossed on a

tinplate provided by the Law, she was soon to develop a character and

personality of her own. She was to play the rôle of sole companion in

the weeks and months to follow. There would be times when I should

curse her profanely and at the same time love her passionately. I

pictured vast prairies and deserts where we should be alone together,

far from the haunts of man or animal or perhaps of any living

thing--times when it would depend upon HER to bear me on to

civilization. So I trust, reader, that you will not think I was waxing

too sentimental on that memorable day in June.

* * * * *

The mileage indicator just flicked to 4,422.

I was hungry, hungry as a dog. I was thirsty too, and tired--oh, so

tired! The skin on my face was tanned dark with the desert sun and bore

the dirt of many days' accumulation. The growth of the previous week

was upon my chin. My hair was bleached and dishevelled, my clothes and

boots laden with the sand and dust of Arizona and California. With a

bandaged, broken finger, and the rest skin-cracked and bloodstained

with the alkali sand, I held the handles with the palms of my hands.

The sole was missing altogether from my right boot, and the left

contained many a piece of stone or gravel from far away. A couple of

empty water-bags flapped up and down on the handlebar, and as the

old bus dragged her weary way on three cylinders through the crowded

streets of Los Angeles her hideous clatter told many a tale of woe. I

decided at that moment that the best thing in all the world was to get

something to eat and drink.

"What's the day of the month?" I asked, when with a final "clank" of

the engine we drove into the Agency Garage.

"The seventh."

"The month?"

"August."

"And what's the year?"

"Nineteen nineteen."

"The seventh of August nineteen nineteen," I mused, and relapsed into

contemplative silence....

Some one spotted the registration plate "N.Y.8844" and "rumbled" that I

had come from New York.

"When did you start?" they asked in curious tones. The question

pulled me up with a jerk and brought me back to normal existence, so

inadequately measured by time.

"Oh, seems like ten years ago!" I replied, and relapsed once more into

reverie.

CHAPTER I

TRAFFIC IN NEW YORK

I spent the better part of two days in the survey of New York City

from all points of view. In the Pullman from Niagara I had decided

that America would probably be just as bad as any European country

for robbing the alien. I would therefore simulate the gentle habits

and customs of these (hitherto) worthy people. Having some slight

knowledge of their language I would endeavour to acquire perfection in

the art of American self-expression. I would cultivate the correct pose

of the hat and wear boots with knobbly toes. Only a little practice

would be required before I should be able to gyrate a cigar at the

accepted velocity from one corner of my mouth to the other. In a little

while, methought, I should feel much more at ease in tight-fitting

clothes with ridiculously small sleeves and three inches of projecting

shirt-cuffs. Maybe I should improve my outlook on the world if I viewed

it through a pair of large, round, ebony-rimmed spectacles. There was

just a possibility that I should some day appreciate the soothing charm

of a much-overworked morsel of chewing-gum. With all these splendid

accomplishments I could no doubt dispense with the less attractive

habits of Modern America.

Let me say at the outset that I proved a dismal failure. I would sooner

master the Chinese than the American lingo. The infinite variations of

nasal accomplishment outnumber by far the tribal dialects of India

and leave the poor student to wonder and despair. Why! the number of

orthodox ways of translating the plain English word "Yes" is probably

beyond the scope of mathematical deduction! The shades and blends

between "Yep" and "Ye-oh" alone are sufficient to put a spectrograph of

the sun to shame.

For four months I travelled through the wilds of New York, Ohio, and

Illinois, and even into the civilized states of Colorado, New Mexico,

and Arizona, in a vain search for the man who pronounced "Yes" with a

final "s." In the end I found him, lurking in a little restaurant in

Los Angeles. I gazed in wonderment intense and rapturous when I heard

it. I have his pedigree. He said he came from Boston. Boston, according

to all well-informed Bostonians, represents the acme of perfection in

all things relating to education, etiquette, and propriety. As such it

is unassailable by any other city in America.

There was a time early on when I thought I was succeeding well. I found

that I did better by dispensing with speech altogether. If I dressed in

a "Palm Beach" suit, walked on people's feet, elbowed my way through

passers-by, and continually repeated to myself "The earth is mine

and all that therein is," there was never any doubt but that I was a

"Native Son."

It is superfluous for me to say, however, that after many trials and

more rebuffs, I ultimately abandoned the idea of becoming Americanized.

"After all," thought I, "what sane Englishman wants to be an American?"

The project had been but a brain-wave to combat the "H.C. of L." To

the uninitiated, that is the recognized "Hearst" abbreviation for the

"High Cost of Living," a topic which so frequently appears in American

newspapers that editors were forced to face the question of either

referring to it in symbols or of cutting out the "Want-Ads." Finally,

therefore, I consoled myself that it was better for hotel bills,

cinemas, ice-cream sodas, petrol, and other necessities to rise 200 per

cent. on my approach than for me to lose my own soul. Incidentally,

virtue does not always have its own reward. On my return to England I

heard many accusations against me. "What an awful American accent you

have!" was the greeting of many one-time friends.

... Some have recovered. Others are still in hospital!

* * * * *

It took me some time to get accustomed to the traffic of New

York--rather should I say, to its habits and practices. New York itself

consists of a network of streets and avenues ingeniously arranged on

an island which is about five or six times longer than it is broad.

The avenues run the length of the island and the streets run at right

angles across them. In addition, "Broadway" wobbles across from one end

of the island to the other, cutting the avenues at a weird angle of

anything between nothing and twenty degrees.

At all the important street crossings was stationed a "traffic cop"

whose duty was apparently to hold up at the most inconvenient intervals

all the traffic going one way until all the traffic going the other way

had passed. Then he blew his whistle and Hey, presto! the traffic in

the other street began to move. It was fatal to move before the whistle

was blown. I didn't know that!

