It was a very hot day when I set out and the sun was high in the heavens. I rode west on 'I.10' and followed the big freeway through Tucson and then north through Phoenix. I was riding though the Saguaro desert for the last time. The giant cacti with their curved arms flashed by as I rode the four lane freeway. Last minute shopping had delayed my departure and so I hurried to make up lost time. At Phoenix I stayed in the same motel that I had stayed at previously on my journey north two weeks earlier. The next day I was up early and following 'I10' out of Phoenix. This time the big freeway took me due west towards the Californian border. Once again it was a hot sunny day and I was riding through desert. Eventually I turned off the freeway and headed north on 'N95' until I reached the Colorado River. This marks the eastern border of California with Arizona as it winds its way down from the Grand Canyon in the north. I followed the east bank of the great river northward to Lake Havasau City. In 1982, Lake Havasau City was only just over ten years old. It owed its existence to one structure alone, London Bridge. The bridge was purchased by the McCulloch Corp. in 1968. It was dismantled in London and rebuilt in the desert and then part of the Colorado diverted under it. The area became a popular tourist resort, with camping, boating and swimming being the most prominent. Although the bridge was only built in England in 1831, it became quite a hit with Americans who have no old buildings of their own. But it looked so clean and out of place there against the desert background that I could not help thing of the confusion it might bring to archaeologists of future centuries trying to piece together our civilisation. I parked the bike and went to investigate. The Americans had built a "mini London" next to the bridge. "Little London" as it was called contained one London Taxi, one London bus (used as an ice cream kiosk), one red pillar-box, one London Pub and countless souvenir shops. The bridge was built three feet too short so that you could buy souvenir models of London Bridge made from genuine London Bridge stone. I walked around the area in wonder. It did not take long. Then I climbed back aboard the bike and rode across the bridge to the island created by the diversion of the river. There I found a campsite and was told that, as I was riding a noisy motorbike, I was only allowed to camp in the "primitive area" which had no water supply. The girl ranger was very apologetic. However, I was allowed to use the washing facilities in the posh area which was only five hundred yards away. It was only three dollars and for only one night, so I paid up and pitched my tent hurriedly as it looked like it was about to rain. When I finished it was pitch dark. I walked back across the bridge to sample the food at the "City of London" area. Halfway across a thunder storm broke and I was caught in a terrific downpour. I could not believe it. Here I was on London bridge in the middle of the desert and I get caught in the rain. I felt someone up there was playing a trick on me. I reached the pub and warmed myself up with a English fish and chips. The only English beer they had was bottled Guinness and Watney's Pale. I spent the evening playing darts with a travelling tool salesman from Phoenix. He told me that darts was becoming very popular in America and he admired the British players. His particular hero was Leighton Rees. He was very proficient and beat me every game we played. We were thrown out at midnight. Fortunately it had stopped raining and I made my way back across the bridge to my tent, which to my surprise was still standing and still dry. The next morning I packed hurriedly as it looked like it was going to thunder again, However, the bike failed to start. The battery, that I had been told in Sierra Vista was okay, had failed again. I tied to bump-start it but only succeeded in pushing it off the dirt road into the desert where it overturned in a ditch. Some of the "boys" from the campsite helped me haul it out. While I waited for help one old timer explained to me the perils of motorcycling in America. Apparently after a disagreement with a car driver, the driver had shot him through the car door with a magnum 44 and then driven off leaving him lying bleeding on the road. He pulled up his shirt and showed me his scar to prove it. It was certainly horrible but I was not sure I believed him and, anyway, I had other things to worry about at that moment. I managed to start the bike with the aid of borrowed jump leads. Then I rode across the bridge following directions to the nearest motorcycle shop. There I explained my problem. I did not know whether it was due to a dud battery or some other electrical fault. I was told to push it around the back and they would have a look at it but they promised me nothing as they were very busy. Round the back I found two mechanics working on massive 1000cc Honda Goldwings. The machines were incredible. The front fairings were fitted with stereo speakers and CB radio. I found myself looking for the cigar lighter and wondering what sort of people would ride these monstrosities. I was told to come back in an hour and wandered off to a nearby restaurant, wondering if I was going to spend the next few days here. To cheer myself up I ordered a massive breakfast and then walked slowly back fearing the worst. To my delight I arrived to be told that it was indeed the battery and a new battery had already been fitted. The old culprit was held up for my inspection and its defects pointed out. One of the mechanics asked me if I had ever heard of a British singer called Kate Bush. An English friend had sent him her fist LP. Apparently she was unheard of in Arizona which I found rather surprising as I had thought that, in the land where Country and Western was king, all that high pitch wailing would have gone down well. The battery cost me forty dollars but it was worth it as the bike roared into life as soon as I touched the self starter. Soon I was on the road again. I followed the Colorado north and then crossed the river into Nevada. Once again I was in desert, the Nevada desert, and I followed 'Route 98' north to Las Vegas.