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Feelin' A Little LogyMy First Bun Burner Gold (BBG) - 1500+ miles in 24 hours Certification Pending
Ever get a musical tune or lyric in your head and can't get it out? That little phrase stayed in my head all 1500+ miles of the trip and went from humorous in the beginning, to annoying as I went through Bozeman for the second time, numbly true as I approached the Montana Idaho border at 3 a.m., and exhaustingly prophetic approaching home in the Tri-Cities, WA. Having completed my first Iron Butt Association (IBA) sanctioned Saddle Sore 1000 in September of 2004 I was up for the next challenge. To me the Bun Burner just seemed like 500 more miles attached as well as the Saddle Sore 2000 taking 2 days to complete a similar pace. How about more miles in less time? I knew enough from my Saddle Sore and talking to Dale "Warchild" Wilson that a BBG wasn't about just going a bunch faster, but more about going a little bit faster for a lot longer, and having only the luxury of jumping up down at gas stations to restore blood circulation to the legs while the gas pump spits out five more gallons of go-juice in the tank. These 10 minute gas stops your only break--every three hours or so for a solid, long, and tiring 24 hour day. I did as much as I could by preplanning in the weeks ahead to find the easiest route possible. Washington to Montana on divided 4 lane freeway may be boring, but it also offers sparsely populated stretches of smooth and straight concrete with posted limits of 75 mph on a majority. True it did have mountains there and back, but not anymore than the various 2 laners stretching away from my home city in any cardinal direction. For the Pacific Northwest this was the easy route. Montana or Bust
First I used Microsoft Streets and Trips 2005 to figure the nearest gas point just past the 750 mile mark and found the little berg of Forsyth, Montana. Never heard of it before, but it became an object of my obsession. It had several gas stations and was more than 5 blocks square, so it was a natural turnaround point with multiple gas stations. Next was to figure gas stops along the way and one thing that I found very helpful on my SS1000 was to build a spreadsheet that would fit in my tank bag. At a single glance I could tell where I should stop for gas each time and key points along the way. I upgraded it a bit to include planned arrival times, likelihood of gas being available 24x7, and scenarios of gas utilization between stops, etc. It became my crib sheet for the trip. This proved very important because I hadn't been east of Butte before and was worried a bit about finding gas conveniently in rural areas. I know it's not like slab crawling cages don't travel this I-90 clear across the U.S. every single day, but it just seemed like one variable I could reduce in trip preparation. Turns out I used it almost exclusively and barely even glanced at the map in the lower part of my map pouch. It provided things for my brain to do too. Scan spreadsheet....compare to odometer......compare all that to cyclometer......compare to GPS......divide and multiply numbers in my head to figure out how long until the end, etc. I think it's probably comparable to a pilot perpetually scanning instruments when flying. Directions weren't a problem for this trip either. 395 tees into I-90 and I've done that trip a hundred times, go east for hundreds and hundreds of miles, veer left at Billings on I-94 for a while. Turn around when you get to Bum Fuck. This is cake. So I awoke at 7 a.m. Saturday morning and showered knowing I'd be crudded up plenty in 24 hours. Better to be a little clean the first half. Ol' freshly retired Dad was at a golf tournament and rounded me up two witnesses as I rolled into the parking lot. Duded up in my riding gear I was a stark contrast to the polo shirted golfers, but a curiosity nonetheless. The young guys signed the forms cheerfully if not completely understanding of the adventure I was about to embark on. Retired life and golf agree with Dad and I departed thinking about childhood memories of his dirt bike riding and racing in "cross country" events. He probably wanted to ride too if he weren't out spending the day whacking a white ball around. Signed at 7:30 I was a bit ahead of my planned 8 a.m. departure and thought I should have some breakfast. So I ate about half an egg thing at Burger King and some OJ. Yeah, some grease, but not a ton. No luck in the poop department though from last night's dinner I'm sure I'd have to stop at an ugly time somewhere on the trip to rid myself of the Big Omelet and tuna sandwich from the night before. It's not a trivial detail. One contemplates biological function preparing for a BBG. Mile 0000, Point #1, Pasco, WA, 08:01:20 PDT The start didn't go very well because the gas station next door puked out a receipt showing the time as 7:11 a.m. and it clearly wasn't that early. Damn. I had them cross it out, but they put 8:00 a.m. which was about right (probably 7:58), but just looked too suspicious even for me. For a backup I rode across the street, crammed in 0.076 gallons of gas and got a second receipt that showed 8:01:20. This is my starting time and if this is the only hitch in the next 24 hours--I'll be very lucky. The first leg was up Highway 395 (courtesy of former Speaker of the House, Tom Foley) and I set the throttle lock 70+. You might infer that + marks tend to be 10 "Smurfs" per hour. 10 minutes in my GPS turns off and I know I charged