Right now, I’m utterly terrified. If I come off here, I’m screwed. If I’m lucky, I’ll just break a leg and will slowly freeze to death trapped under this massive bike while I wait for someone to drive past. If I’m unlucky, I’ll slide over the edge and wish I’d packed a parachute.

What had started as drizzle has progressively turned to sleet, then hail before finally setting as snow & ice as I gingerly climb the 155 ‘Greenhorn Pass’ over the Sierra Nevada. By the time I realise I’m in trouble, the road is so slippy and narrow that there’s no turning back. The road keeps climbing. 4000ft. 5000ft. 6000ft. On the map the road was twisty. Normally I equate this to mean ‘fun’. As I reach the summit and start the descent down the other side, that’s not what I’m feeling.

Underneath me is a very heavy Harley Davidson Street Glide. Not really built for switchbacks and definitely not designed with ice in mind. For the last hour I’ve been trundling in 1st gear, not daring to touch the throttle or brake. I’ve already had innumerable lurid tail slides and the front keeps washing out. My hands are frozen, my legs are shivering hard against the tank and my intended destination for the day, a warm poolside lounger at the Bellagio in Vegas, seems very, very far away. It all started out so well.....

4 days earlier

I pick up a gleaming Harley from Eagleriders in San Francisco and I’m nervous. I’ve never ridden abroad. I’ve never ridden anything this big. I’ve never even ridden for more than three hours in a day. The plan. To ride solo from San Francisco to LA on Highway 1, then across to Vegas. I’ve planned to take in Monterey, Big Sur, San Simeon (stopping at looney-tune William Randolph Hearst’s castle) and the Mojave Desert. As I outline my plan to the nice chaps at Eagleriders, it immediately becomes apparent I should have done more research. It appears that while I wasn’t looking, half of Highway 1 has dropped in to the sea (landslides!). I’m not the most adventurous chap in the world, so usually these endeavours come about only when enthusiasm gets the better of my natural reticence. If I think (or plan) for too long, I wuss out. Now I’m being bitten for it. Still, some of the road is open and I decide I’m going to see how far I can get.

After a quick detour over the Golden Gate & back (it would be rude not to), I get out of San Fran and soon the road narrows down to single carriage way, hugging the Pacific coastline. Initial impressions of the Harley are low down torque, cumbersome handling and a soundtrack like the San Andreas Fault is blowing wide open. I find the controls for the onboard stereo. ‘Get Ready’ by the Temptations blasts out as I sweep (and scrape) through curves. Sunshine beaming down, waves crashing to my right, sea air in my nostrils and the only way this could possibly feel better is if Scarlett Johansson was riding pillion. Nude.

I play ‘scenic-photo-tag’ with a couple in a drop-top Mustang. We pull in to the same laybys to take pictures of the stunning scenery as Big Sur rolls by, agreeing to take photos for each other along the way. Eventually we get as far as we can go, just short of San Simeon and have to turn back. The ride back to the swiftly booked hotel in Monterey with the sun setting on my left is even more beautiful and I chug along peacefully. This is all I had hoped my first ‘bike trip would be.

In hindsight my choice of bike might seem silly. After all, with a long way to go you want comfort, practicality and fuel economy. Harley’s are wilfully anachronistic, handle like pigs and drink like George Best. But come one. It’s America. There can be only one ‘bike for your first trip there. There were a fair few choices, from Steet-Bobs to Fat-Boys. I went for the Street Glide because it had large hard panniers (essential), a bit of a fairing in case I encountered bad weather and, most importantly, it made me look like I was in an episode of CHiPs. Thing is, I don’t ever remember Eric Estrada having to pick his up after dropping it in a hotel car park. Which I did. I got caught out by its’ weight in a u-turn and had to (I stress) gently set it down on those beautiful chrome crash-bars. Strike one to the Street Glide. I’m 5” 10 and weigh under 11 stone. There’s no way I’m picking up this beast. Out of nowhere, an example of American hospitality (and standard bikers’ code) appears in the form of Thomas & Irene on an Electra-Glide. I’m soon upright and on my way again. It won’t be the last time I’m rescued by a Good Samaritan.

