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Disclaimer: This is a Pre spelling/grammar cop version and is my first whack a ride report.
**************************************************** Introduction This series of three Iron Butt rides covered 10,000 miles in 16 days and consisted of the following rides:
On the three legs of this journey I encountered; dust storms, thunderstorms, intimate contact with a forest fire, and ice fog. Temperatures ranged from well over 100 F. across the desert Southwest to freezing temperatures starting in Coldfoot, AK north to Prudhoe Bay. There were hundreds of miles of 30+ mph crosswinds across MN, ND, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan. If anyone wants to think me a stud by virtue of these journeys, feel free. But any apparent courage you might assign me for a particular event was more likely just my slow recognition of a dangerous situation. Usually by the time I realized there was a danger, I was already past it. Example; Oh!, that WAS a grizzly. I had ridden from Oregon to the Arctic Circle the year before. The spirit of that ride was dampened somewhat by my riding companion’s sudden deceleration upon impacting the ground, breaking quite a few of those internal white boney things. We’ll get into that in more detail later. The start date for my Iron Butt rides was established by the Chief Joseph meet in John Day, OR. Squeezing the meet in before the Iron Butt rides made it a show the show then go sequence. Don and Debbie Weber of Mr. Ed’s Moto in Albany, OR had asked me to give a slide presentation on my 2004 ride to the Arctic Circle at the meet. Previous presentations had met with very good reviews from other groups. The working title of the presentation was “An Idiot’s Guide to the Arctic Circle.” I had ridden an 8000 mile round trip from Oregon in riding gear and on a bike that seemed to amuse nearly everyone who saw or heard of it. The Samsonite suitcase on a two by four support struck most people, especially the BMW owners as “out of mainstream gear.” I didn’t mind criticism of the luggage so much as I did for the flack received for my low cut tennis shoes that I wore for the entire journey. Granted, ankle support and protection was somewhat lacking but motel room trash bags and duct tape can make them perfectly waterproof, if not a fashion statement. Additional amusement ensued over the size ratio between the bike and rider, which often inspired a monkey/football analogy that I never could quite grasp. Well, the presentation to a rather large crowd was a hit (nobody walked out). As a last foolish act, I made a statement to this group of very much more experienced riders that I was about to attempt the three above mentioned rides. On With The Show My Usual Motorcycle Preparation Routine
B2B Insanity Ride - Vancouver. BC to Tijuana, Mexico After my good night's sleep, daylight exposed the seediness of my Vancouver, BC motel. By the looks of it, the motel had led a rough life since it's construction in the 60's. My room's door had suffered blunt impact trauma and pry bar damage outside and had numerous bumps and bruises on the inside. The condition of the door made me reflect on the stories it might tell of people trying to bust in but I could not figure out what would inspire people to beat up the door from the inside. Delirium Tremens perhaps, or just vandalism? I stepped out into the parking lot to witness a clear blue sky, and cool air on this beautiful June morning. My plans to recuperate for a full day after yesterdays ride were immediately discarded. After all, I thought yesterday's ride was only 500+ miles, no big deal. This discounting of the previous days exertion was the first indication that I was again suffering from a delusion established on my first Iron Butt ride, a BBG. That delusion consisted of considering anything fewer than 500 miles a casual outing. I thought, damn the rest day! I can do it NOW! I WILL DO IT NOW! At this point the mindset of a twenty year old was commanding the body of a 55 year old. Stay tuned. I packed up, loaded my tailpack on the bike and was off to start my ride almost 24 hours earlier than planned. I wrongly believed that all I had to do to find a witness around Vancouver was to stumble around until I saw signage indicating a cop shop or fire station. I wandered around too long and finally asked a fellow on one of the main drags (or drugs) about where to find the local police or fire station. I quickly suspected that by this fellow's appearance and pupil size that he had likely been escorted to the police station more than once. Oh well, any port on a V-Strom and his directions were accurate. Once I found the entrance and traveled the very long driveway to the rear of the police station, I intercepted an officer walking from his black and white to the employee entrance. My normal reticence to voluntarily engage an LEO was overcome by my single-minded focus on getting this f'n ride underway. RCMP Officer Dolphin (real name) initially seemed a little startled that someone was approaching him, in his territory, with the officer/citizen roles reversed. Hah! Now he was the one being asked to provided information and sign paperwork. I guess I missed my chance to tell a cop to press hard, four copies. He turned out to be a rider of a (my smile on, nodding on, listening off) Japanese cruiser of some sort. He seemed more than a little amazed and bemused at my B2B project. Little did he know that the B2B was the shortest ride on my dance card this go round. As I discovered on later rides, the direct approach of establishing an agenda for the conversation usually throws my witnesses off balance and they seem to be a bit confused but willing to cooperate with this big goofy motorcyclist. It also helped quite a bit after I altered the documentation to read, "verify" rather than "witness." I try to have the documentation filled out as much as possible so that the witness only has to verify odometer, brand, license plate, and then sign. I have without exception, even on my failed rides, mailed a thank you letter and envelope filled with some of my very unique Arctic Circle forest fire ride pictures to my witnesses. I even send thank you packs to the a-holes, if only to show them by example that not everyone behaves like them. I have established a couple of friendships this way. Who'd a thunk it? Now with the start of ride documentation signed, and after some significant road construction