the NiMH batteries the night before. Hmm, must be bad batteries. That's OK I have others at the next gas stop. This is all familiar road and patrolled. I'm not risking speeding too much this early on. I knew the weather might be iffy with large swaths of the PNW and Canada under varying shades of green via The Weather Channel website, but I also had been watching these forecasts all week and whenever a forecast would turn into the current view I'd check the Doppler and disappointingly found little rain. Me thinks they're being extra sourpussish to keep the hordes of weekenders undisappointed in case it does rain. Seeing through their little inconsistency I hoped they were being similarly conservative and risked this whole BBG attempt. Mile 0100, near Cheney, WA What? It's raining? It's Eastern Washington. It's doesn't rain here. Damn Weather Channel for forecasting this! How dare they get it right! It increased into a downright downpour as I proceeded past Spokane and up into the mountains east of Coeur d'Alene. No matter how much I try or trust the new Avons I'm still not comfortable in the wet on a two wheeled cycle. I intellectually know that traction is reduced and slides are predictable, but I just can't go through corners with the same gusto as dry. I just feel like the front end is going to slip out for no reason like the rain is a giant banana peel. It dried up as started down the east side of Fourth of July Pass and I found a nice set of sweepers led by a rabbit in a Jetta (pun intended). The FJR loves sweepers and I started to think optimistic thoughts about maybe that being the last rain of the trip. One of my setup choices was whether to use the stock windshield or my +4+2 CeeBailey's. I had theorized that gas consumption was a couple mpg less with the CB, but going into Montana in the rain and it only being May I risked stopping more with the increased protection the CB provides. In hindsight a good choice mainly because my mileage was better than I thought and the extra protection reduced my fatigue. With a smooth throttle hand I had been doing +5 to +10 Smurfs most of the way, but I wouldn't blast it up higher in the straights. I think a smooth throttle hand has more to do with good gas mileage than a windshield size. Gooooood throttle hand. You stay disciplined. Mile 0219, Wallace, ID, 11:04 PDT I was last in Wallace 14 years ago when I-90 was not yet complete and this was the only length of I-90 from Seattle to Chicago to still have a stop light. It's also a town that has become a bit of a tourist attraction because it had an active brothel up until 20 years ago....I think. Reserve light had come barely on at that point so I was getting about 41 mpg on that leg. Better than the 36 to 37's I'd been getting mostly commuting to and from work all winter. Cruising by Alberton, MT I reminisced about my time here 14 years ago...besides realizing I'm old to think that 14 years seems only like a few years ago. In the mountains above Petty Creek I had surveyed in college and was probably the best physical shape of my life. Wielding a chain saw, carrying 100 lbs. of steel post, axe, and other things usually left to a pack mule I had helped mark lines between Forest Service land and logging company land. 28 miles worth in 3 months I did with Stratton Surveying. Clearing $1500 in three months I thought I had the perfect job and spending money for college. Good times. The exit whizzed by and I mentally moved on to the next gas stop. I had my first encounter with a LEO between Alberton and Missoula though. Radar detector went bleep for about 1 second and I slowed her down to 75. I was only doing a couple over anyway. In the left lane sat a suspicious car moving at what seemed 65 mph or less….so I kept closing on him and passed in the right lane (stashed the detector in my bag earlier), and gave a left-handed salute to Mr. Leo. Not sure why his was in that left lane, but he didn't seem interested in me and as soon as I got from his site I wicked it back up to my usual speed. On by Missoula and I started to get hungry. Oh yeah, it is lunch time and I'm out riding. Let's see what's on the menu today. A cranberry granola bar or a cinnamon granola bar. I'll go with the berry as cinnamon is just so breakfast. Lunch on a motorcycle moving at 75+ is interesting and one should do it when there isn't traffic around. This is fine of course because there's not a lot of traffic in Montana even at lunch time. It involves setting the throttle lock, fishing through the zippered pouch on the right side (there's that pre-planning again). Opposable thumbs are great on humans, but the pouches require two sets of them….or a single set and teeth, but since my mouth is covered by a full-face helmet I move my right hand to my left clutch hand and dangle the bar over the passing road way. Rip, I have an exposed chunk of oatey goodness. Up under my chin I shove the scratchy piece of food and tear off a piece while pulling the wrapper down for my next chunk. Four minutes later lunch was done. Mile 0458, Butte, MT, 14:05 PDT By this point I'm feeling good about the ride as a whole and feel like I'm ahead of the pace from the handy-dandy spreadsheet I made. I know the night will be long, but I start thinking about the what-if's on the end. What if I can do 1600+? Not that impossible and seems likely. It's just back home plus a kicker of 50 miles. Stop! focus on the ride dummy! You're not even 1/3 done yet and thinking about the glory at the end. Your butt has been screaming