Day two. With Highway one out of action and a potentially boring ride to LA in prospect, I change it up and decide to find a way over the Sierra Nevada, down in to Death Valley and then through to Vegas. I’ve got 3 days. I head to Yosemite, along miles of straight road through pistachio plantations until eventually the road begins to descend in to a valley. A river rumbles alongside and eventually I ride through (yes through) a massive boulder and am hit by the view ahead. El Capitain towers, a monolith cliff face with lunatics climbing up. The news in the hotel this morning said the late-melting snow meant this year was ‘a good year for waterfalls’. By God, they weren’t kidding. Water is cascading down in sheets on either side of the Valley and as I ride up to Glacier Point, I see that above 5000 ft the snow is still thick. Britain has many pretty spots, but as with all things in America, the sheer scale of the grandeur before me is awesome, in the original sense of the word. I stop at various view-points and just stare. No words. No sound. Just big skies, big mountains, big forests. There’s just nothing and nowhere like this at home. As the sun goes down, I ride out of the park and crash at the first motel I find.

Day three and the plan is a quick ride through the Sequoia National Park and then take the Greenhorn (reports say road is open and clear), stopping in Lake Isabella for the night before a leisurely ride down and through Death Valley on the final day. Best laid plans.....

Just before you get to Sequoia, you go through Squaw Valley. I’m an arrogant Londoner and tend to sneer at anywhere small unless it’s pretty. Squaw Valley is not particularly pretty. It’s a Gas station, Pizza joint and Auto-repairs kind of place. I pull in for Gas, fuel up and get out. I manage to travel about 300 metres before it becomes obvious something is wrong. My foot’s hitting the shifter but bugger-all is happening. I’m in 3rd and the shifter is flopping about on its’ shaft. Bugger.

We (for the ‘bike & I are now one) limp back to Squaw Valley where I pull in to the gas station, get off and do the standard male act of attempting to fix machinery. This involves chin-rubbing, jiggling bits and taking well-meaning (but ultimately useless) advice from passersby. This isn’t engineering. This is faith healing.

Another well wisher arrives. He’s a big jolly chap, wearing one of those workman’s shirts with his name embroidered on it. He’s Bruce and he’s a local landscape gardener. Bruce is a dedicated Christian man and, as he tries to help me tighten an Allen bolt, tells me all about his family and the lay preaching he does at the local prison. He seems disappointed that I’ve only been baptised and that I haven’t been back to a church since my baby-noggin got dunked 30 years ago. Eventually we work out the bolt has threaded and no amount of tightening will help. I’m ready to kick the bike over. Hot. Tired. Hungry. Falling behind schedule, my plan evaporating before my eyes.

Bruce, in a way that I sneeringly attribute to all holy rollers, maintains his cheerful optimism and helps me get the bike down to his mate Mark, who runs the auto shop down the road. Half an hour later, Mark has located the correct replacement bolt, fitted it and the shifter now works a treat. Bruce has bought us all Pizza. He won’t take any money for it and Mark is refusing payment for his work too. He says he has a rule. He won’t charge people on vacation. I’m dumb-struck. I’m left feeling guilty at being so dismissive of this little town, and incredibly grateful to these two thoroughly nice chaps. Pizza was good too. As I leave, Bruce hands me a small Bible. He figures I’ll need something to read on the road.

I’ve lost 3 hours, so blast through Sequoia. Obligatory photo by big tree. Check. On the way out, I come across the twistiest piece of road I’ve ever encountered. We descend back down over 4000 ft, through hairpin bends so tight I can’t keep to my side of the road. My shoulder brushes the side of an RV going the other way & I wonder if I’ll make it down alive. Another hairpin approaches. On a bluff above me sits a bear, busy disembowelling a raccoon, it’s chops and claws bloody. The rumble of the Harley must divert his attention from his meal for a moment because he looks up and right at me. I’m from London. The wildest animal we get is drunk birds on a Saturday night. In my helmet I’m quietly gasping in admiration, while also shitting my pants. The bear is scary, but so is the hairpin! I want a picture but I’m quite glad there’s nowhere to stop – what if he decides he wants me for dinner?