delays, the bike was finally fueled up and on the launch pad. The time stamp on my first gas receipt started the B2B clock. But when I was confirmed the accuracy of the information on the receipt, the time stamp was 15 minutes early! Damn! I was too eager to get rolling; my impatience precluded the thought of finding a correct time stamp. After all, I could absorb 15 minutes into the three plus hours slack in the plan. Can you see what's coming? Even though the official ride clock had just started ticking, I had been up and active for couple of hours due to lack of proper preparation. I sure could have used that wasted energy at about Stockton, CA. My route back into the US was via the Pacific Highway border station. It is much smaller then the Blaine Peace Arch and I assumed correctly, less busy. Through careful pre-trip planning, my passport remained safely at home on my kitchen table during all three Iron Butt rides in this series. In my mind’s eye, I could see the passport laying on the table. Well, I knew exactly where it was and there was no chance of losing it. Or, using it! Drat! The problem of my border crossing credentials being reduced to just my driver's license loomed over my head. Either they let me back into my own country or they don't. If they don't, a plan B will have to be devised. A cross that bridge when necessary situation. There were only a few cars ahead of me when I queued up for the border crossing. A soccer mom driving a nondescript minivan in front of me was getting a real ear full from an angry US Port of Entry officer imitating a drill sergeant. I thought, oh shit, me next, and without proper documentation. Although out of earshot, the officer's shouts at the woman were obviously getting progressively louder and finally he started waving his hands towards the inspection area. He worked himself up to the point where he did a rather good imitation of a baseball umpire's famous phrase and hand motion indicating, "Yurroutta here." The soccer mom and the furious officer disappeared off to my right. With Officer Bloodpressure otherwise occupied, the two remaining officers, who throughout this little melodrama had found very interesting things to look at on or around the tops of their shoes, waved me into the covered bay and very politely accepted my driver's license as good enough. The male of the twosome made a very cursory inspection of my tailpack and upon finding my extensive stash of energy bars asked me what they were. He said that since they were packed in so tightly he didn't want to disturb them. Whew! No inspection. OK, I'm past the border, only a couple of miles from the start and about 25 minutes behind schedule already but the good news is there are only 23 hours and 35 minutes left to worry about entering and exiting Mexico with only my driver's license. I had very carefully planned my trip to avoid busy traffic periods in the greater Seattle, Portland, Sacramento, and LA areas. About half an hour behind already. Rats! I would pay dearly. The trip through Washington and Oregon was uneventful except for a couple of gas stations that were way off on the time stamps and could not have cared less. There otta be a law! Maybe there is? I hit the dangerous "What the hell am I doing, I've only covered 500 miles so far" wall at about the Oregon California border. The weather was ideal but day turned to night, as it has done on so many occasions in the past, and my poor nutrition and hydration habits caught up with me about Stockton, CA. I pulled off the freeway and found a parking lot with a streetlight under which I could plant the bike while I leaned forward to rest on the gas tank for a while. One "while" being defined as until my stacked fists, on which my helmet rested, relaxed and my head and helmet bonked the gas tank. I wanted to rest not sleep. A few bonks later... I wasn't counting but in retrospect one bonk seemed to equal about ten minutes and I must have bonked about three times, I was ready to roll again. Until Bakersfield. Only two bonks were required there. The near dawn traffic traveling over the Grapevine was fast. Maybe a little, make that a lot faster than I wanted. My mind was entering a higher state of goofdom and I didn't need extra challenges. Traffic was flowing nicely thru LA proper but time was getting tight. I thought I was home free until I entered the Santa Ana area. Welcome to rush hour(s). Bumper to bumper and the time / distance calculations were not looking good. My 15-minute receipt error at the border, the 30 or 40 minutes at Stockton, and 20 minutes at Bakersfield were killing me. I snuck into the HOV lane occasionally but I wasn't sure about if I was legal doing it. I knew I-15 was clearly marked as "OK for Motorcycles" and maybe other freeways but I didn't see any of those signs on this HOV lane. There were few other bikes around and none of them were using the HOV. Screw it. I used the lane as much as I could. I was visualizing a whole series of $375 photo tickets. When the HOV lane disappeared, a few crotch rockets zoomed through, splitting lanes. They all seemed pretty relaxed and casual and nearly all acknowledged my presence with a wave or nod. This lane splitting thing seemed and seems insane to me. Where do you want to start on the hazards involved? But time / distance said lane split or fail. I split. I got the courage to join the insanity after a fellow on a large bike, more importantly; a bike with wide handlebars came through bumping over the lane markers. My bike fit nicely in his wake and on we went for I am guessing, about 12 or 15 miles. I am guessing because I didn't dare look at anything but the gap between the unsuspecting cage's mirrors. I swear the clearance between my mirrors and theirs was less than an inch sometimes. We were cruising along at maybe 25 mph, about 15 or 20 mph faster than the cages. Again, no time for even glancing at my gauges. My sphincter has only recently relaxed, seven months after the fact. To all you riders that regularly lane split, you are something more than me. Maybe better coordinated, or more courageous or more crazy. Claim the adjective you want. More power to you and good luck. I finally made it to my receipt destination of San Ysidro but without an open receipt source in sight. A Chevron station about a quarter mile from the border gave me the final stamp. Total time from Canada to Mexico was 23 hrs and 45 minutes. The short hop across the border and a photo