Saddle Sore 1000

IBA Certification Received 11/27/04

#20850

The Seed

I guess it started sometime earlier this year talking with a work colleague about what "Iron Butt" meant on the license plate of his sport touring motorcycle and the notion of The Cannonball Run came to mind.  Ride a whole long ways stopping as little as possible in a rally.  And the amount of gadgets he had on the bike was impressive from a geek perspective.  The closest thing I had done to true touring was years ago on a 600 Ninja to Mt. St. Helens one weekend, but after hearing the stories of Dale driving 650 miles to Salt Lake City so that he could then drive 1088+ miles and then drive 650 miles back home just added to the intrigue.

I also read through the various forums, ride reports, and websites including Iron Butt, FJR1300 Owner's Association, Sport-Touring.net, and FJRTech.com.

So, I got bit by the FJR bug and combed the tri-state area for an unclaimed '05 with ABS.  Westside of Spokane hooked me up and I began breaking in the bike.  I knew my first real order of business would be attempting a Saddle Sore 1000.

The Prelude

One of the more curious things that happens when you consider attempting riding a Saddle Sore 1000 is the confused looks you get from most friends and family who are not in-the-know. It's the same sort of look they give you when you tell them about jumping out of an airplane, getting a cool new GPS unit, or explaining why I'm going to Burning Man. I'm one of those that has the "Experience Life and Do Stuff" gene.

I'm from Tri-Cities, Washington. That's Pasco, Kennewick, and Richland of which all add up to about 150,000 people. It's in the SE corner of the state where tourists are surprised when they find there is no forest and wonder how we escaped the "Evergreen State" motto without somebody raising a fuss. It is, however, a great cross roads in the region with many great roads leading to and fro. It's a great launch point for 1,000+ mile trips with choices of going south through the remote sagebrush of Eastern Oregon towards and Euclidian flats and straights of desolate Nevada, or the lush mountainous vistas of the Rockies to the east in Idaho in Montana, or north through the ancient coulees of eastern Washington and steep mountains of British Columbia, or even to the west into Western Washington suburbia and rain-drenched greens of the Cascades and Olympics.

The Trip Plan

I'm a newbie who has dove in head first and followed work colleague and IB icon Warchild south to one of his favorite diners.  Alturas, California is a sleepy little town in the Northeastern, California and I had actually been there once before on a trip to Burning Man in 1998. I remembered the vast stretches of straight road that my speed limited Chevy groaned at in frustration. I relished the thought of returning on my new 2005 FJR 1300 and planned for weeks.

My paper planning was sans new bike, so when I got my bike 10 days earlier I was chomping a the bit to do this trip. My street bike experience was very much local with a smattering of area rides. I can count on one hand the number of trips I'd taken over 100 miles and my longest trip with my 10 day old FJR was 170 miles to see my girlfriend in Spokane. Would enthusiasm and paper planning compensate for my lack of road miles.

Well, in my case, I had a very good first run all things considered.

 

I also carried a half gallon of spare gas in aluminum bottles....just in case. This is leftover from my 2.3 gallon Honda Shadow that needed gas after 100 miles. There's a lot more margin of safety with 6.6 of the FJR and 250 mile'ish range, but in the expanses of Eastern Oregon it was nice to have another 20 miles of reserve to the reserve.

Air sources and tire repair. Not that I've ever repaired a motorcycle tire, but Warchild and various LDR web posts insisted the importance of being able to air up tires. I made my trek to Wal-Mart and bought the Campbell-New? for $9.56, gutted it, and conveniently stored it under my passenger seat. In addition I had bought the Progressive TRK-2 kit and had 8 CO2 canisters. And an air pressure gauge.

The Ride

5:15 a.m., September 11:

Get a good night's rest the two nights before a ride is the sagely advise from the Archive of Wisdom I tried, but failed to accomplish.   Mind you I wasn't tired riding, but I only got 6 or 7 hours sleep each of the two previous nights.  I was headed for 8 hours the night before, but woke up early and just couldn't go back to sleep...so I got up and left early. Eating a PB&J sandwich and water for breakfast I then called up my Dad--my witness at the start. He even drove to the gas station I was starting from and chuckled to himself only that way a father who gets it can. "Keep the rubber side down" were his remarks as I fired up the engine, made sure all my gadgets were set, and receipt noted and tucked in my wallet.