Lake Isabella’s a write-off so I make it to a motel in a small town at the bottom of the Greenhorn just as it gets dark. Two Germans (you can tell from the haircuts) one on a Beemer, one on another Street Glide, are pulling in just as I arrive. The guy on the Glide looks new to his Harley and promptly has a massive wobble. Wry smile on my face (but hidden under my helmet). We all go in to the motel manager’s office where we sign in and put a pin in a map of the world he has on the wall. Blimey. Folks from all over have made it here. I wonder if they got here like I did? That is, by being more than a little bit lost.

Last day. I need to make it over the mountain (only 22 miles), down to the desert, up to Death Valley, through & out the other side to Vegas before dark. Piece of piss.... It takes two hours to get the 22 miles to Lake Isabella. The trip over the Greenhorn has left me shaking from cold and fear and I’ve seen my life flash before my so frequently the flash has become a constant glow. McDonalds take an hour to do me an egg McMuffin. At home I’d be fuming. Here, I’m glad to catch my breath and warm up. Still, it can only get better right? Ohhhh, so wrong.

Once I reach desert level there are extra strong winds. The panniers and fairing act like a sail as I slew uncontrollably across 2 lanes of Freeway, narrowly avoiding massive rigs. At one point I stop in a layby to catch my breath, but I can’t get off. Each time I do, the wind catches the ‘bike and it starts to scrape and slip, ready to topple if I turn my back, so I get back on and plough onwards. I thought the snow had been bad, but at least I could maintain a modicum of control. In this wind, I’m a passenger on a roller coaster and I want to get off. I struggle up the 395. If the road signs are anything to go by, the locals have a yen for ‘fresh jerky’. The gas station attendant at Olancha asks me how I like the wind. My bulging eyes and harried expression give her the answer.

Olancha is on the shore of Owens’ Lake. It’s a lake in name only. In the 20’s, Los Angeles’ need for water meant the lake’s source was diverted south to the aqueduct for the megalopolis. The lake has now all but dried out, leaving the bed open to the elements. When the winds pick up, the bed is stirred in to noxious alkali dust storms that give locals respiratory problems. I can see one of these very dust storms creeping across the vista and right in to my path. I just can’t catch a break today.

The ride in to Death Valley is still windy and now the dust storm is depositing a thin layer of sand on the newly tarmacced road. The front washes out each time a gust catches the fairing and I wish I was back on the snow. At least that was predictable. Stopping a vista point with various RVs, campers and the like, I get in to a conversation with a nice French chap. My GCSE French comes back to me and we talk about ‘Vallee du Mort’ and how ‘j’habite dans Las Vegas ce soir’. Eventually, my limited French is exhausted and his even more limited Franglais runs out, so we take each other’s photo and wave goodbye.

The wind has dropped, much like the road. Rapidly the road descends from over 5000 ft to sea level in a few miles. I decide I need to save fuel and freewheel down, sweeping through bends with the only sounds being wind noise and the low, chugging idle of that great engine. The air’s getting drier. Warmer. For the first time today, I get out of my waterproofs, put on the summer gloves and crack the zip on my jacket. The road straightens, then flattens and a heat haze across Panamint Valley ticks every box in my imagination about driving through a desert. Vehicles coming the opposite way appear in the distance like you’re watching through a badly tuned telly. Two headlights become one and you realise that what looked like an RV is actually another Harley. Remember to wave. The reserved British tilt of the noggin hasn’t caught on here and I’m glad.

Stovepipe Wells is a gas station, motel and tourist-tat-selling stop off. The map says this town has an airport. Perhaps it has, if the runway is sand. Lots and lots of sand. I chat to some Harley riders who’ve come from Vegas. They tell me I’m about to ride in to some rain. You gotta be kidding me! ‘You’ll feel right at home won’tcha?’ says the guy with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. Yeah. That’s why I flew all this way. To feel at home.

You can see for mile after mile here. Everything is an age away but the massive sides to the valley are so big you feel like you could reach out and touch them. I can see the storm that I’d escaped beginning to catch me up, and the storm the others had ridden through in the distance but moving away. I’m in the middle, in glorious sunshine and very real heat. I’m now in a race. I can’t let the storm catch me, so I’m off again. The Harley’s engine temperature rises and the heat from the engine is making my legs a little toasty. Quick stops at Zabriskie point (like something out of Lawrence of Arabia) and Dante’s View leave my camera running low on memory. None of the photos manages to capture the beauty of this place, so I keep taking more and more hoping that one of them will capture its’ essence. I’m going to have to come back here one day.

