NEW YORK TO PHILADELPHIA
"Gotter match?" he inquired as I pulled up near him.
I had left my palatial sky-scraper hotel only fifteen minutes before.
Soon, I contemplated, my experiences in and around New York would
be past history. Happy and light-hearted, I was humming along that
boulevard with the truly wonderful surface which runs along the edge
of Manhattan Island. It is known as "Riverside Drive," and here dwell
many of America's millionaires. A young fellow and his companion with
a Harley-Davidson and side-car at the side of the road attracted my
attention. Neither of them looked as though he were a resident of that
district. A khaki-coloured shirt, thick corduroy breeches, leggings,
and boots were their only attire. One of them held up his hand when he
saw me.
"Maybe these fellows know something about the roads," thought I; so I
stopped.
To stop a motor-cyclist and ask him for a match seemed quite a unique
departure from the well-established English customs with which I was
familiar. Feeling benevolent, I silently proffered a box of "England's
Glory" wax vestas. Without a word he took one, scrutinized it closely
as though it were something wonderful in the art of match-manufacture,
and slowly lit his pipe. A dozen puffs ensued. He broke the silence.
"Where you from?"
"When I left it they called it 'England,'" I replied.
Another dozen puffs.
"Where you goin'?"
"I may get to San Francisco some day."
"You sure got some bit of pavement in front of you. I said it."
"Well, I guess it's never so bad but what it might be worse," I hinted.
He spat twice, puffed a few clouds, spat again; took another look at
me, then glanced at my machine.
"You got SOME bird there," he ventured, and then added, as if
to place the assertion beyond all doubt,--
"I said it."
I agreed that it ought to be able to get along.
"Yew said it.--See that bird thar?" he asked, pointing to his machine.
"Waal, I guess she can move some too; she done eight thousand miles on
them roads, an' I guess they warn't mos'ly booleyvards neither."
In the conversation which followed, mainly in reference to many
inquiries on my part as to the various "National Highways" which I
had learnt were occasionally to be found throughout the country, I
gleaned from this worthy native son that it would be better for me to
"go back 'ome and pick strawberries" than to continue farther with
such an obviously insane desire as to cross the American Continent.
I persisted, however, that having come thus far, I would at any rate
continue while sanity remained, although I should certainly bear his
good advice in mind for future reference.
With a final injunction from him that I should know him when next I saw
him if I were fortunate enough to subsist in the land of the living, we
parted, and after a trip on the Ferry across the Jersey River, I was
soon winding my way out of the drab and dreary suburbs of Newark.
It would be incorrect to say that the best people do not go to Atlantic
City. Americans, I believe, reckon this well-known seaside resort to be
one of the nine wonders of the world. No free-born American citizen, I
do not doubt, would give the credit of the other eight, whatever they
may be, to any foreign country. On this assumption I felt I should have
no difficulty in identifying the other eight when I had seen more of
"God's Own Country."
Now Atlantic City is just one hundred per cent. American. It would be
impossible to associate it with any other country but America. To begin
with, it has the inevitable "million-dollar" pier. Let me explain that
nothing in America is worthy of popular patronage unless it costs at
least a million dollars. When I was at Niagara I was told how many
million gallons of water flowed over the falls in a year. No one (on
the American side) seemed to worry very much about the magnificence
of the falls or the grandeur of the river. Such sordid interests do
not appeal to them. But ask someone how many million horse-power will
be developed in a year, and see with what eagerness he relieves you
of your ignorance! The American public WILL have millions in
their calculations and their lust for the superlative MUST be
appeased.
In Atlantic City there are naturally many objects of interest to the
budding student of modern life like myself, but, on the whole, the
amusements of this nation do not differ considerably from the modest
efforts of our own. There one can see the usual bashful maidens whose
main delight is to recline on the sand or parade the beach in the
latest thing in bathing costumes,--but never under any circumstances to
get them wet. Also we find the usual stores where every conceivable
variety of picture post card or "present from ..." can be bought.
In two hours I was aweary of Atlantic City. In a very superior frame
of mind I trod on my feelings and the kick-starter of "Khaki Lizz"
(my soubriquet for the machine, which was finished entirely in that
delightfully-reminiscent hue) and turned her nose towards the west.
Philadelphia, I decided, was to be my resting-place that night.
