CINCINNATI AND ONWARDS
I spent in all twelve days in Cincinnati. They were twelve happy days;
days of leisure, days of interesting experiences, followed by days of
longing to be on the road again.
The first of July, 1919, will live in the mind of every free-born
American citizen as the day when Prohibition became law throughout the
entire States. Not by design, but by coincidence, was it also the date
of my departure from my friends in Cincinnati to explore the "perils"
of the West. My sojourn there was brought to a sudden close by the
astounding discovery that Lizzie's overhaul was completed. I had a few
warm things to observe when I was presented with the repair bill. It
amounted to a mere seventy-five dollars, half of which represented the
alleged value of the somewhat indifferent labours of a more indifferent
mechanic and a small boy. On the various occasions when I had visited
the shop, the mechanic was generally conspicuous by his absence, and
were it not for the occasional activities of the small boy, who seemed
to delight in "salivating" at frequent intervals on every available
inch of the floor surrounding Lizzie's remains, I feel inclined to
think that I should even now be enjoying myself in Cincinnati. The
other half of the bill represented sundry replacements which, to my way
of thinking, should have been made free under the firm's guarantee,
which had still three-fourths of its term to expire. After much
argument, the proprietor and myself agreed to differ on this point.
The early afternoon witnessed my departure. The kindly attentions of
mine hostess had provided me with good things for the journey. Meat
sandwiches in boxes; fresh butter in tins; fruit and nuts galore.
Little packages were squeezed in here and big ones strapped on there.
Odd corners and crevices revealed an unsuspected orange or banana and
hard-boiled eggs or biscuits in twos and threes lurked amongst the
shirts and socks.
With a light heart I spun down the beautiful, well-paved avenues
that set at defiance the rigid, straight-edge avenues of more modern
American cities. I hummed over the cobble-stones of the lesser streets
and swung past trams and over bridges and was soon speeding along the
road to Indianapolis, thinking like a true pessimist that Lizzie didn't
feel as well as I had hoped, and that I should be hung up again at a
not far-distant date.
In America, in the east, it is the easiest thing in the world to take
the wrong road. Moreover it is generally the most difficult thing to
find out whether one is on the right road or not. I have no objection
to make when roads in towns and villages will run either north and
south or east and west, because for town life this arrangement spells
efficiency. In the country, however, the _raison d'être_ of these
chess-board roads is somewhat obscure. When combined with old-time
roads that originally followed goat-paths or sheep-tracks, its effect
is confusing. But when taken to the extreme, and one finds the main
highways connecting large cities abound with sharp right-angle turns at
every few miles, sometimes going north to make up a little latitude,
then continuing west, then returning south to lose the latitude gained,
and afterwards continuing west again, the result is ridiculous and
sometimes exasperating; very often two, three, four, or more roads run
parallel and only a few yards distant, all leading to the same place.
Sometimes they lead to different places. Sometimes they lead nowhere at
all. Sign-posts are not popular anywhere in the United States. Instead
the roads are identified by painting every third or fourth or tenth
or _n_th telegraph pole with different colours. When properly carried
out, this principle is a very commendable one, and without it travel
would be absolutely impossible. But when followed only imperfectly, or
when the colours become faded and obliterated, so that one trail can be
easily mistaken for another, the traveller has many troubles and trials
ahead.
I had ample moral consolation, therefore, for completely losing my way
only ten miles out of Cincinnati, and wasted a full hour in trying to
get on the right "pike" without going back.
Incidentally the system of decorating telegraph poles in accordance
with the trail they follow has its humorous side. There are, all told,
over a hundred different trails or "National Highways" in different
parts of the States, and each one is supposed to have its distinctive
sign. Thus the "Pike's Peak Ocean-to-Ocean Highway" is identified by a
circle of scarlet above a circle of white, and the "Lincoln Highway"
by circles of red, white, and blue. Sometimes, as in the cases of the
"Blackhawk Trail" and "Mackinaw Indian Trail," the sign is of a more
or less complex nature, including the profile of an Indian's head, for
instance. The humour of the situation will be apparent when a single
stretch of road coincides with say four or five separate trails. Each
telegraph pole is truly a thing of beauty and a joy for ever, with its
inscriptions, circles, squares, profiles, bales of cotton, etc., etc.,
painted on in various colours from top to bottom!
