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Crossing a River in the Rockies

Fellow motorcyclists and the more savvy onlookers instantly spotted the flat twin engine and assumed it was a vintage BMW, which would be the cue for our mini history lesson about the dastardly Ruskies nicking the German's designs. For one hoary old hillbilly in a Tennessee gas station this tale of Soviet trickery only served to confirm that the Cold War was still alive and well, and he walked away in disgust, shaking his head, muttering, 'They stole it huh? Them dirty dawgs...'

The American South often gets a bad press but one southern tradition that did appear to be alive and well was the famous hospitality and politeness of the local people. It took a little while to get used to being called 'Ma'am' but I soon became rather fond of it and when I heard a gentleman attempting to attract my attention in a Nashville parking lot one morning, calling out in a proper Tennessee drawl, 'Ma'am, d'you have a light?' I turned around expecting to find a dapper southern gent complete with seersucker suit and jaunty hat, waving an unlit cigar in my direction. My charming stereotype was immediately busted when my eyes fell upon a dishevelled old guy with his flies undone, waving not a cigar, but his meat 'n' two veg at me. 'Ma'am,' he said politely, 'would you please take a look at this'. I shall refrain from including my response here but you've got to hand it to Tennessee, even their flashers are gentlemen.

We bid farewell to the South, crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas on what the Memphians refer to as the Dolly Parton Bridge due to its two large and very impressive arches and immediately entered the flash floods, gale-force winds and staccato hail of a Midwestern summer. Day after day, the Ural rumbled along, impervious to the weather, across the plains of Missouri and Kansas at a steady fifty-five and finally, after hundreds of miles of flat, empty prairie and long straight roads, it was with a joyous heart and wet feet that we finally spied the jagged horizon of the Rockies, rising up in the distance into a bright blue sky.

Valley of the Gods, Utah

Having crossed half the country on mainly paved roads, and now fired up by the pioneer spirit of The West, we were both itching to put the Ural through its paces off-road and test out its two-wheel drive capability. Spying a rock-strewn river running alongside the road, Austin veered off down a trail and with a quick flip of the lever that engages the sidecar wheel, plunged down the bank into the water and proceeded to drive upstream, bouncing and crashing over boulders, the clanging of metal on rock only drowned out by my yelps as the sidecar smashed around, flying up in the air, then down again as the bow waves washed over us, soaking us from head to foot. I clung on for dear life, worrying not so much about my own peril but how the poor bike (that doesn't belong to us) would cope with this onslaught. I had of course, underestimated the mighty Ural, made of much sterner stuff than me, and it ploughed onwards, undaunted by any obstacle in its path until we reached a low bridge and were forced to abandon our amphibious adventure. Austin swung a sharp left-hander up the steep gravel bank and with a roar of pure Soviet power and a distinct whiff of eau de clutch we were back on dry land. 'Wow! This thing really can go anywhere!' declared Austin, suitably impressed, immediately announcing it to be the 'Ultimate Overlanding Machine for Couples'. You heard it here first folks!

From Colorado we made a detour into Utah, a largely desert state where Mormons and Native Americans rub shoulders amongst some of the most staggering scenery in the USA. This is the home of Monument Valley but the wild landscape of huge red rock formations, deep canyons and sandy wilderness stretches way beyond the famous picture postcard scene, making Utah one of America's top destinations for outdoor, off-road fun, which is exactly what we were planning. It was time for some desert action!

Pavement Ends

Fortunately, six weeks of Uraling meant I had now built up some extra upper body strength, as I soon realised that even more physical effort was going to be required to control this beast in the dirt. I found myself regularly taken by surprise when a seemingly innocuous bump or camber would send the outfit careering off in the opposite direction to the one I was intending, until I learned to consciously counter-steer against this force. Unfortunately this wasn't always possible, especially at speed when a unseen rock could easily catch you unawares, as we discovered when Austin got a little carried away, tearing along a remote desert trail, and we found ourselves suddenly perched on the edge of a precipice with the front wheel dangling off the edge. 'Now this is where the reverse gear really comes in handy!' announced Austin cheerfully, as he shot backwards in a cloud of dust, performed a three-point turn and continued onwards, while I sat there, gripping the edge of the sidecar and hoping it would be my turn to drive soon.

Lois, Austin and the Ural on Bonneville Flats

Of course a trip to Utah wouldn't be complete without taking the opportunity to go haring across the Bonneville Salt Flats. We weren't kidding ourselves though; there we would be no land speed records broken by our overloaded rig, unless of course there is a record for a Ural sidecar outfit with excessive luggage driven by two people who have spent six weeks eating burgers and pancakes. In which case, I would like to bet that we now hold that record. But whatever you're riding, tearing it up across the Bonneville Salt Flats as fast as your machine can go is something that every motorcyclist should experience once in their lives, hell, it's even worth doing in a hire car! What struck me most about Bonneville was that in a country where every little bit of history and heritage has been theme-parked to saturation point, here is a piece of motoring legend that has been entirely ignored. Not a sign, not a café, not even a shop selling key-rings or pieces of Genuine Bonneville Salt. Just an enormous expanse of dazzling white land beside the US15 that looks as empty and alien as the surface of the moon. And all you have to do is drive off the freeway and open up the throttle! And get this - no-one will stop you. God Bless America!