I had been sailing down Sixth Avenue, just trying the machine for the

first time, as a matter of fact. Everything went smoothly. I felt at

peace with all the world. Here was I on my iron steed of ten little

horses, about to begin a long holiday wherein I should forget the

Kaiser and his deeds and the four or more years of my existence that

had gone in helping to bring about his everlasting undoing. But all of

a sudden:

"Why the jooce don't yer stop, yer Goldarn young son of a gun?"

bellowed an irate "cop" who gesticulated but a few feet from my front

wheel.

"Well, why the blankety blank SHOULD I blankety well stop,

anyway?" I returned, not to be outdone, as I pulled up in the exact

centre of 34th Street, Sixth Avenue, and Broadway.

I could see a crowd beginning to collect. I don't like crowds at any

time. I have a keen antipathy for publicity. My friend the "cop"

drew nigh. "See here, young fellar: whar yer from?" he inquired,

evidently anxious to investigate further the mental condition of this

unique defier of the Law.... To cut a long story short, I was finally

constrained by good judgment to avoid further constabulary hostilities

and, in accordance with the somewhat over-ardent desire of the "cop,"

retired like a whipped schoolboy to the corner where there was already

a long queue of waiting automobiles and taxis. In a few seconds the

whistle was blown and the procession sailed across 34th Street, headed

by a much-humbled motor-cyclist.

I should explain at this juncture that a motor-cyclist is an altogether

despised individual in America. Motor-cycles are not popular over

there. With few exceptions they are owned by delivery men, newspaper

boys, "traffic-cops" and sundry other undesirables. Personally I do

not wonder at it. The roads and streets in the cities are bad enough

to ruin the constitution of any but the most confirmed young "blood"

who does not mind risking a few broken bones. I have seen places

in Broadway where the tram-lines wander six or seven inches above

the surface of the road and where the pot-holes would accommodate

comfortably quite a family of dead dogs within their depths.

So much for the cities. The roads that traverse the country are with

few exceptions nothing better than our fifth-rate country roads on

which no self-respecting Englishman would ride.

Here and there, in the far East and the far West, are found stretches

of concrete or macadam. Somehow, the Americans think they are great

road-builders. A couple of inches of concrete laid over a garden-path

or a sheep-track, with the cracks filled in with tar, represents the

zenith of road construction in this country of ninety odd million

inhabitants. I should like to see some of those concrete roads when

they have had a few years' solid wear with heavy lorries and occasional

traction engines.

Ninety-five per cent. or more, however, of America's highways are dirt

roads, or what they are pleased to call "Natural Gravel." In many cases

they comprise merely a much worn trail, and as often as not a pair of

ruts worn in the prairie. Very often, instead of being a single pair

of ruts, there are five or six or perhaps ten, where individual cars

have manifested their own personality. When this multiplicity of ruts

crosses and re-crosses in a desperate attempt to achieve the survival

of the fittest, the resultant effect on the poor motor-cyclist is

somewhat disconcerting. But of this more anon. Suffice it to say that

on the whole journey of 4,500 miles from one coast to the other, I only

saw FOUR other motor-cyclists on the road anywhere. So the

reader will perhaps understand why the poor human who travels in this

fashion is to be pitied, and why his associates in the towns and cities

are despised by the rest of the community.

When I had acclimatized myself to the traffic of New York and could

worm my way successfully in and out of the "hold-ups" or dart between

trams, taxis, cars, and other impedimenta without danger either to the

community or to myself, I felt that it was time for me to commence my

peregrinations in earnest.

I decided first, however, to visit Coney Island, which is within easy

reach of New York (it is only a few miles away), and, with a plentiful

supply of trains, trams, and 'buses, is fed with a never-ending stream

of pleasure-seeking humanity. It has one avenue of perhaps a couple

of miles' length running parallel with the beach, and every nook and

corner on both sides accommodates a "fun palace" of some kind. There

are dancing-halls by the dozen; mountain railways, switchbacks, and

roundabouts by the score; soda fountains by the hundred. Fronting

the beach are hotels, boarding-houses, and restaurants of all types

save the best. Coney Island is decidedly not a place for the _élite_.

Hither flock young couples, married or single, representatives of the

American democracy, for a week-end of frivolity. The beach is at all

times sprinkled, as by a human pepper-box, with specimens of the "genus

anthropomorpha" of all sizes, of all ages, of all shapes, and in all

stages of dress and undress. I opined that indeed 'twas no place for

me, and with one push of the starting pedal the motor was a living

thing. "Enough is as good as a feast," and an hour at the Playground

of New York was an hour well spent; but I left it for ever behind me

without the slightest desire or intention of ever returning to its

whirl of plebeian gaiety.

Arrived once more at New York City, I prepared to make my adieux. I had

two handbags only, one a beautiful new dressing-case, resplendent with

pig-skin writing pads, ebony brushes, and glass bottles, and the other,

a slightly larger one, which accommodated my spare clothing, boots,

etc., and the miscellaneous collection of junk that every globe-trotter

inevitably carries around with him.

Now I have an inherent contempt for side-cars, although had one been

available at New York when I bought the machine I should have taken

it and carried all my luggage with me. That would have been the acme

of luxury. As it was, however, I contented myself with a good strong

carrier and with many straps; the dressing-case, surrounded by a good

thick blanket, was securely attached to the back of the machine. The

other bag I "shipped" on by train to my predetermined stops across the

country.

That dressing-case must have weighed fifty or sixty pounds, and with

the blanket around it looked an alarming size when _in situ_. There

was no hope for it. I'm that kind of individual who always likes

plenty of silk shirts and pyjamas and things, so it didn't occasion me

the slightest worry if the people did stare wildly at me as I passed

through their towns and villages.

And they "sure" did!