at you for the last 50 miles. Get gas! Your reserve light came on at 222.2 and it's 239 now. You've never gotten this good of mileage, but get gas already! Butte is also home to the famous John's Pork Chop sandwich and Stevie Bumperhead (aka Shoe Shine Stevie), but alas I'm not going to partake this trip. What I did get to partake in is a BBG nightmare. The card reader took like 1 full minute displaying "Authorizing" as I sit there burning time. Then it beeps back the dreaded words "See Attendant". Frack!!! I'm not about to go in there--there's one person in line, so I frantically press Cancel and try my other credit card. Same thing. Double Frack!!! OK, so now the one customer is gone and I go inside. The clerk suggests another card and I restrain myself from beating him about the head and neck. Having 911 called will eat precious time so I negotiate in a groping smile, "Any other options?" He says to put my nozzle back in and choose the Pay Inside option and I'll get to come talk to this guy again. Fine. Whatever. I need gas NOW. That option worked and while it pumped away I squirted Windex (I brought my own due to my most excellent pre-planning) on my visor in multi-tasking fury. I change the batteries on the GPS I forgot on the last stop, and tighten the throttle lock screw. "Click." I hang the pump up and go back in the door cutting off a very nice looking, but obviously time unburdened lady at the door. Another clerk is there trying to literally feed a broken in half card through the reader as if it's one because he's holding the two halves together. I can see daylight through the two card halves as they slide the slot. Are the laws of physics different in Butte? What good can possibly come from trying to feed to separate halves of a credit card through a reader? It doesn't work the first, second, or tenth time so with all the patience I could possibly muster I say, "I really am in a hurry." Clerk #2 looks irritated, but lets clerk #1 run my card through. At this point it actually does go reasonably fast and as I am signing I remember my bladder is now a second voice in my head I've been previously ignoring. It says, "Pee now!" But the men's room is occupied by a guy that goes in 4 steps before I do (am I'm repaying Karma?). I listen to him through the door and I hear the distinct sound of the toilet seat banging down. Ouch. Not up, but down. This is guy code for he's taking a dump and staying a while. OK, not a problem. I'm in Butte. Dumpsters are probably unofficially recognized in the city code as alternatives to Honey Buckets .....aren't they? I don't have time to check the code, but I do go around the back and find a dumpster that has a nice flat side to pee on. Doing my impression of Jimmy Dugan in League of Their Own I impressed even myself with the volume as well as rate. If peeing had the equivalent to a BBG--I was doing it. 2 pounds lighter I get back to the bike and got quickly back up to highway speed with about a 12 minute stop in hindsight. 4 minutes of my life I'll never get back. I'm now definitely in BBG form being this rankled about 4 lousy minutes. My journey to the dark side of becoming a Long Distance Master is has started...... I had never been east of Butte before and it actually amazed me that there's a mountain pass right there at about 6,400 feet. I could even feel the horsepower down on the bike. Now that my eyeballs weren't floating I did the math and figured out I was down 22.4% on power. Still more than enough to cruise 75+ though. It also got flatter down off the pass and road became straighter through a high plain. I began to see why they call Montana the The Big Sky State. In the distance I could see mountain tops all covered with snow, foothills in the middle ground, and valley in the foreground. Overhead numerous thunderheads, billowy cumulus, and cirrus overlapped off to the horizon. The palette of Earth and sky were packed with features, colors, and density. Big Sky over a Big Land. I suddenly saw something flying at me and in the split second I realized it, I felt and heard a "KerPlunk!" on my helmet. I was beaned by something yellow. .......Well, more precisely beaned by something with yellow guts. They took up a 2 inch square chunk of my visor much like a paintball would. Processing the information I resolved a butterfly had committed hari kari on my visor and I was still 100 miles from my next gas stop. I didn't dare wipe it off as I knew that instead of just a big blob obscuring part of my vision--I'd have a bigger smearier blob obscuring half of my vision. About 2 minutes later though Mother Nature was kind to me and I caught up with one of those thunderheads. It was the proverbial drip, drip,…...pour buckets scenario. I felt like nature's dumpster. The road was covered in standing water and I started coasting down to a more respectable 60 when I realized how well the Avons were working in patches of standing water. Avons rock, let me tell you! You're wondering why I think Mother Nature was kind pissing on me? She washed all the fresh bug guts off my visor. Had it been a few minutes longer I'm sure the dried mess would have stuck worse than chili on a plate in a dishwasher. I approached Bozeman and thought about being the birthplace of Zefram Cochrane and where the Vulcans first met humans. Kirk wasn't even born then. I also thought about poor old Kelsey Grammar (Captain Bateson) caught in the temporal causality loop for 80 years in a starship named USS Bozemen. Amazing how Star Trek is an equally