To be hot on the scent of Philadelphia was one thing; but to get there
was quite another. A glorious three-mile stretch of macadamized road
out of Atlantic City was indeed a tempting bait, and I admit for a
few luscious but brief moments I set at defiance all limits of speed
imposed for the general welfare of the public by worthy law-makers upon
the motoring population of New York State. I have always contended
(privately, not in public!) that laws are only made to be broken. I
might perhaps add that I was destined afterwards to supplement this
somewhat outrageous dictum with a further--"He only is entitled to
break laws who thoroughly knows and understands them!"
As every wanderer in this vale of tears discovers, all good things
come to an end some time. That three-mile stretch of macadamized
road very soon came to an end. It ended, as far as I remember, in an
abrupt right-angle corner where in an endeavour to get round at about
forty-five miles an hour I nearly met myself coming back, and from that
point the road gradually bore resemblance to an elongated dust-heap.
They call it "natural gravel," which means that in the opinion of the
road engineers of that time the natural surface of the road did not
need any reinforcement in the way of metal. I should imagine that about
99 per cent. of all the roads in America are of this construction, the
remaining 1 per cent. being either covered with a layer of concrete, or
macadam, as in any civilized European country. At times, very few and
far between, this natural gravel forms quite a tolerable surface where
there is not much traffic, but it must be remembered that motor-cars
are used in the States on a far greater scale than is ever dreamt of
in England. I was, in fact, simply amazed at the tremendous number
of cars in the various towns and villages through which I passed. I
have sometimes been in a town, and quite a large one too, where it was
almost impossible to find a place at the side of the pavement where
I could leave my machine. Every available space was taken up with a
car, and in some towns, Salt Lake City for instance, I have seen cars
"parked" along the side of the road two-deep, so that to cross from one
side of the road to the other one has to traverse four separate ranges
of automobiles. In the summer, thousands of cars are travelling all day
long between Atlantic City and the adjacent large cities, so that the
reader can perhaps imagine the state of all the main highways in that
direction.
I was here introduced to a diversion which at first seemed quite an
interesting one, but which continued familiarity certainly turned to
contempt. I refer to the "detour." The unfortunate motorist is perhaps
ploughing his way steadily along through the gravel, dust, and sand.
He encounters a barrier across the road bearing a notice that repairs
are going on and that he must follow the detour indicated. The road
selected, I believe, is generally the one with the most pot-holes,
ruts, mountains, canyons, etc., in its formation in the surrounding
district. Sometimes in these detours one finds further auxiliary
detours until finally one has to use the utmost intelligence and a
compass in order to get back to the main highway.
I did not, therefore, arrive in Philadelphia strictly to schedule.
I was many times tempted to take up my abode at a convenient spot
on the side of the road. Several times I dismounted and examined a
promising spot, but always there was some very serious objection. This
objection either took the form of frogs or of mosquitoes or of both.
As we used to read in the days of the War, "the enemy was present in
large numbers." I did not relish either the prospect of being kept
awake indefinitely with the objectionable gurgling of a battalion of
bullfrogs or of being eaten to death in my slumbers by a nation of
bloodthirsty mosquitoes.
So I spun onwards, ever onwards towards Philadelphia. Meanwhile the
sun was sinking lower and lower in the west. The nearer I got to
Philadelphia the more numerous became the cars on the road. It seemed
as though the whole of Philadelphia frivolled at Atlantic City on
a Sunday afternoon. I was working my way along, dodging tremendous
pot-holes and ruts, imagining myself in an hour or two's time reposing
comfortably between clean white sheets. All of a sudden a most
distressing noise came across my ear. It appeared to be a motor-cycle
in pain. At times there was only one cylinder firing. Sometimes there
were two. At other times there was none at all. I drew in to the side
of the road and waited for the unfortunate author of this disturbance
to arrive.
He soon emerged from the darkness. He had no lights, and was only too
pleased to stop at the sight of another motor-cyclist.
"Why, I thought I was the only madman about here," I greeted him,
surprised but gratified to know that there really were other seemingly
sane people who rode motor-cycles in America.
How delighted he was to meet another Englishman! He had, he explained,
been in America only a year or two, having come from my old home town
of Birmingham during the War. He had got so "fed up" with Americans
that it was a treat to set eyes on anyone from the Old Country.
He was a youth of eighteen or nineteen years, and after I had fixed him
up with a couple of sparking plugs and attended to a few other urgent
requirements, he asked me abruptly, but quite politely, the inevitable
question, just as I might have expected. "Where you from, an' where you
goin'?"
I explained that I was making for Philadelphia, where I hoped to find
somewhere to lay my weary head.