In large towns and cities where several trails meet, it requires the
quintessence of alertness and deduction to find one's way by the
telegraph poles, which, save for a few exceptions, represent the only
means of identification. Strange, in a country using twenty times the
number of cars per head found in any other country in the world, that
facilities for using them should be so meagre as at times to be almost
prehistoric!
It is strange also that some of the roads that were constructed even in
modern times were the achievement of personal enterprise and are even
now "boosted" and advertised by their "promotors." An outstanding case
is that of the "Pike's Peak Highway" just mentioned, which is one of
the three trails that cross the Continent from east to west. This road
boasts a President, three Vice-Presidents, and a Secretary-Treasurer!
Between them these worthy gentlemen are responsible for the proper
maintenance of the road (experience compels a sarcastic smile), and
for the furnishing of information to travellers thereon, etc. Where
the money comes from I wot not, unless it be from the various motoring
clubs in the country. In a booklet, published apparently by them, it is
described as "The Appian Way of America." Permit me to quote passages
from this remarkable publication:--
"Increased attention is this year being focussed on the 'See America'
idea, and motorists planning a trans-continental trip will naturally
select the route of greatest scenic and historic interest. That is
why the discriminating tourist will travel over the Pike's Peak
Ocean-to-Ocean Highway, the improved central route from the Atlantic
to the Pacific coast. From New York it follows the National Old Trails
Road to Indianapolis; from that city to Salt Lake City, it has its
own DISTINCTIVE ORGANISATION; and west of Salt Lake City it
follows the line of the Lincoln Highway. History places the stamp of
approval on this as the LOGICAL trans-continental Highway.
Etc., etc. (pages of it).... The trip has no dreariness and no
monotony.... (More pages)."
Never was such a grossly misleading impression of ease, comfort, and
luxury perpetrated upon an unsuspecting Englishman! It was well said
that the pen is mightier than the sword. If ever again I find myself
so utterly demented as to motor-cycle across the United States before
proper roads have been constructed, may Heaven preserve me from "The
Appian Way of America"!
The reader may think that I am dwelling unduly on the subject of roads,
but I do so at this juncture because it was a subject which now became
of increasing magnitude. Practically the last sign of paved road of
any kind between this point and the Pacific Coast (some 2,500 miles
away) would be encountered at Indianapolis, and from there onwards
were universally the execrable "dirt" roads that so seriously threaten
not only the comfort but the safety of motor-cycling. I was not even
disappointed at the outlook, because I came to America without even
expecting any form of trail or route across its entirety to be at my
disposal. But I feel the natural resentment of the Englishman when I am
led to believe that there is a luxurious "highway" ahead, only to find
an aggravated series of dust-heaps, mud-pools, and cow-paths!
The road, however, to Indianapolis was not of the "Appian Way" variety.
It was comparatively good in places, and ran for many miles along the
valley of the Miami River, amidst beautiful scenery of ever-changing
variety. After a few miles, the Ohio-Indiana boundary was crossed, and
here, as many times afterwards, I was struck by the apparently sudden
change of landscape, the same as the home tourist can almost always
discern by the "feel" of the country whether he is in England or Wales,
no matter if he be without his map for reference. I do not mean that
either Ohio or Indiana is particularly mountainous. On the other hand,
the latter is on the whole somewhat flat, as if in preparation for the
weary stretches of monotonous prairie that are to be encountered the
more one travels westward until the Rockies are reached.
I made little headway that afternoon, and at 10.30 in the evening I
was still some distance from Indianapolis, the capital of the State.
I therefore looked around as best I could in the pitch-darkness, with
only my lights as a guide, for a likely spot for my night's abode.
Water is a _sine qua non_ for the camping vagrant, and when I came
to a large steel bridge I decided that that was the place for me. It
evidently spanned a pretty big river, but it was so far below, or
seemed so far, I could not see the water. A lengthy reconnoitre from
the road led me to the edge of a field of corn whence I could hear the
river but could not see it for dense masses of vegetation.
I propped Lizzie up on her stand and found to my dismay that when
the engine stopped the lights went out. Not feeling in the mood
for investigating the cause of the trouble, I was satisfied to keep
the engine running slowly as long as illumination was necessary in
unstrapping my baggage and "making" my bed. Then I set out to find the
river and enjoy the luxury of a wash.