plausible reality to me on this trip. Am I logy yet? I also encountered some construction near Bozeman and found the one jerk in all of Montana that decided 65 mph actually meant 55 and proceeded the next 11 miles at that speed. This guy seemed scared to death of the cones on the left and resigned himself to straddling the white line on the right where sand and crap from the winter kicked up pelted me. Double jerk. Or was I expressing early stages of road rage? This is a touchy subject with me, because I'm convinced that for every road rage incident out there--there's an idiot that drove them over the edge. But, in our puritanical society we look for the bedeviled person to pin the guilt on. We don't look farther than the symptom that caused somebody else stress. Give 'em both tickets I say! Free of "The Jerk" I passed various little non-descript bergs as I moved farther east. I found myself muttering "I'm feelin' a little logy." and laughing at different ways to inflect the phrase. I thought about the character that said it and how he had played a character in Amadeus. All matters or frivolity and amusement go through one's mind around the 600 mile mark. Free association must have kicked in because I also thought simultaneously of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance thinking Pirsig's journey started from somewhere around here. I think it was Bozeman that he and his son stayed with friends. My memory of the Chautauqua is a little rusty from the book, but I admonish myself. Instead of having higher level thoughts about Greek Sophists, the Tao, or the subject of quality--I'm still dwelling on The Jerk. Maybe I'm suffering from a convenient tautology. I also thought about how the countryside and looming mountains reminded me of being 4 or so and driving off to one of Dad's motorcycle races in Northeastern Oregon and Mattawa 100. There's a whole flood of memories there of ol' Dad in his red and white leathers, staccato Husqvarna two-stroke dirt bikes that by today's standards would boat anchors, and smell of castor beans as the two-stroke mix of the day. I can still hear the "Vring!" and "Bum-bum-bah" of accelerating and decelerating dirt bikes in the countryside. Back to reality I drank on my freshly purchased 100 oz. drink pouch and sucked it to nothingness quickly. It must be pinched. I can't have drank 100 oz. already. Fix it later. Not a problem. You're cruising well Matt and the view is great. Mile 0684, Billings, MT, 17:01 PDT I have to think that I'd been pretty lucky up to this point. Only slowed down by a couple cars in the left lane and The Jerk near Bozeman. The light signals on this exit were horrible and had to wait long periods for the turn into a gas station. And the lights seemed even longer, but they also seemed louder. Louder? Damn. Forgot to put in the ear plugs. Pull over on the onramp and shove those back in. Another minute wasted. The stretch between Billings and Forsyth was about 100 miles and traffic thinned out as the road got even straighter. The median also got wider and I reasoned since gas mileage wasn't an issue this leg I could wick it up another 5 mph with the occasional blast where the road was straight and no oncoming traffic. Tooling along I looked at my Sigma and spotted 750.1 displayed. Wahoo! Even though the odometer said 760 or so I knew the Sigma was more accurate and I had reached the 1/2 way point of my journey. I still had 30 miles to the nearest gas station to get a receipt and turnaround, but this was an important point that I focused on the moment. It was also coincidentally a right hand sweeper with the oncoming traffic obscured until I see a car pop over and then start flashing his high beams at me. What is that you're trying to tell me Lassie? Cop ahead? He's fresh out of doughnuts? He's hiding in the shrubs? He's trying to nab "furinners" for revenue? It then dawns on me that my Valentine One is going nuts and I can't hear it over the wind. This guy in a brown car IS a cop. He quickly goes by and I see brake lights in the rear view mirror. Busted! So I slow down a bit and wait for him to flip a U-turn. I was probably going to fast even for this Autobahn state. So I waited patiently for the blue lights figuring he'd cross the median as soon shortly and start to unwind the distance. I wonder how much performance awards are in this state? 1 mile went by. I thought about my measured response I'd give him careful not to admit guilt, but cooperative to possibly get off. 2 miles and nothing. Me doing 75++ and him doing 90 the other way takes time to unwind. Glad I have that detector stashed. 5 miles and nothing. Still no blue lights. Is it my birthday OK, so I'm meant to maintain 75+. I'll continue this rate until Forsyth. I'm not very repentant. But, this is the freakin' middle of nowhere. I'm not going to hurt anybody but myself. I have my card in my wallet in case I splat myself absolving society of the urge to go to extreme medical measures. OK, calm down. That nanny councilmember is just a busy body and you're a free citizen. (By the way, this is my own business Eileen. If you're reading this--go away. Worry about your own shit.) Mile 0790, Forsyth, MT, 18:20 PDT Next thing I'm at Forsyth and turning off into one of those bergs that seem so similar. Main Street was full of Harleys migrating home from Sturgis, but not wanting to ride at night. Reminded me of doves migrating south for the winter. Do-rags littered the population of probably what were stockbrokers turned bad-boy for