"Well, if you don't want anything very luxurious," said he, "I think I
can fix you up all right, if you don't mind going on ahead to light the
way."
I gladly assented, and by this means, with my brilliant headlight
illuminating the road, it did not take us long to reach the Delaware
River, on the opposite bank of which stood the fine old city of
Philadelphia. It took a quarter of an hour to cross the river by the
ferry, but once in Philadelphia my friend was happy. "Now you follow
me," he said.
He had no lights whatever, but his engine was running well, so I agreed
and followed. This was not in itself very easy. I am perfectly certain
that I have never seen ANY motor-cycle ANYWHERE
dash along at such a rate through a city. Although it was dark and I
could not see my speedometer, I am sure that he must have travelled
about forty-five miles per hour through the streets of Philadelphia.
They were certainly good and straight and wide. There was a little
traffic here and there, but this did not seem to worry our friend in
the slightest. Occasionally we saw a "cop" or two standing on a street
corner make a half-hearted attempt to step into the road to hold us up.
Our friend, however, was desperate and would stop for no one. After
about a quarter of an hour's riding, dodging round corners and shooting
past obstructions at a tremendous pace, he pulled up at a small corner
house in a secluded portion of the town and we dismounted. He lived
with his mother, he explained, but she was away in New York. Also he
had lost his latchkey. Also it was really a florist's shop, but he was
sure I wouldn't mind. "There is nothing for it," he said, "but to climb
the fire escape and get in through the front window."
I shouldered him up to an iron frame projecting from the house. Thence
he clambered on to a rickety fire escape leading up the wall into
blackness, and he was soon lost to sight. A few moments later the front
door opened and we pushed our muddy, dirty machines on to the clean
linoleum of the front room, where they remained overnight surrounded by
pots of roses, carnations, palms, and ferns. This, he explained, was
quite the usual procedure and his mother would not mind a bit!
It was then about 11.30, and when we had washed some of the dirt from
our faces we sallied forth in quest of a meal. We had no difficulty in
picking up the scent of a flourishing cafeteria. Neither did we have
any difficulty in disposing of disgusting quantities of hot coffee and
"waffles," a commodity peculiar to America, resembling pancakes and
eaten with jugfuls of maple syrup.
Well after midnight we returned to our domicile, and I laid me down
to sleep the sleep of the righteous. At seven o'clock in the morning
I bade farewell to mine host. Not a cent would he accept in payment
for my night's lodgings. So, with the parting assurance that he would
drop in and see me when he was next in England, we each took our
several roads--he in the direction of a neighbouring works where he was
employed as a mechanic, and I towards Washington, drifting meekly along
the streets at certainly nothing like the speed of the night before.
The road for some distance was good, the sun came out, and the day
promised to turn out fine and hot. I soon began to feel an inward
content. Everything was going smoothly. I was expecting some money to
be waiting for me at Washington, and then I should have nothing to
worry about for a long time to come.
As it usually happens when one begins to pat oneself on the back,
I immediately had a puncture. It was of course in the back wheel.
Meanwhile the sun was rising higher and higher, and when, after about
half an hour, I had repaired the wheel, I was feeling very thirsty.
Another five miles further on I had another puncture. This time it
happened to be exactly outside a garage.
I have known places in England where a certain amount of trade is
always guaranteed by the ingenuity of some of the garage proprietors
who regularly and systematically throw tacks and nails along the road
in their vicinity. It occurred to me that this was a practice not
confined to England, as examination revealed the cause of the puncture
to be a nice long nail driven through from one side of the tube to the
other. Not feeling of a very arduous disposition at the time, I wheeled
it into the garage to be repaired.
I am afraid I was rather annoyed at the result. In the first place, I
had to supply the mechanic with solution. In the second place, I had
to take off the tyre for him. In the third place, I supplied a patch;
and in the fourth place, I actually had to do the job for him. After
settling his account, I finally explained in language as polite as I
could muster that in my opinion the practice of strewing discarded
nails and other implements on the highway, while not being exactly
meritorious in itself, was just as commendable a method of obtaining a
business connection as many that were frequently resorted to in other
trades or professions of a higher standing. I explained, however, that
after having been so successfully victimized by such an artifice, one
would consider oneself justified in expecting a much higher standard of
workmanship than was apparently forthcoming in his establishment.
Then we parted, the mechanic expressing the hope that he would never
(crimson) well see me again, and that if I ever did happen to be coming
back that way and got a nail in my (unspeakable) tyre that he would see
me in (Arizona) before he would (smoking) well repair it for me!