of the bike in Mexico sealed the deal. Whew! The only commonalities between Tijuana drivers and San Diego drivers are that the Tijuana drivers do generally agree with the rule of driving on the right. Beyond that, all bets are off. What an education in "free for all driving." A McDonalds provided me a place for my rubbery legs to get back to full function. One full section, you know the one, on the approach to the rest rooms, was required for me to spread out the gear and myself. Two hours later, I was ready to ride back up to San Diego for a day's rest. Really, this time. 50CC - San Diego to Jacksonville, FL After successfully completing a very physically draining B2B Insanity run between Vancouver, BC... oops, correct that; from Surrey, BC to Tijuana, Mexico, I commandeered a whole section of a San Ysidro McDonalds to try to rest up. Even though I monopolized a fairly large seating area for about two hours with my helmet, riding jacket, pants and the contents of my tail pack spread out over tables and seats, no one said a word. I think this was because I have been told by several people that I simulate a very realistic "walking death" appearance after a long ride like the B2B Insanity. For example, when I approach a motel desk clerk after one of these rides, often their first reaction after focusing on me is to take a step or two back, sometimes bumping backwards into a wall. This reaction is usually followed by a lot of "Yes Sirs" with that "Please don't hurt me" look. Also, panhandlers don't ask me for money but treat me with a certain camaraderie. This kind of bothered me until I figured maybe panhandling might be a valid fall back career. It's good to have options. The only reaction that kind of gets under my skin is when a motel desk clerk calls to verify my credit card and responds to the party on the other end of the phone with the single word "Really?" As though expressing amazement that my card was accepted. Anyway, back to McDonald's. My body started to, in large part, respond to my commands and I loaded up the bike and motored back up to San Diego to spend a day or two with a friend of a friend I shall call Ray. I had never before met Ray. Ray is a very interesting fellow. Ray has a real bad temper. Ray engages in road rage. Ray considers the streets of San Diego to be his personal racetrack. Ray is very misogynistic. Ray will chase people across parking lots if they dare to cross him by say, being in the parking lot. Ray will, at the top of his lungs; cuss you out for not being where he expects you to be in a store. In just one afternoon, I had the privilege of witnessing all this behavior. And what an interesting afternoon it was. Ray might have other qualities... I've heard he has a heart of gold. With all due respect to Ray, he did allow me to spend the night at his place on only the strength of a buddy’s recommendation. He didn't have to do that and I was grateful for the place to stay and his help in driving me around town. In addition, his driving, by comparison made me feel very, very much safer when back on my bike. After a little over a day at Ray's I was, let's say, very motivated to be on the road. Oh, while getting ready to leave Ray's place, a friend of his asked about my impending 50CC attempt. After my replies about the general concept, he kind of swished the whole idea around in his head and stated, "You are f'n crazy." There was no mistaking his tone. He was dismissing me as literally crazy. There was no hint of admiration or good humor. He was stating a fact. Oh well. I left Ray's around 8 something PM. I did my usual amoeba like probing around San Diego looking for the blankity blank Police station down by the beach. I knew where it was, I saw it! But through some clever navigation ended up on the wrong side of the tracks and/or buildings. Shit! Story of my life. In the process of not getting to the police station, I stumbled across a San Diego Police K-9 Unit car in the parking lot of an animal shelter, so I parked just to the right of the car and waited for the officer to appear. I figured a city K-9 officer’s signature was just as good as any for the start documents. After just a couple of minutes, out came the officer leading a German Shepard into the parking lot. From my perspective, the dog did not respond well to my presence. You know the scene... cop straining to keep lunging canine from uncovering the tasty treat hidden deep under my neck skin, all the while yelling at the dog in German, something like, "See if you can get this guy to poop his pants." And "Good dog, Good dog!" Herr Dog Handler finally convinced the dog that there were some defenseless bunnies (wehrlose Häschen) in the back seat of the K-9 unit and the dog disappeared... for about two seconds... and now the dog was REALLY pissed because of the bunny ruse. But now the snarling fangs were a comforting four whole feet from my throat, crashing against a car window of unknown strength. My voice hadn't broken for over forty years but while I asked the quite skeptical officer to sign my documents, my voice was doing a pretty good impression of a thirteen-year-old. Thirteen-year-old male, that is. My little girl screams were all internal, but I was sure the frequency was high enough where the dog could hear them, judging by his strong salivation response. The officer signed, I left. Very glad to be on my way, with throat intact. The trip over the pass going to Arizona was uneventful until the one set of curves that always surprise me. Temperatures were quite pleasant, in the upper 70's, I think. Once down onto the desert, the temps were stinkin hot until at least 0200! At the first "Blowing dust might reduce visibility to zero" sign, the blowing dust reduced visibility to zero. This problem lasted just long enough for the thought to flash through my head that the trip might end within a few more yards. Luckily, the visibility problem did not last long enough to get my vertigo going full tilt or even long enough to bring the bike to a full stop. While getting gas at a truck stop around Yuma the wind was blowing out of the south hard enough to cause rivulets of sand to snake across the gas bay's concrete pad. While filling my tank, there was enough dust/sand in the air where I began to get concerned about excessive contamination getting into the gas tank fill hole. As I mounted up to leave, a particularly strong gust, in a flash, zipped all the blue windshield towels out of their pillar