the week. I went by the bar with them pointing at me in a helmet. I imagined them saying in fake Montana accents, "A furriner on one of those BM Double-yuh things." I stereotyped and felt stereotyped at the same time. So I found the closest gas station which happened to be across the street from a café. I earned a meal stop being ahead of schedule. "No more yanky my wanky. The donger need food-uh!" It wasn't until after I got the receipt from the store clerk (receipt printer was out of paper) and I chuckled at the gas station name, "Kum & Go". Only in Montana friends. As I pulled off my sunglasses to put back on my helmet a lens popped out and onto the ground. Crap, a screw had come out of the side. Not to worry….it's late evening and I'll be able to make do without. Time to order new Ray-Bans I tell myself inspecting the chipped lens. I donned just my helmet to ride across the street. Not because I wanted to because of the law, but because I didn't want it to fall on the ground. The pink little café had made-to-order sandwiches and I practiced one of the lessons from other LD Riders. "I want a roast beef sandwich and everything on it. I'm in a hurry will be using your bathroom in the meantime." It was way more information than they wanted to know, but I figure I was a 'furriner'--better act the part. Even though this was a meal stop I was going to use it to do various tasks. I amused myself in the toilet by both ridding myself of the morning's breakfast and riding boots at the same time. Efficient if not noisy. I actually giggled figuring out how blunt and honest I should be writing this little factoid up later. After I flushed away breakfast I put on jeans I had brought from the bike as I knew it was going to be dark soon and colder. Later I'd put on my fleece and switch to winter gloves. After I came out of the bathroom I found the sandwich ready and on the table. I begin pawing through my tank bag to fix things up for the return trip. GPS batteries changed just in case. Route spreadsheet turned to page 2 and carefully put back in now that it was soggy. Damn, witness forms are soggy too and I printed that on my home inkjet. Note to self. LaserJet that stuff instead. Ziploc for that stuff and the receipts in a spring clip for my next documented ride. Figured out why my drink pouch felt empty. It was empty. No way….the end must have flopped around and drained behind me somehow in some near vacuum phenomenon. Another note to self. I reverse the course on the GPS and pre-stage some granola bars while shucking the old wrappers (yes I didn't litter on this trip) I pay the bill and snap off two shots of the bike before heading out Main Street back to I-94--my only luxury photos of the whole trip. Coming back had a different feel than going out. I'd been over the terrain once before and the sun was now completely on the wrong side. It was a little cooler and donning clothes and swapping gloves was the right choice. However the battery change was the wrong move. I had chosen another set of crapped out batteries. No GPS this leg either. The setting sun was beautiful as it was blinding and I put up right hand with throttle lock on as a make-shit visor for a stretch of western straightness. I'd have been doing the same thing even with sunglasses it was that bright. I also go by the scene of my little speed indiscretion and pleasantly note that the officer had 3 miles until he could have possibly crossed the median. Lucky me. He had given figuring the amount of gallons and dollars in gas probably exceeded any revenue or doughnut reimbursement possibilities. Only in Montana! Unwinding the miles I still was thinking about where I should go after getting back to Washington and clearly knocking out all 1500 miles easily. On through the Tri-Cities and to Yakima before turning around? I should have just enough fuel to make it if I can gas near Spokane. Or maybe I'll just go over to Ellensburg on I-90 and then back down to Tri-Cities. Never done that before, but then I've never been searching for a reason to rack up miles. Seems now it's a choice of whether the ride is 1600+ or hopefully 1700+ I also find it's time for an after dinner mint. On my bike prep. I got this wild idea that I should do something with my extra shelf space left of my radar detector, but no gadget belongs there, so I velcroed an Altoid tin of spearmint. Amazingly at speed on smooth freeway I can pop the lid, no mints fly out, and I can sort of pincer one of the curiously strong mints into my gloved hand and feed it up my helmet with a crab-like movement. The tin looks completely out of place on the tecnho FJR, but function beats form in this case. Altoids break up the monotony of the miles and become another positive lesson learned on this BBG. Mile 1010, Livingston, MT 21:42 PDT It's officially dark now--especially that I'm using Pacific time for this story. Locally it's approaching 11 p.m. I feel very good and clean off bug guts from the driving lights that I'm hoping to get to use more as night wears on. I know traffic will dwindle and the deer will come out. It's also this point that I realize that bicycle shorts are one of my better choices. No monkey butt. None whatsoever. Being a briefs guy I would be seriously red and irritated by now. Other than general discomfort of sitting on a stock seat with an Airhawk cushion--my butt has not transmuted into the element Fe. The next leg goes pretty smoothly other than than I encounter The Jerk's Brother near Bozeman. To make matters worse the westbound traffic is actually moved over across the median to the oncoming traffic and that transition of asphalt has a 45 mph speed limit sign. The Jerk's Brother fixates on this sign and does exactly 45 mph even though a 65 mph sign appears a hundred yards later. Great. 