It had been so late when I arrived in Globe and I had been so tired that, rather than look for the cheapest accommodation, I booked in what was a fairly plush motel. I had a hot shower and read the printed literature in my room which invited me for a free drink in the motel bar. I hurried to reception to asked for whereabouts of said bar. However, today was an election day and state senators were being elected, as a result the elderly lady behind the bar told me that all bars were closed by law. She looked at me disapprovingly and told me that if I really had to have a drink the bar down the road would probably be open when the polls closed at eight. I thanked her but instead went to the restaurant for a meal and then returned to my room. The deluxe television set seemed to have about ten channels (in the UK at that time we had only three), all ten appeared to be covering the election. It was just as well that I was very tired and I soon fell asleep. The next day I had again trouble starting the bike. After "bump-starting" it, I rode south-east out of Globe, realising that I was almost out of petrol but not wanting to stop until the engine was warm in case it failed to restart. After a few miles there were no petrol stations or any signs of civilisation. Rather than return to Globe I elected to detour a few miles north to San Carlos. This is the site of one of the most famous Indian reservations. From here Geromino and his band made their famous "breakout" in 1885 and fled south to Mexico persuade all the way by the US Cavalry. I arrived there and found a small petrol station in one of the side roads. The Indians did not seem to live in wigwams or hogans anymore. Here, the main accommodation seemed to be prefabricated bungalows. Instead of horses they rode pickup trucks. Occasionally as I travelled the Indian reservations, I would come across pickups with whole families strung across the wide front seat in the cab, gazing intently ahead as they drove by. I found myself fantasising that I would come across a ridge lined with pickup trucks, daubed with war-paint, waiting to rush down on me in attack. However, all the Indians I met seemed very friendly. I filled up with petrol and continued my way south-east on 'R.70'. I hurried on knowing that I was leaving the bitterly cold mountains in the north far behind and soon I would be entering the deserts in the south where I had been sweltering in the heat only ten days before. As I travelled the sky was over cast. It was certainly warmer than the day before but it was still too cool enough for me to keep my jacket on. Suddenly, I became aware of white toped crops in the fields either side of the road and, to my surprise, I realised this was cotton. Fluffy balls of cotton blew across the road in front of me and I saw a combine busy harvesting it in one of the fields. I entered the Town of Pima and to confirm my discovery a sign read, "Welcome to Pima and its Famous Cotton." I was later to find out that this was a different cotton to that of the south-eastern states. I passed through Pima and turned south on to 'R.666' which turned into 'Interstate 10', the main Freeway which runs east through New Mexico and west to California. I turned west. My destination was Philippa and Mike's home in Sierra Vista which I had left only two weeks earlier. It was still not quite mid-day and I did not want to arrive too early in case no one was at home so I resolves to make a detour to visit the "Cochise Stronghold". This is nearby in the Dragoon Mountains and was important in the Indian wars. The famous chief, Cochise, is said to be buried there in a secret grave. I rode up a dirt track to the rocky pine covered mountains which had provided the Indians with a natural fortress. It was now a picnic area. No trace of the warlike Apaches remain, for when the wars were finally ended they were removed to reservations in the north. I rode on to Sierra Vista and arrived in time for tea. I spent the next few days recovering from the long trip north. I recharged my battery with my brother-in-laws charger and took it to a motorcycle shop to be checked out. There I was told that the battery seemed to be all right and was holding its charge. A new battery would cost forty dollars. I checked the bike over for loose connections and possible short circuits but could find nothing. Just in case there was a short circuit I missed, I decided to disconnect the battery if I thought I was going to stop anywhere for longer than an hour. This I reasoned would prevent any short circuit I may have missed from draining the battery while the bike was not in use and would suffice until I returned to California. Apart from having leaked some oil and needing a good clean, the bike seemed in remarkably good nick and behaved itself properly during my second stay at Sierra Vista. During that time I visited Old Tucson with my sister and her husband. Old Tucson lies just outside the city of Tucson. It not a in fact a town itself but a permanent western movie location. We paid a vast some of money to gain entrance for the day and found streets containing saloons, jails, railway stations, livery stables - in fact practically every example of building found in cowboy films. Every famous western star from John Wayne to Clint Eastwood has filmed here at some time or other. Various well known television series have also been made here. While we were there, filming was in progress for a television series so we were unable to visit the sound studios. However, we were treated to yet another set of gunfight re-enactments in the main street. But, unlike those I had seen earlier in Tombstone, these were performed by real actors. To prove this they mimed to corny dialogue played to us from hidden loudspeakers and the baddies died spectacularly when "shot down" in the street or from the roofs of mock buildings. Soon it became time for me to bid good-bye to Sierra Vista for the last time. Once more I loaded my baggage on the back of the motorcycle. I had been told that while I had been north, a cold spell had passed through Arizona which accounted for the freezing conditions I had experienced. Even in the south it had been cool. But now the temperature was back in the eighties, I bade my farewells and set off in the blazing sun. This time I was bound for Nevada, California and eventually Woking, England.