mounted dispenser and sent them to off to become more barbwire fence decorations. The rest of the night trip across Arizona and New Mexico was a blur, I am pretty sure I crossed them. No peyote induced Carlos Castaneda moments were possible and I do have fuel receipts to show I was there, so I am pretty sure I crossed both states. I had planned to arrive in Texas at daybreak to take advantage of the daylight speed limit of 75 mph. My arrival was about 40 minutes late but close enough. After a 20 minutes snooze on a bench in front of a HD dealership, the V-Strom was back on the path to glory. I have found the roads in West Texas are a delight to ride. Nice and smooth but with a tad too many LEOs. My trip through this area three months prior was on my RT riding with two other BMW riders, one on a brand new LT and the other on a RT identical to mine except painted a completely unacceptable factory color. On that ride, I garnered the nickname "Mr. 6 Over" because of my gentle refusal to not go more than six mph over the already acceptably speed limit. My riding companions and I reached a very amicable agreement that they would zoom ahead and enjoy the beautiful roads at a very elevated speed and we would meet at a predetermined motel. Well, when I reached the motel, the desk clerk, after regaining her composure, asked me if I had just got a speeding ticket? I answered no but I could bet who did. It turns out that my companions had been having a really good time roaring down the road, stopping to BS, rinse, repeat. The local grapevine over this huge area seemed quite efficient. When my companions finally reached the motel, they told me that their new friend, Texas State Police officer English, had informed them that truckers had been filling the air waves with comments about two motorcyclists (I am sure they used more colorful terms) repeatedly zooming past their big rigs. Well, Officer English being no fool, and having patrolled this stretch of highway for many years knew exactly where to nab my, what I thought would be humbled friends. After the helmets came off, the first thing out of the LT rider's mouth was a sincere thanks to the officer for the wonderful roads and stating it was well worth a ticket to have traveled through this countryside on such a beautiful day. By the time my buddies got their performance awards, I believe $145 per rider, for violations of much less than the 30 over they deserved, they knew Officer English's family's names, schools the kids attended, where they lived, what church they attended and I am sure many other details. After photos with Officer English were taken, and all of the parties joined in a roadside prayer, they parted ways with handshakes and mutual invitations to visit. Both of the offenders are gregarious, very intelligent, genuinely nice guys, and are sincere in their religious beliefs. It would almost have been worth my being there and getting my own ticket to witness this exchange. This really happened. I am not kidding. I have seen the pictures and these guys don't lie. Anyway... my memories of this area are pleasant. After my solo and very looong ride from San Diego to the Texas, Louisiana border I ran out of whatever goo or fluid that powers the little brain cogs. Winnie, Texas won my hard earned cash for a four-hour nap. I left a wake up call request for "four hours from now." My documentation was being entered in Pacific Time rather than try to keep up with time zones. Even though I was looking at the clock on the motel office wall my mind was having a hard time juggling my Pacific Time watch with the local time. All I could manage was to ask the clerk for a call four hours from now. Snooze, snooze, snooze. Wake up. Jump in the shower and ready to go. What? No wake up call. I had mistakenly got up after only three hours. Yippee, time to sack out for another 45 minutes. How sweet that extra time. Back on the road for the home stretch to Jacksonville. After dawn, I seemed to lose the ability to pay for things. While at a Minit Mart, visiting with a group of Louisiana State Police and complementing them on the improvements to the road since last March, I simply walked out of the Minute Mart without paying for my drink. Down the highway a bit I realized what I had done. Jeez, if you are going to shoplift from a Minit Mart, maybe in front of four state police officers is not the place. My crime spree continued at a Waffle House when I got distracted from paying for my meal by a conversation with other patrons. When I went outside to the bike, which by chance was parked immediately in front of the door, I realized that my meal receipt for about five bucks was in my hand. I immediately turned on my heel and reentered the Waffle House. By the look on the waitress's face you would have thought that I had pulled a major heist. Everyone looked scared when I reentered. I felt like the employees were ready to hit the big red button that summons the police. Jeez, 5 bucks. I'm back already, take a pill. They checked my five spot with a counterfeit money checking pen. Christ! Soon after, the second dusk of my trip was falling and remaining time seemed a little short. Luckily, the traffic across the top of Florida was really rolling and I made up for lost time by inserting myself into a pack of fast cars. My impression was that Jacksonville has huge city limit boundaries. I seemed to ride forever trying to get to the coast. I could have violated the spirit of the ride and stopped just inside the city limits but I wanted to see the Atlantic and finish this ride properly. I rode to within easy striking distance of the beach for my last fuel receipt. Calculating from that final fuel receipt, 48 hours 3 minutes had elapsed since my departure from San Diego. I should say my final fuel receipts, since neither of the two was completely legible but between the two all the information was available. The next morning I eventually found a firehouse and the guys were very interested in my ride and very happy to vie for signing the paperwork. Whew! Another ride completed all too quickly. Now I was in Jacksonville, just a hop, skip, and 500 mile jump from Key West. It seemed I arrived so quickly that my physical presence was far ahead of my thought process regarding whether to continue on to the final leg of the trip. Using my finely honed male logic, I concluded that there wasn't any good reason not to do the 5840 mile UCC. Next stop, Key West, then Prudhoe Bay.