11 miles of this and I'm five vehicles back and he can't get the full intensity of hate beams and stink eye. And, the highway department didn't remind him about this for about 6 of those miles. And even when they remind him--he must have thought the sign didn't apply to him and remains steadfastly at 45 hugging the right fog line. Was he worried his brother was oncoming and going to clip him? The oncoming traffic was all doing 70….so his brother couldn't possibly be around. Right after it opens back up I figure I'm going to have to do something totally road rage worthy, but he ducks off the first exit after the work zone nary to be scorned by the 27 cars and semis he's stacked up behind. Ignorance must be bliss. He and his brother must need to meet at the bar to devise future plans of traffic protest. I shook it off. Clear of bad karma again I note the wonderful part about this leg though was that oncoming traffic really lightened up and I began to appreciate how wonderful my Hella FF50 driving lights were. For $40 these things rock!I know they'll never be the PHID flamethrowers Warchild has, but then they're 1/15 the price. Good bang for my buck and welcome lumens to the light challenged part of darkest Montana. On the horizon I thought I could still see daylight to the northwest, but this is May and the Summer solstice is still a month away. Could the glow of the sun barely going over the horizon be visible this early. Or could it be the 1/2 moon glaring in the atmosphere seeming extra bright against the inky blackness of Montana? Or could it be the Northern Lights playing tricks on my tiring brain? Regardless the stray light beams were welcome because in my perpetual march west the welcome light source illuminated the cloud masses from behind. I could piece together a mosaic of meteorology across the region. Some weather cells I'd catch the edges of and feel the temperature change, others I'd miss completely, and some I'd hit head on and catch a few minutes of quick hard rain. I've always marveled at how much more connected to meteorology one is on a motorcycle compared to riding in a car. Tonight that sense was heightened. Mile 1244, Missoula, MT 01:04 PDT I have been to Missoula twice in my life--both as weekend visits from the surveying job in the mountains near Alberton. It reminds me a bit of Cheney--being a college town in the same sports conference. Of course, I wasn't there to partake in anything Grizzly and chose a typical little all-night mini-mart for gas and protein. I chose an absolutely heinous meat stick and cheese thing that I threw out after the first bite, but the BBQ peanuts were scrumptious. Only weird thing was that as I opened them I spilled them all over the place like my hands were somebody else's. They were tired for sure, but the clumsiness felt more like mental fatigue. I was in that in-between state where I was able to focus on tasks and felt very aware of my surrounding, but my perception of the world was only as far as the fluorescent lights cast their buzzing beam. I could also easily picture my home in my mind's eye with the soft sheets and warm comforter. It's the intervening 300 miles that were black and lacking detail to me. Time to press on. Gotta slog through it. I got back on the bike and proceeded on down the road and started back into the mountains. About 100 miles in I really was having trouble maintaining speed and judging corners. I was pointing and shooting more than I was carving turns. This was a sign of fatigue and I knew it. I read about it in many other rider's trip reports. My inner voice squeaked out in a hoarse, but insistent voice, "Pull over at that rest stop, NOW!" Very used to Washington State rest stops I figured Montana rest stops would be more Spartan and less elegant, but was completely surprised by an architecturally interesting and warm interior with a dozen or so private mini bathrooms each with real sinks and mirrors. And in the foyer I noticed the wide benches looked really inviting. I had heard stories of road-weary Ironbutters sleeping at "Ironbutt Hotel". Hmmm. I went back out to my bike and took off the tank bag, expensive bits, and came back in. I set my brand new Screamin' Meanie to 00:30 which should be 20 minutes if I read the Chinese translated instructions correctly and it would warn me at 10 minutes. I also knew this thing is advertised as being able to "wake the dead". I then laid down on the bench using my seat cushion and gloves as a pillow and layed my cavalla over my eyes. I didn't really think I would sleep because of how hard the bench was and how jazzed up I felt......but at least I'd rest my eyes. BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRAAAAAP! There isn't a font bold enough, font big enough, or style scary enough on the Internet to describe the 139 decibel volume setting......even through ear plugs. Basically, you sit bolt upright like a cartoon character with a gong rung next to his ear. But, the alarm clock had clearly malfunctioned. I was only laying there 5 seconds. I got up to see why the thing was screaming and the counter said 00:10. Things aren't adding up? Somehow I didn't feel quite as exhausted as I had 5 seconds ago. I checked my cell phone and it was over 20 minutes