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The first thing I saw as I approached Mario De Alba’s garage was a customised Harley-Davidson. It was breathtakingly impressive. As well as boasting every imaginable accessory – including knuckle-duster brakes and a skeleton side rest – it had a wonderful engraving of Benjamin Franklin on the engine block. The seat was covered in stingray leather, which was beautiful but not really to my taste. I usually prefer bikes that are stripped down rather than tarted up, but I couldn’t deny that Mario had done a fantastic job.

The De Albas are a close-knit family, with Mario working alongside his three sons in the garage. They have real respect for each other’s talents, and all three brothers are deeply grateful to their father for everything he’s taught them. One of them – who specialises in bodywork – pointed out the artistry of his brother’s paint jobs. In return, the second brother told me that the bodywork was really amazing.

‘My brother’s a genius,’ he said, while his sibling stood just three feet away.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ the other brother said modestly.

It was a joy to see such love and pride within a family, especially as it was justified. They were just as talented as their siblings said they were. It was the attention to detail that really impressed me. They showed me an old Cadillac that was nice enough in itself, but then they lifted the bonnet. Holy moly! The firewall, between the engine and the passenger compartment – which in most cars is an oily, dirty, rusting plate of steel – had been high-gloss sprayed and lacquered. When I saw that, I thought: These guys really know what they’re doing.

We went outside, where a four-wheel drive pick-up sat high above its own wheels, like a giant Tonka toy. It was amazing, but I was even more impressed by Mario’s 1936 Chevrolet. A total dream car, it had red metal flake paint and an intricate pattern on the roof. Even the sun visor had been hand-painted in pinstripes. It was by far the best car I’d ever seen, which seemed fitting, as I was nearing the end of the longest road trip of my life. Inside, it was decked out like a high-class brothel, with red velvet overstuffed seats.

Mario was obviously immensely proud of it, yet he became very shy and matter of fact when I asked him about it. Standing in his overalls, he just shrugged when I praised his beautiful Chevy. Then he pulled out a photograph of a burned-out wreck and told me it was a picture of the car before he’d started to work on it. In total, the job had taken him nine years. Now it looked like a piece of fine jewellery. The paint job was so good that I had to stifle an urge to lick it.

‘Show him how the hydraulics work,’ one of the brothers said to Mario, before going round the back of the car and opening the boot. Inside were some huge cylinders, each about the size of a fire extinguisher, but highly chromed and beautifully engraved.

Climbing into the car, Mario pushed some buttons that made the Chevy go up and down, enjoying himself immensely as the car bounced around. Whenever he took it out on the open road, he would raise it up to drive, but then drop it down whenever he came to a stop. Sitting as close to the ground as possible is a big deal in low-rider circles.

On the way to the garage, I’d worried about what I might say to a group of guys who built low riders. I thought they’d just waffle on about carburettors and pistons, which I would have found stultifying boring. Nothing could have been further from the truth. They were charming people who loved what they did, and loved and respected their family. Like so many of my good experiences along Route 66, I’d stumbled across an unexpected delight in the most unlikely of places.

As I was leaving, I thanked them for a great day, then said that I thought customising cars and bikes was like an obsession for their family. ‘There’s no cure for you – you realise that?’ I said. ‘You’re stuck with this for ever.’

‘Yes,’ said Mario. ‘And I’ll love to do it until I die.