Motel Hell Scene: Vacant eyed 50CC rider just completes ride to Jacksonville, FL from San Diego, CA, gets final fuel receipts, drags butt to first structure resembling a motel. ------------------ My choice of motels is unerringly bad. I have a real talent for picking ones having decent exteriors but real dumps inside. Maybe the lack of a lobby and the only office access being a slot under bulletproof glass should be a tip off. At this night's place, the clerk put me around back... way around back. I was the only occupant for the 50 rooms facing away from the street. The atmosphere back there was a little eerie but quiet. It occurred to me that this might be a set up for a mugging but the muggers would have to wake me first. After my 50CC, I think I could have slept through a SWAT invasion of my room. In the morning, even I couldn't ignore the room's numerous charms, not the least of which was a sink trap leaking half it's volume of water on the carpet. Well, at least the toilet flushed. Which reminds me, and you will be glad this memory surfaced, of a rather expensive hotel where I attempted to stay in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The room was OK except for the toilet still containing an ample selection of bodily excretions from one or more previous guests. When I brought this delicate problem to the attention of the front desk and asked them to fix it, sooner the better, all I got was a shrug of the shoulders and a "Well, every hotel is booked up, try to find someplace else if you don't like it here." I solved the problem by checking out of the hotel. My letter of complaint to the hotel chain corporate office garnered not a refund for my employer but a form letter with gushing public relations lip service about how important the customer is. This was the same PR technique that the US auto industry used to improve auto body fit and finish, during the 1970's. But my record holder for bad rooms was a motel in Glennallen, AK. The room was in one of the old worker dorms that have communal toilets and showers. The ventilation ducts are very good sound transmitters if not amplifiers and the walls truly seemed paper-thin. Thin enough that whenever the two guys in the next room would address each other, I felt like they were talking to me. No spoken secrets could be kept in this lodging. I had stayed in Spartan rooms before but this one had the deluxe "no extra charge" feature of a pool of urine in the corner. Well, what do you expect for about 90 bucks? The desk clerk supplied a perfunctory apology and gave me another room. He almost recited the apology. Made me wonder how many other of their rooms had pee in the corner.
Back to the story in Florida. Now that I was off the Iron Butt clock, I could take my time on the 500 mile run to Key West. I picked the route down the beach roads and saw some pretty ritzy digs. One of the highlights though was my first sighting of a real Cardinal. You know, the bird, all red. I mean really red. Nifty. Per usual, I got lost in the closest large city, which in this case was Miami but I was fortunate enough that my attempt to go generally south had me pass through some very nice neighborhoods and unique architecture. Later in this trip, I experienced a variation on my lost in the city scenario and completely missed Edmonton, Alberta (pop. 648,284 or 531,592 US). As far as I can tell, the city does not exist. The signs on the approach to Edmonton had progressively smaller distances to Edmonton and then all of a sudden it was 70 of those Canuckian units back to the city. My confidence in my Magellan Quest GPS decreased slightly with every muddy farm road it told me to follow.
Again, Back to the story in Florida: Key West. Not my kind of town. Too many sweaty tourists, too much kitsch, not enough room. Damn chickens everywhere too. I got the requisite Iron Butt start of ride photo, which required my pretty face and bike license plate in front of the "Southernmost point of the US" pillar. By the way, getting your motorcycle past the concrete anti-bike obstacles so you can get right next to the pillar really pisses off the cops. This while the panhandlers were pissing off the tourists. All in all, a happy place. When heading from the concrete pillar to my first fuel receipt, I noticed a very striking fellow walking towards me on the opposite side of the street with a coterie of minions in his wake. Based on some pretty strong circumstantial evidence there was little question about his sexual preference. And his preference was not mine. My preference is hetero, hetero I say. Anyway, this guy was an Adonis, a show stopper for everyone. He was decked out in what I would think to be the latest elegant fashions and jewelry. Pure and simple magazine cover material. Wait for me Mandingo! Wait for me! I can change! My girlfriend Nancy must never see the above. I am sure I can trust everyone reading this to keep mum. The UCC paperwork got signed by the boys at the fire hall and my first fuel receipt stated 13:34:46 on 6/5/05. After a mediocre (surprised?) and expensive (surprised?) meal, I was off and running. I burned up the road all the way to Marathon Key before night fell along with a deluge of rain. A grand total of 52.2 miles for the first day. Bedtime. The time limit on the ride wasn't going to be a problem and I was tired. Sweatin’ With The Oldie The previous evening, a thunderstorm forced me into a rather nice Holiday Inn on Marathon Key. Didn't get a chance to find a lousy room because the rain was really hammering down. This place was clean and nice, and with nice staff too. The dolly at the counter and her boyfriend were just the right age to be very impressed with my daring do and the Oregon license plate on my bike. I didn't disappoint. My 8 X 10" pictures of the 04' Arctic Circle trip were at the ready and found an eager audience. I am not kidding about the photos. I carry about 35 8 X 10"s and it is a rare time they are not in the lid of my tail pack. I can whip them out faster than most people can say, "No thanks, pictures hurt my teeth" or "Look, a comet, I gotta go." Once I left the Keys and hit the mainland, I dodged thunderstorms and lightning all the way to Ocala, FL. After visiting and very much enjoying Don Garlett's drag racing museum in Ocala, I started to feel a little puny. A couple of days in a semi dive cured that. After feeling better, I was on my normal pace and ground away the miles. Eight to nine hundred miles a day is a repeatable pace for me. Once I hit over nine hundred, the end of the following day gets a little tough. For this low humidity boy the climate was oppressively muggy. Even ATGATT fell by the wayside as I shed the First Gear Air pants and rode commando with just my boots, jeans, jacket, and helmet. I know some will ride with less, but not me. After almost no research I believe that I have deciphered and reconstructed into English the original Native American names for what we white men now call:
Tennessee = Humiditykindasucks Georgia = Humiditysucksalot Florida = Humiditysucksbigtime