from the time I had gotten there…..I think. Wow. I get it now. Everybody sleeps well at the Ironbutt Hotel after 19 hours of straight motorcycling. I packed up and was back on the road surprisingly fast chuckling to myself that I was one step closer down that slippery slope of being a true LD Rider. It was a new me and able to negotiate the turns. I scooted on by Wallace, flew by Mullan, ID and thought of the film with Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman only to later figure out I should have been thinking of the animated film by Disney and it was still only had one "l". One has to be a bit of a movie buff in my writings. Keep up! Back over the pass I had my first appearance of forest rats. I've installed double deer whistles of the Warchild recommended "State Farm" variety under each driving light. But it disturbs me that as they're doing their ultrasonic thing a doe stands by the side completely motionless. She should be scurrying off into the underbrush trying to put her dainty little hooves over her ears screaming in whatever sound deer make. I even want these whistles to make dear heads to explode like Scanners. Damn! I must have accidentally bought the kangaroo whistles by mistake. Maybe I should install the Screamin' Meanie on my fairing instead….. The passing may have been uneventful, but the time it took is what disturbed me--or more precisely the lack of time. It went something like this: Riding around corner, see deer, process deer as standing there, simultaneously pass deer and let off throttle, realize I could not have stopped in time, but maybe I could have swerved if deer was in front of me and not on side of road, deer is now behind me, back on throttle, creepy feeling ensues. Saw another deer a few minutes later, but this one was in the form of a conical red stain that started about the middle of the road and extended 50 feet down range towards the median. It culminated in a pile of deer chunks that looked weirdly like an smoldering campfire. I don't know if it was me hallucinating the glowing red embers (flesh) or the smoke (steaming fresh flesh) coming off it. But I bet that semi driver that hit it a few minutes ago said some expletives as he ruined his bumper. And then I descended from the mountains into foggy Coeur d'Alene happy that the biological threat was over and now I was just dealing with meteorological issues. I knew the curvy stuff was over and I'd be in warm Eastern Washington shortly. I pop in another Altoid and ponder my next gas stop on the far side of Spokane. As I started getting into the city the rain started to pickup and I dropped my speed to 65 and raised the windshield to the highest level. Insulated in my protective pocket the wind roar lessened and I could hear the steady "ghgggggggg" of the FJR loping along at 3700 RPM. An absolutely magnificent and flawless bike I realized. It has never ever once been the weak link in my journey. It quickly has become my favorite bike of all time. She truly has a Heart of Gold and I name her thee. The yellow hue of the high pressure sodium lights cast eerie half shadows of my bike on the pavement, and the diffused light reflected off the low clouds in monochromatic yellow. I quickly feel not of this world and notice the colors are washed out in the city. I remember instantly more movie quotes and mutter one to myself, "Noodles. I had noodles there. Good noodles." as Neo freshly unplugged from the Matrix went back in knowing the world around him was artificial. A serious mind fuck. Spokane continued to slumber in the early morning oblivious to my journey. I passed by South Hill remembering a former life I had in Spokane with a girl. A great woman. I had chosen the blue pill willingly a year ago for many reasons I still think are the right ones, but I still feel melancholy coming back through. Spokane retreated in the rear view mirrors and I started thinking about my final stage. I was fading fast and knew it. My spirit was there, but body and mind were rebelling. The effects of the nap were dwindling, the previous 1400 miles meant nothing and this last 100+ miles is where the real ride begins. Mile 1425, Just West of Spokane I stopped at a Flying J I had stopped many other cage times and started my routine of gassing, cleaning visor, and walking around a few minutes. It was routine, unmemorable, and quick. Back out on the road I started to notice my first glimpses of morning light to the east and set my sights on Ritzville. Veering lazily to the left on 395 I noticed fatigue was back and I was doing the eyelid droop and body jerk routine. In hindsight I suppose I should have laid down in a wheat field or something, but I didn't. I pushed on. Easy road with no traffic. I genuinely wondered if I'd ride any farther than the Tri-Cities. I was going to make the 1500 miles in plenty of time with over an hour to spare, but I felt like if I tried to go any farther I'd risk falling asleep. I even pondered going home quickly and taking a 20 minute power nap, but remembering strong advice I had read from IBR finishers or maybe in the Archive of Wisdom I wasn't sure. Never go home in the middle of a ride…..you'll never get up again. So, I nixed the idea because I didn't want to risk the more important goal of BBG certification. On barren stretches I knew cops wouldn't hide so I'd blast forward knowing the change of pace would help me keep focused and possibly get me to bed 15 seconds earlier at the end. I blurted out, "I'm feeling a little logy." and got no response