Easier said than done! I could find openings in the thick undergrowth
where I deemed the river should be, but could find no way of making
closer acquaintance with its waters. As I continued my search, the bank
suddenly gave way beneath me, and I was plunged up to the waist in the
river I had been so diligently seeking!
My exit was more difficult to negotiate than my entrance. The bushes
and weeds on the banks were not strong enough to enable me to pull
myself out, but came away, roots and all, and left me sinking in the
muddy river-bed. I eventually extricated myself, however, and decided
to retire unwashed! Pulling off my soaking top-boots was a herculean
task, and this done, I hung my wet breeches on a tree to dry in the
warm summer night.
I passed a splendid night and awoke with the dawn, only to find my
clothes wetter than they were the night before, thanks to a heavy dew.
Such conditions, I reflected, were of mere trifling importance in the
life of a bona fide tramp, and I was soon humming along once more
through the fresh, crisp morning air.
We arrived in Indianapolis at breakfast time and with a hearty
appetite. I remember Indianapolis chiefly as a city with long wide
streets full of cobble-stones, tram-lines, and traffic policemen. My
first duty was to take Lizzie to see the vet. I didn't like the sound
of her at all, and she seemed but a rickety shadow of her former self.
I was taking no chances now. As if by instinct we went "right there."
The Henderson agent took Lizzie under his protecting wing, and while I
settled down to consume a hefty breakfast of cantaloupe, puffed rice,
and coffee, he took her for a spin along the few miles of concrete road
that I had left behind with such regret.
"Waal, I guess there ain't very much wrong with her, boy," was the
verdict, although he did not seem over-exuberant about it.
"How far you goin'?" he added.
"Just to the end of the road," I replied.
"Hm, and a tidy ride too, I'll say so. I've done it, but not on one o'
them."
Then, after meditation, he added, "But I think she'll take you there.
Give my love to 'Frisco, won't you, boy?"
I promised, paid him a dollar, and left to track down the offices of
the local branch of the "3 A." Club, or Automobile Association of
America, whom, I was informed, I must see before going any further, to
inquire about the roads ahead. Dirt roads, it will be understood, vary
with the weather. Hardly ever does the English motorist hear of a road
being washed away with the rain, but the idea of its being borne away
on the wings of the wind would indeed appear strange to him!
I found the "3 A." Club located at one of the large hotels, all alive
with "bell-boys" and commissionaires and elevators. I was greeted by
the hotel staff with haughty aloofness. "Put that gink outside," I
could imagine the desk clerk saying to the hall-porter. But I was being
whisked up the elevator to the umpteenth floor before he had the chance.
At the "3 A." Club office I was greeted most cordially. The gentleman
at the desk was a human encyclopædia of roads and places. Beneath
the dirt and dust he believed he perceived some person of high rank,
a brigadier or something, and my brown tunic and field-boots must
have borne out this assumption. However, that may be, he certainly
did his best to give me every assistance. But when I told him I was
motor-cycling to the Pacific and wanted to know which was the best road
to take, his jaw dropped suddenly. There were two alternative routes to
Kansas City, the "Pike's Peak" through Springfield and the "National
Old Trails Highway" through St. Louis. Which should I take?
"Well, sir, the National Old Trail is impossible just now. The rains
have been very heavy and there are several places where you couldn't
possibly get through. And as for the other--well, I shall have to
think."
Which he did. He hummed and ha'd and stroked his chin and hummed and
ha'd again, as if struggling with some momentous problem. He spread out
maps in rows before him and followed the route with his finger. Then
silence.
After a minute or two of this, in which the merits of "washouts" and
hold-ups and detours by the score were being weighed together in his
troubled brain, he spoke:
"Yes, sir, I think you can get through"--and, more deliberately--"I
_think_ you can get through. Yes, it's a good road," he added.
I learnt then for the first time one outstanding principle in the
road-study of America. I confirmed it on innumerable occasions later.
There are two classes of roads and two only. They are good roads and
bad roads. Any road, ANYWHERE, in the whole of the United
States of America (and, I presume, her Colonies as well) is a "good"
road if you can "get through." The remainder are bad.
I thanked my benefactor and accepted sheaves of maps and guide-books
for which he would take no payment. He was indeed the quintessence of
obligation. I on my part was the quintessence of gratitude.
"Now for the fun," I chuckled as I kicked Lizzie to a roar and set out
for the highway with red- and white-circled telegraph poles.