All the states visited on my series of Iron Butt rides have had their own beauty. The states that usually get most maligned fared as well as any... but I haven't been to New Jersey yet. The only unredeemable area I have seen is in my home state of Oregon. Somewhere between Ontario and Pendleton there is a stretch of the most forsaken land anywhere. The real estate signs are so old that the printing has faded beyond legibility. Ironic eh? The only section of road that I think is unredeemable is in my own state. This was my first trip north from Florida to the border crossing at Emerson, ND. And I enjoyed all the scenery. The area around Decatur, Illinois had a particular appeal. Night riding through the cornfields of Illinois reacquainted me with fireflies. I began to wonder if my eyes were failing because these little lights kept appearing just outside of my focal area on the road at an irregular frequency. Next, I thought they were house or farm lights alternately exposed and hidden by the crops. Then finally, it dawned on me. Fireflies. Not many fireflies in Oregon. And goody, I wasn't losing my vision. St. Paul, Minnesota Coming up on St. Paul, Minnesota, the odometer on my V-Strom indicated that it was time for an oil/filter change. Before I could stop and find the location of a Suzuki dealer... Hey look! A HD dealership conveniently located just off the freeway. I bet they have motorcycle oil. Keeehrist, that place was big. Bigger than most auto dealer showrooms I have seen. Shooing away the "Door Chicks" (my most charitable term) at the entrance, I walked quite a ways across the showroom past tons of branded clothing and accessories to the parts counter. I would have needed an electric scooter to make it all the way over to the new bikes and back. I figured at least I could change out the oil if not the filter. It turned out they wanted way, make that WAY too much for HD branded oil. The parts guy assured me that their oil had special qualities setting it head and shoulders above all other oils. He couldn't tell me what any of the qualities were or if the oil had friction modifiers that might kill my clutch but he insisted that their oil was worth the price. Pass. While I waited my turn at the parts counter, a guy who by appearances would nicely fit the term yuppie, stood immediately in front of me. The fellow was wearing jeans and a new and stylish but as best I could tell, very thin leather motorcycle jacket. He was asking the parts guy about how does one go about polishing chrome. By that question it was clear to me that this fellow was just entering the motorcycling world and it was reasonably likely he had taken or been led down the chrome, leather, and loud pipes path. Welcome to the stereotype sir, how loud would you like your pipes? The above scenario struck me as a good example of certain paths in life providing prepackaged, tribal based cocoons of behavior. In the above case, conformity to a certain image is strongly encouraged if not mandatory. In other tribes, a type of loyalty by its very nature treats outsiders with a contempt born of fear and grounded in ignorance. The new rider asking about polishing chrome displayed an innocent charm. I envied his enjoyment of the start of his journey. Then I wondered how many new riders explore only one facet of motorcycling and then stop, not knowing more about other motorcycling universes. Don't get me wrong, if limited contact brings the individual joy, more power to them. But they are seeing only a narrow portion of the spectrum and apparently, that's satisfying and enough for them. Jesus, I'm profound. Especially when I have just described the limits of my own motorcycling experience. Oh well, I guess few people superglue themselves to motorcycling as a lifestyle and who knows, with help and the passage of time, even those riders could go on to lead normal lives.
Hey...
Hey...
HEY! What does a guy have to do to get another beer around here?
So, in conclusion. Never mind.
Back to the story. On my way out, the Door Chicks seemed to pout a little and I imagined they were a disappointed that I didn't take their hint to upgrade my machismo by buying this particular brand of V-Twin penis enhancer. Or, maybe they only saw an older, overweight sales commission in motorcycle boots walking away empty handed. Motorcycle dealership's calculated and cynical use of Door Chicks is an overt and crass ruse used to try to tempt males into more and larger purchases by virtue of the attention given them by young and implicitly sexually available females. Just how low will the dealerships stoop? Their obvious ploy can only work on the most insecure males straining to achieve indiscriminate contact with any available female, and if by chance the female is cornered by virtue of her job, so much the better. It is an insult to all parties to believe this is an effective tool for selling motorcycles. The only reason I would go back there is that I know that one Door Chick wants me, I just know she wants me. No Miss, any bike will do. Dinner? Canada (Can·a·da) “A large country sharing a border with the US. It is filled with nicer people, scenic vistas, and beautiful farmland. It is largely ignored by US motorists speeding their way to Alaska.” Beware of the Canadian’s dark side. They have a strong passive aggressive tendency towards US travelers. This characteristic is most evident by the Canadian’s cruel and longstanding joke of making up convoluted measuring units for distance and volume, to be used only on US citizens. Do not confront a Canadian when they claim you owe them 18 quagmires for 4 firkins of “petrol” (gasoline) or, when they tell you something is a certain number of their tiny units of distance down the road. They might turn on you and taunt you with their low crime rate and national health care system. If tempted to argue, just let it go… we’ve got the bomb. A last thought on the units of distance, pay no more than .6 mile for one of their kilometers. Be polite but firm because the next US traveler might suffer from your weakness. If a Canadian lures you in for a cup of coffee, a traumatizing moment will occur when you bite into a Tim Horton donut on the strength of the Canadian’s “friendly” assurance that the Horton donut is just as good as a Krispy Kreme. Canadians never tire of this cruel but to them, knee slappingly funny joke. I am sure they videotape and replay the look on the face of the unsuspecting rube from the south over and over. Fairbanks My entire day in Fairbanks was spent acquiring and mounting up a new pair of tires. I finally found suitable tires in my size but even using max boost on my turbo charm, the dealership didn’t have time to mount them. It took a long time to find a place that would mount them. Then, when I was removing the wheels and tires, my stock tool kit got to live out its single purpose in life. That was, to give me a cardiac stress test over the fact that it had two of some size sockets and zero of other necessary sizes and what tools were the “right size” only approximated fitting the bolt heads. But it didn’t matter if the sockets even kind of fit the bolts because all the tools had the tensile strength of cadmium plated phlegm. I had to reassemble the bike and run all over town searching for several tools, including an unusually large metric allen wrench for the front axle. Lesson learned.