from myself. I muttered it again, "I SAID…..I'm feeling a little logy!" Still no mental response. The words seemed distant and without meaning being uttered for the bajillionth time. I was, in fact, now logy. This was proof. But, what the hell does logy mean? I wonder if it's in the dictionary. Whatever. You're now having pointless conversations with yourself. Great. Get you in a room with your fellow LDR riders and we can now have a group therapy session. Fortunately the a bigger problem surfaced. My forehead itches. It's itched now for past 100 miles, but is getting excruciatingly annoying. I've had a helmet on my head for 22 hours how and that hair on my forehead is full of sweat and moving the helmet back and forth provides relief for exactly 0.5 seconds. Who would have thought an itchy forehead would be my last big memory of a BBG? By the time I got to the Tri-Cities I had decided. knew I was going to find the nearest gas station to witnesses and call 1500+ good. No glory of 1700+ or even 1600+. I'm going to get my original goal and call it good. Now who to wake up at 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday? I think I should wake up my attorney. Seems poetic somehow--and he's a good sport. Karen is probably already up and will intercept the phone anyway. They live in the far side of the Tri-Cities so I chose a gas station down the street from them. Mile 1588, Richland, 06:40:42 PDT I gassed up quickly to put an end to the running clock. The clicking of the pump handle into its metal receiver followed by beeping of the thermal receipt freshly made available, and the ceremonial tear of the receipt out of its little hole seemed anticlimactic somehow. I had done something that only about 1500 people in the world have done and the early morning light I only saw a scruffy, helmet clad idiot in the mirror. But, fatigue is a funny thing. I'm sure after I had slept for a few days straight it would all make more sense. I did jot down a bunch of numbers and ran some quick calculations on my cell phone calculator. 06:40:42 minus 08:01:20 from the previous day. That put me at 22 hours 39 minutes and 22 seconds. Basically, an hour and 20 minutes to spare. My trip meter read 1588.4 miles, but is optimistic. Since I had calibrated my Sigma with GPS several days earlier I feel more confident in it's reading of 1566.2 and hope the IBA will take this figure. Microsoft Street and Trips calls it 1563.9 miles. That's fine too as all of these numbers are well over the 1500 minimum. Averaged out including stops that comes to an average speed of 69.15 mph. Take out estimated time on gas and rest stops and I think the average was about 76 mph. Pretty danged good. Better than I had expected for sure. I motored over to my attorney's house and accidentally honked the man-horns as I took a sharp left hand in their driveway. The dog came out hyper and usually runs right to me, but either it didn't quite like the Cordura and Gore-tex hulking shape, I didn't smell right, an/or sensed I was not of their dimension. She barked instead like I was a wringwraith. My friends Ken and Karen just chuckled at the spectacle before them. The dirt streaks and bug splats layered on my bike just added effect. They completely giggled about the Altoid tin which I found completely unamusing in my fatigued state, but let it pass. I withdrew the witness forms which were more like wet papyrus pulp than paper at this point, but an ink pen still wrote on the surface. So they dutifully signed away after seeing my odometer and license plate. Great witnesses I thought. I kept it short because I had an appointment with my bed, and I motored off without fuss. Home As I pulled into my neighborhood I spotted a red pickup behind me and knew it was my Dad making sure I was back alive and well. He followed me into the garage and laughed himself silly as he saw my aching mass of a body ooze off the bike. Making bloodshot eye contact with him he laughed again deeply and smiled shaking his head. He had ridden Husqvarnas in the 70's cross-country through forest and desert competitively and I'm sure totally understood why somebody would purposely plant themselves on a motorcycle and ride for 22+ hours straight. We had a connection. But he also laughed about the out-of-place Altoid box velcroed securely to the dash. I said I'd explain when I wrote it up for the website. Does it make more sense now Dad? Because I also dedicate this ride to you. You were there with me perched on my shoulder--in your leathers, Husqvarna, and old gray Bell helmet. And Virgil was on the other shoulder muttering "You're feelin' a little logy." I went to bed and slept deeply all day and night Sunday. It was my day of rest. Epilogue It's a month later and I'm headed down to compete in the Utah 1088. It's weird but before the BBG I was a little nervous about 1141 miles in 24 hours as I had only done 1020. Now that I've done 1500+ in 24 hours the miles part of the rally equation isn't a concern anymore. I also convinced myself that barring disliking the format of competitive rally riding that I would at least apply for the 2007 Iron Butt Rally. If drawn I think I'd go for it. Amazing how one's perspective of the world changes when you're unplugged from a cage, get such a great bike as the FJR1300, and your view of North America changes from that of a continent to one of your backyard playground. |
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. 2004 - present.
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