The train arrives late, at 3:00 a.m. The bikes are locked up in the wagon until 7:00 a.m., so we sleep the rest of the night in the station.
Eventually we get our bikes and go to Customs. No one is there, so we wait.
Then, a voice comes over a loudspeaker: “You two bikies lay all your gear out at column number two.”
So we do, and we wait, and then at about 8:30 a.m. a very big, fat Customs officer waddles towards us, goes through all our gear and helmet padding, and says, “On yer way.”
I ask, “What about my passport and bike papers?”
He replies abruptly, “On yer bikes now and out of here now,” and waddles out of sight.
There’s still no one else around, so we go. My bike fires up on one cylinder and, with a bit of speed up, the other cuts in. The first stop is a gas station, as we had to drain our main tanks for the train, leaving only a trickle in reserve.
We leave Customs for the road heading for Tucson, and stop at the first bar that’s open. It’s not just any day today; it’s the Fourth of July, United States of America Independence Day, a legal holiday for the United States. We have a beer and a bite to eat to celebrate.
Brian makes a call to his parents in Las Vegas. They travel to Tucson quite often, and have a favorite motel: the Spanish Trail. They instruct us to book in and they will arrive later in the day with a trailer.
We finish our breakfast, fire up the bikes, and we’re off. The motor is not well. Will it make it to the 65 miles to Tucson? The Triumph limps along, but a few miles from Tucson the engine begins to clatter, and Brian must tow me the last few miles to town.
It’s a very big moment for me, entering the United States for the first time. Even with a sick motor, I’m still happy to ride over the border.
We check into the motel—wow! It has a swimming pool, bubble pools, cold drinks, and we have a double bed each. It costs $16 a night.
The family arrives in a white, air-conditioned Cadillac, with a trailer. We all dine, and then in the morning head off into the desert, crossing the Boulder Dam, at the time the largest in the world.
Brian’s family lives at the Nellis Air Force base, on the east side of Las Vegas, in Nevada. Brian’s father is part commander of the base here, and I am looked after very well.
The Triumph dealer in Las Vegas is very helpful, both with parts and discounts. I strip the motor down and, sure enough, the other piston has burnt out. It’s also damaged the top end of the con rod almost to the point of breaking.
So we re-bore the cylinders +0.040”, fit a new connecting rod and pistons, and I’m back on the road two days later. The $50 parts are put up by Triumph, and with a bit of assistance from the dealer, the repairs cost me $25 all up. The mileage so far from Punta Arenas is 12,400; the mileage from new is 22,076.
While at the base I get to sit in a F-111 fighter jet, and then Brian shows me some of the sights of Las Vegas. Before we go to the city, he changes from his usual jeans and shirt into a long, white robe and bare feet. This prevents us from entering some casinos and bars, and makes me look like a disciple following him around.
After nine days in Las Vegas with an average temperature of 115°F (45°C), it’s time to get back on the road.