If you find yourself needing tools in Fairbanks, I recommend Alaska Industrial Hardware located at 2951 Airport Way. Make it your first stop, not seventh.
The benefit of this delay was that it was raining on the road to Prudhoe Bay this day but would be drying tomorrow. Worked out just right. New tires, no dust, no mud. Fairbanks to Coldfoot, AK
The Haul Road After a run of about 80 miles from Fairbanks on a nice two lane blacktop, I reached Livengood, very close to the start of the Dalton Highway. The Dalton Highway or as referred to locally, the “haul road,” to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska spans approx. 416 miles from Livengood to Prudhoe Bay, also referred to as Deadhorse. The road consists primarily of dirt and gravel with the exception of, I guess, about 30 miles of pavement. The road is as well maintained as one could expect, given the terrain and weather conditions of the area. The surface can be extremely slippery when wet, due to the calcium chloride applied to the road, which binds the dirt particles together. The calcium chloride is also supposed to reduce dust by virtue of its moisture holding ability. Calcium chloride is also used for de-icing but I suspect not many drivers on this road depend on that quality. The base of the road contains a lot of rock. The width of the road is adequate for semi trucks to pass one another. In many areas drivers use the middle of the road until an oncoming vehicle appears. Then, the opposing vehicles move out of the center and only "lane" and put their outside tires onto the less used area of the road. Fortunately, I made my run from Coldfoot to Prudhoe starting at two o'clock in the morning ("Land of the Midnight Sun") and I met few oncoming trucks and passenger vehicles. My ride to Coldfoot was a piece of cake. No stony missiles hurled by passing trucks. No mud. No dust. Beginners luck two years in a row. Time machine back to 2004 During my motorcycle trip to the Arctic Circle in 2004, I rode many hundred miles through smoke and sometimes burning forest. Occasionally, with fire in both ditches. Never a raging inferno but the flames did give pause. That year's six million acre forest fire covered much or all of Alaska with smoke at one time or another, all depending on the wind direction. During my ride very much of the scenery was obscured by varying degrees of smoke. The only clear air I experienced started about six miles south of the Arctic Circle. There, the smoke had risen off the ground but still hovered overhead very similar to a normal cloud overcast. The filtering of sunlight through the smoke overcast provided many once in a lifetime photo opportunities. During my days of riding through the smoke of 2004's fire I felt my safety was at risk only on the few occasions when visibility dropped to near zero, my eyes watered up so I couldn't see anyway, and I ran out of breathable air in my full face helmet. Cripes, now that I have put this to paper, it was dangerous! What a stud I was. Or, complete fool. By the way, if you hadn’t noticed yet, the further north you go up towards and into Alaska, the fewer people there are to hold your hand. Forest fire? You figure it out. Cold and snow? Ditto. Critters? Same deal. The one time I requested an ambulance, I felt lucky to have ready access to the first of two radio relays reaching a larger radio with sufficient power to contact the emergency people in Stewart, BC, which is right next to Hyder, AK. About three hours elapsed from when the dust settled around my riding companion to when he made it to the hospital in Stewart with what turned out to be eight broken ribs plus bonus injuries. Oxycontin, Oxycontin, Rah, Rah, Rah. Wondering about the crash? Heavy front brake application + gravel = doctors, dollars, air ambulances, and trauma center. Re: ATGATT, not a single scrape. Anyway, I made it to the Arctic Circle on my sorely lacking bike on my sorely aching butt (ass). A dizzying feeling of accomplishment and relief was quickly replaced with a strong sense that a brand new journey was just beginning, one without any missions to accomplish and with only one appointment to keep. That appointment was to pick up my girlfriend Nancy in Wasilla and travel two up around to Glennallen, down to Valdez, and ferry across Prince William Sound to Whittier. Then, on to Anchorage where Nancy was to re-board a jet after her 300 mile ride with me. My delightful Nancy had a wonderful time in spite of the tiny pillion seat and lack of sissy bar. After she flew out of Anchorage I was left to face the long march back. I could have loaded the bike on a ferry but I rode the damn thing back to Oregon in order to one up my riding partners back in Sweet Home, OR. Nobody could say I wussed out, by golly! Leap forward to 2005 This year, about twenty miles north of the Arctic Circle a rather small tundra fire, appeared on the horizon. As I rode closer, the fire was visible down slope and upwind of the haul road. With my bike about to plunge into this year's first wall of smoke I remember setting my jaw and saying to myself, "Well... once more into the breech." Fifty or so yards into the smoke, it became as thick or thicker than the worst of last year's. Visibility quickly dropped from 30 feet down to where I could only see the occasional yellow stripe on this paved section of the haul road. Soon after, and I mean very soon after, I had to look over my left arm to see the stripes and then between my left arm and left thigh and finally, I had to squeeze my helmet as far as I could underneath my left arm to see the ground at all. At this point, my awareness of the danger kicked in and I thought in a quite detached manner, "This would be a hell