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So the giant with the big hot dog arrived on permanent loan in Atlanta, Illinois. And the seller, whoever he is, booked his place in heaven.

I’d already had a great time in Atlanta, then things got even better. Having broken the banjo badge I usually wear on my lapel, I went into a shop to buy a new one. It was a funky wee shop, full of esoterica and built with Route 66 travellers in mind. The owner, Gene, who was a really friendly guy, had heard I was on a bike and asked me about it.

‘Actually, I’m on a trike,’ I said.

‘Can I see it?’

I let Gene sit on the trike – because he asked me nicely – then he invited me to his home. He said I could visit any time I liked and that he’d take me up in his aeroplane. I’m very tempted to return to Atlanta just for that. We returned to his store and I bumped into a woman from York. She’d been following me around because her sister was a huge fan, and she asked for an autograph. When I’d finished writing a wee note and signing it, she thanked me, then dug something out of her bag.

‘Here’s some decent tea,’ she said, holding out four Yorkshire teabags. ‘You’ll have trouble getting a decent cup of tea as you go along Route 66.’

I don’t recall ever meeting so many nice people in such a short space of time. Atlanta was an absolute joy.

My next stop was Springfield, where Abraham Lincoln lived before going to Washington, DC as the sixteenth President of the United States. For the first time since leaving Chicago, I was back on an interstate. Riding in torrential rain, it was quite heart-stopping at times, especially when passing trucks. With the spray and the shit flying everywhere, it was tough going. And as I’ve said, I’m a poser, so I don’t believe in riding in the rain. I don’t want to be wringing out my underwear every time I stop. I’ve seen some guys who are even prepared to ride in the snow, but that’s a different trip. That’s pure sado-masochism. I like the fun of bikes. And this was no fun.

But I made it to Springfield. It was a totally crap night by the time I reached the hotel, but I told myself that something good would come of it. I’m a great believer in carrying on and not stopping just because it’s raining.

Ahead of me, less than a hundred miles down Route 66, a tornado had struck Missouri. Watching the television news in my hotel room that night, I saw a bus sitting on top of the airport building in St Louis. Outside the room, thick branches were flying past the window. I couldn’t foresee any kind of lush day hanging out in the sun, covered in suntan oil, coming up any time soon. Ever since we’d arrived in Chicago, the weather had taken a turn for the weird, but I was determined to make a go of my Route 66 trip. It will be good, I kept telling myself. It will be fun.

Travel My Way, Take the Highway

I’d stopped in Springfield to see Lincoln’s home and tomb, but to be honest I wasn’t looking forward to visiting either of them. In America, Lincoln is often portrayed as a leading opponent of slavery, but having recently read about him, I’d started to doubt how much liberty he was really willing to grant the slaves. Everyone assumes he wanted total freedom, but I wasn’t so sure. Although he was anti-slavery, I suspected he wasn’t too keen on former slaves and other black Americans having the vote. So I was in two minds about one of America’s most revered statesmen, frequently referred to as the greatest President in American history.

Going to Lincoln’s house, a charming and handsome – but still quite modest – painted-frame building in a shady residential neighbourhood with wood-plank pavements, started to change my mind. It might sound ridiculous to describe it this way, but Lincoln’s house was a really human home. He came over as a father, a man who had been a good dad to his children and a good husband to his wife, quite apart from being the President of America and leading his country through one of the bloodiest civil wars in history.

Lincoln was born in poverty to a Kentucky farming family. With illiterate parents and only a year’s formal