The sun’s dropping low. Vision through my stupid tinted visor is beginning to wane. On the map, Vegas shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half but after today’s setbacks one has to wonder if God is laughing at my plans and won’t let me get there before dark. Perhaps he’s pissed because I haven’t read Bruce’s bible?

The ride out of the park follows an almost dead straight road, coinciding with the entry to Nevada. Immediately I feel lost. I hadn’t appreciated it before, but Californian roads have little markers every few miles so you know you’re still on the right road. In Nevada this doesn’t appear to be the case. Not even on main roads. The back-route that I’d planned to Pahrump (sounds like a noise my bum would make) looked simple on the map (and indeed it was), but without the roadside markers to reassure me, I get that nervous feeling in the pit of my belly. I’m concerned about fuel and can’t afford to be going the wrong direction. Horrible what-ifs are getting in to my head. In Pahrump I turn and follow a tourist coach that looks suitably gaudy enough that it should be heading to Vegas. My map is too large a scale for me to tell if I’m on the right road. Shit, shit, shit. I should already be there by the pool nursing a Jamesons brought to me by a waitress in a bikini. Bloody snow. Ruddy wind. Sodding rain.

The road is starting to climb, the sun has now shone its last and I’m beginning to get cold. I’m riding at 80 with the visor up and my eyes streaming. Why are we going up? I thought Vegas was in the middle of the desert. I’d always imagined you approached Sin City on a long flat desert blacktop, the town gradually rising as if out of nowhere. Yet we’re still climbing, back up in to mountains. Signs roll past. Ibex Pass. Mountain Springs. You are now over 6000 feet. That’s the same height I got snow this morning. Please not again. Not in the dark. Oh thank Christ, the road starts to descend and then, between the peaks there’s a glow. I’m Dorothy and I think I’ve just caught a glimpse of Oz. Another pass, another glimpse. Either that’s the town the Bugsy Siegel started or there’s still residual radiation left over from nuclear testing back in the day. There’s no doubt now. Vegas Baby, and boy do I feel ‘Money’.

I can spot my hotel from 10 miles away. Now, how to get there? I dice with manic traffic on the main freeway that runs through the centre of the town. The bike’s black so no-one can see me, with my visor down I can’t see them. Bruce’s mate is looking after me as I weave that heavy beast through a bunch of maniacs who don’t slow, only ever accelerate. I wouldn’t ride like this through London traffic so why am I doing it here? They say it’s not the destination but the journey that matters. I agree but thanks to today’s set-backs I’m now all about the destination. The arrival. The end.

The Strip. The Bellagio. I wait in what looks initially like an ordinary queue. Moving a bit slowly I have to admit. I could ride up to the front and cut in, but I’ve been riding for 14 hours. I’m knackered and filtering is out of the question. If I came a cropper now, after all that I’d survived today....boy that would be stupid. Instead, I look around and soak it up. Lights, noise, an Elvis every twenty metres having his photo taken with tourists. There’s that tacky mock-Eiffel tower. It’s Memorial Day weekend and all the students are out for fun and dressed accordingly. The girls....blimey the girls. It’s like a hen-weekend in Newquay. Only they’re attractive.

15 minutes later and I realise why the queue isn’t moving. This isn’t a queue to get in to the hotel. People have just stopped to take pictures of the bloomin’ fountains!

I ride in to the hotel. The valet looks at me and give me a shrug that says “waddya want me to do with that?” My journey ends with the valet jogging in front of me, leading me to the ‘bike parking. The bike’s parked. I tip him. He goes. I attempt to get off but my pack unbalances me, my legs wobble and over I go. Then I giggle. I’m beached like an inverted tortoise but I’ve made it.

It wasn’t the Road of Bones. I didn’t do the Pan-American. Nick Saunders I ain’t, but sod it. I’ve done my first ‘bike adventure. I did it alone on a heavy brute of a ‘bike with no planning and a useless map. I’m like a child hyped up on e-numbers who’s just got off a roller coaster. Again! Again!