Going The Distance

Alanna tries her hand at blogging

Apparently there are over 100,000 blogs out there, and only 1% of them are read. By ANYONE. So I have been working on the principle that this entire website is just a laboured way of keeping my parents up to date with my movements (hence the bullet point, no-nonsense daily updates). But now that I have dipped a toe in the undisturbed blogopuddle at the side of the information superhighway, I too have the urge to unburden myself of my deepest hopes, troubles and ruminations. Only for it to be read by concerned family members and future employers.

So here are some thoughts from the dowager aunt in the sidecar, as we speed through the wilds of southern Oregon on our way to our polygamists in Salt Lake City.

Why this route?

One of the things that people asked us a lot before we set off was why we weren’t doing Going the Distance in the UK. Particularly if we hope to sell anything to the BBC in the long run – they’re very unlikely to want to put a string of AMericans on their channels.

If I’m honest, the original reason is that I’m a Yankophile. I find it has a perpetual allure for me, which started when I was much younger and people would retunr from holidays to the distant US and return with such captivating and E-number-loaded edibilia as Fruit Roll Ups and Bubble Tape (metre upon metre of bubble gum, in an easy-to-ignore electric fuschia packet). It was then compounded by meeting four of my greatest friends when away for a year in Bologna – all blonde, all fabulous, and all American. Real people, real fun, real Americans. ANd so the pilgrimages began – New York a few times a year.

One of my fabourite things to do was to stand in pharmacies – Rite Aid, Duane Read, Walgreens – and gawp at the array of stuff. This really is the land of stuff.

I always wanted to live in New York and it was only when Mike turned up in my life that I realised that my New York obsession was classic displacement – once I got happy in London, I didn’t want to leave it anymore.

BUt I digress. So I think I was the one who was pretty adamant about our route having to go through the States. I like being able to communicate with people so darkest Mongolia just didn’t have that conversational appeal. I don’t speak Spanish – but I figured that by the time we got to Central and south America, I’d be ready for a different experience.

I hatched the line that “the Pan American highway is the longest road in the world… not unlike marriage” and that seemed to get people off our back about having chosen it as our route.

So off we set. Flying to New York, then Seattle, then Anchorage. The first 6 months of 2009 were about preparing for this trip – but mostly in the form of trying to sell the idea of the documentary. The angst and stress of that process – and finding tenants for the flat, leaving our jobs, etc – meant that I don’t think I really thought about what we were setting off to do.

The first 2 weeks in Anchorage were really stressful. Looking back now, I remember feeling highly tense throughout. We were trying to sort things like the bike’s registration and insurance, which is no mean feat without a US social security number, sorting radio intercoms for the bike, computers, filming equipment, the bike itself… and because we had no mode of transport, we were beholden to the kindness of others. Mickey Sherfield, the Ural dealer in Anchorage, and one of the most genuinely good people I have ever met in my life, was the key figure in those first 10 days. He lent us his big brown truck to get around the place in, and had the patience to teach Mike the mechanics of the Ural. A task which would take him (and Mike) about a week of 9-5 tinkering.

What became apparent to us over the first few weeks of the trip is how deeply we’d be affected by the people that we met. What started off as an idea to justify a trip has come to define everything about it. Having a reason to tap people on the shoulder has meant that we have met and talked properly with people from all backgrounds and faiths, and has made this infinitely more meaningful than any other trip I have ever taken.

Our English accents have taken us out of the realm of the everyday with the people we have spoken to. To them, we are unusual and defy any societal classification. Which I think has been a large contributor to our success over here. I have been doing a number of cold calls in the hunt for interesting stories, and I think the English accent has added significantly to our charming and eccentric tale. On the one occasion when we met Brits, at the World polica and Fire Games in Vancouver, and I started chatted to them with the hope of an interview, I was reminded of the baggage which comes with my accent back in the UK. I felt posh and uncomfortable almost instantly and I realised how hard I’d find it to approach Brit strangers with the same gusto that I have over here.

Mike and I discussed this with Dr Pepper Schwartz, her PhD in sociology from Yale. She said that, apart from in a few rare places in the US like Boston, accent simply doesn’t denote social class in the same way over here. Like all Americans, she was fascinated to hear about  the ins and outs of the class system in the UK. I find it so frustrating! I think it’s one of the reasons I love the US – here I’m just “British”, not some privately educated arse.

That said, despite loving the people that we’ve met, there are a few things about the States which I really have fallen out of love with. The rampant consumerism, for starters. Such a cliche, but God, it hits you between the eyes in every corner of the country. Even crossing back over into the States from Canada, the difference was noticeable in the number of strip malls which sprang back up alongside the freeway – offering tonnes and tonnes of needless stuff. And food! So much food! The portion sizes here are embarrassing. By and large, they are usually two decent meals on one plate. Mike and I either share one, or keep second halves for another sitting. I look around at my huge neighbours, shoe-horned into their booths, tucking into hamburgers the size of a human head and feel so cross that they could have got themselves into the state of this being usual. I suppose so many jobs now depend on portions that size that they can’t go back. Until their healthcare system is totally crippled, perhaps.

The size of cars out here is truly depressing. Everyone drives a truck. In Alaska, I could understand it just about, because they usually have the leg of a dead beast hanging out of the back of the flatbed, but in metropolitan Seattle? Why not a Fiat 500? More miles per gallon, easier to park… but that’s not how it works. The cities are so sprawling that walking is not an option and public transport is always inadequate. Mall culture abounds as soon as you’re out of the very centre of cities, and it wouldn’t even cross the average suburban American’s mind not just to jump into their massive car, on their own, and drive for half an hour for dinner, or to do the shopping. There’s really nothing more depressing, sitting in this tiny little bike during rush hour on the freeways – surrounded by solid traffic of trucks with single drivers. Think of the fuel consumption, the pollution… Meep. Not that we’re guilt-free – flying from Anchorage to Patagonia would probably be better for the environment.

Final rant is about the RVs. Holidaying folk in Alaska and Yukon drive HUGE beasts of holiday homes. No VW vans up here – they are the size of coaches, and usually have an SUV being towed behind them for when they arrive wherever they are going. I was told that since Walmart has started letting RVs park in their parking lots for free, people have been depositing their waste by the side of the road (because there are no waste disposal shutes as per regular RV camps). Hideous. Hey ho.

 

A day in the life

I think everyone knew, when Mike “if God had meant us to plan, he wouldn’t have invented powertools” Clear and his wife, the ever punctual and on it Alanna, decided to set off into the wide blue yonder, that they would be somewhat ill-prepared for the undertaking.

And how right you all were.

Any of you who have had the patience to be loyal to this website will know that the updates are as patchy as Mike’s former ginger face pubes. But that’s not because we’ve been swanning about… every minute of every day is filled, and I thought I’d explain how, check out the Life On The Road page.