of a way to die." I visualized the wind changing direction, exposing my corpse, well smoked but unsinged, laying near my undamaged bike. The bike on its side stand, lights on, still idling for additional dramatic effect. Good Suzuki ad, don't you think? Maybe with a voiceover or jingle about the bike being smarter that it’s rider. By now my road speed was down to four or five MPH. The stripes were all I could go by, and suddenly a patch of new, un-striped blacktop appeared and sabotaged my "follow the stripes guidance system" which was leading me to the other side of the smoke. Now, to add another layer of "Oh, Shit", the left side of my body became real hot, real fast. Putting two and two together, I concluded that the fire was creating a draft up and over the road and as the old saying goes where there is smoke there is fire and maybe this time a toasted motorcyclist. Now, even to my thick skull, the evidence was stacking up that although I have skated through every life threatening situation I have put myself in or has been thrust upon me, I realized that my surviving every situation was no longer to be taken for granted. This was the first time I believed there was a very real chance of not making it through. In other words, I now knew that I had no exemption from mortality.
Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
Death.
Oh.
There I was, surrounded by smoke thick as anything with flames advancing on my left and little visibility. I knew it was very bad behind me and I couldn't stay were I was, so I had to hope it got better ahead, I would be finding out very soon. So on I went, as fast as I could wobble along following the intermittent yellow stripes. How much further was it? At the time I would have said about one and a half eternities but in reality, maybe another 75 yards or so. After my emergence from the north wall of the smoke cloud, a lone rider on a BMW GS appeared coming from the other way. He noted my flashing high beams and slowed to meet me in the middle of the road. From under the bandana covering his nose and mouth he asked how bad the smoke was ahead. My statement that the conditions were REAL bad and he should wait for the smoke/fire to clear didn't seem to faze him. There might as well have been a mirror between us, with me looking at my own image responding to my own words. The image in the mirror said back to me, "Well, I'll give it a shot." And away he went. I thought to myself, "That dumb son of a bitch. I just stood here and told him how bad it was and the f'n idiot still chose to go into it. That dumb son of a bitch!" Just like me. Coldfoot to Prudhoe I was able to travel the remaining 250 miles from Coldfoot to Prudhoe in 5 hours. The day I traveled the road, the surface was absolutely infested with potholes ranging in diameter from 4" to 12". I found the potholes impossible to miss, so I laid on the throttle and blasted over them at 50 to 65 mph. Perhaps unreasonably, I felt that there was a tiny chance that at less than 65 MPH, I could have a little input into my destiny if/when something went awry. Quite an eye opening experience to say the least. It was surreal traveling at freeway speeds across the tundra with my tires just kissing the road surface between potholes. This while passing by caribou, fox, a herd of musk oxen, and other artic critters. Since the road required 100% of my attention, I saw very little but the road surface. When there is more time and money available, this area would be a delight to tour. A total of three photos were snapped on this 10,000 mile test. One at Key West, one at Prudhoe Bay and I went wild and snapped one picture on the haul road. The haul road picture wasn’t planned, yet turned out to be one of my all time favorites. The picture was taken when the controller for my heated gear failed, forcing me to stop in order to defrost my shins. I walked up the road about 50 yards, then back down the road an equal distance several times. Probably an overall distance of a half mile before my legs felt like they were no longer in cold storage. Anyway, the photo shows a front view of the bike on its side stand, headlights on. Everything is a shade of gray or black. The tundra has a frosty grey tint, the fog is gray, the bike’s front tire and fender are black along with the hand guards, mirrors and front fairing. The windshield has a translucent coating of gray ice. The only color comes from the small exposed section of the red fairing. And man, if you don’t like being alone, don’t travel this road. The sense of isolation is intense. Glorious, or scary. Your choice. I pick glorious. Upon arriving at the Arctic Ocean, my three Iron Butt rides were complete. I quickly arranged for a same day flight out for me, and for crating and freighting the bike back to the northwest via truck. Shipping the motorcycle by truck included a bit of irony because the bike will be traveling south on the haul road on the very trucks that create such a hazard for motorcycles going north. I felt no compunction to grind away the miles back to Oregon from Prudhoe. I had traveled that route the previous year and it holds no charm for me. In addition, the costs of riding back exceeded the shipping and most importantly, after the somewhat perilous ride up the haul road and having several butt puckering near misses over the miles, I felt it foolish to expose myself to additional risk for what to me were no tangible rewards. I have learned my lesson about long rides. My next ride, in May of 06’ will only be 13,000 miles in 17 days.
I hope you have enjoyed my recollections.
Garth Tomic
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LDRider is a Service Mark, owned by Joe Denton, 1996, California |