Start Time: 6:45 a.m.

This was my official start time and the early morning rain had dried mostly. The air was cool in the high 50's with fresh whiffs of rain smell in the early dawn air. My hands were not yet loose and adrenaline level up a tick or two. My first stretch was to go through suburban traffic South on 395 through Kennewick. South of Kennewick I was on the open Interstate and quickly crossed the border into Oregon. The speed limit was my friend and I had all day and night to get this thing done.

My first landmark was a cosmic coincidence that struck me in the magnitude yet quietness of the whole thing. On the right near Umatilla sits a chemical weapons stockpile that quite coincidentally had dismantled and incinerated it's very first nerve gas warhead the day before. We're talking 3700 tons of VX, GB (Sarin), and mustard gas. Nasty, nasty stuff that trips alarms when 17 parts per TRILLION are detected. And here I was on an anniversary of 9/11 driving by this place with “igloo” bunkers dotted across the landscape. I smiled though because it is getting cleaned up and hopefully becomes a part of our history of warfare tools that we were smart enough not to ever use.

Shortly after I took a nice sweeper east onto I-84 and continued my slab trip to Pendleton around the speed limit. Morning traffic had started and there seemed more than the average amount of dirt splattered pickups--even for Oregon. Many had horse trailers and it sort of hit me as I saw one of the bumper stickers. The world famous Pendleton Round-Up  started today! Memory hit me full force and I remembered back to 6 years old with a View Master and Wide World of Sports disc inserted. The 3D effect of a broncing bull and cowboy at physics-defying angles. Americana was unfolding in front of me as I drove and the meaning of the West would show repeatedly on this trip.

I parted ways with the convoy of horses as I turned south on 395 at Pendleton. Up the slope past the burger shacks and gas station I chose to go with a 200 mile gas interval and stop in John Day. If I could make a first leg of 200 I would feel more confident about the 1,000 miles as a whole. After Pendleton you go through the town of Pilot Rock. Pilot Rock is a berg of a town that strikes me as being similar to the 1986 movie Stand By Me which takes place in the non-existant town of Castle Rock, Oregon. Actually, I think it was filmed near Eugene, but always thought it looked more like the real town of Castle Rock, Washington....which both my parents were born.   ....I guess 85 miles into a trip is when one starts thinking of the strangest things. Surely, there would be more to come as the miles and hours wore on.

Past Pilot Rock is when the first set of mountains loom in front of you that you feel like you're riding well and in the rhythm. Long sweeping curves and solid dashed lines give way to twisties and double yellows. And that's when the first deep smell hits you.

Forest. Clean, crisp, green forest. The smell of live wood, loamy soil, and green of moss and clear streams. The visceral smell that can't be bottled and sold makes you breath in extra deep to dust off all your memories of camping. I'd end up smelling so many things on this trip and I think are an under accounted sensation of riding motorcycles.

The memories are fleeting and I found myself wishing I had a way to write while I rode.  I tried jotting them down at stops hoping to be able to write about them later. I do remember some of them and will share what I remembered in indents like this.

Past the first up and down I found a nice long stretch of meadow to the next mountain range and explored the other parts of the throttle. Traffic had thinned out and I was a cowboy....on a steel horse I'd ride.....hopefully not wanted dead or alive.

All that good time and I ran into my first delay. Road construction in the next mountain and I sat for what seemed like a day and a half waiting for a pilot vehicle. It was probably only 10 minutes, but I watched my cyclometer average plummet. I did note that there was a bunch of dirt on the road, no striping, and I'd probably be coming back the same way at dark.

Past that mountain I blew by Ukiah and remembered again of my childhood with my Honda XR75 in the mountains. It had been nearly thirty years since I had been by there on a motorcycle. Being 36--that's a damn long time.

Free of the traffic snarl I zooted my way to John Day and landed at my first service station. Those that have never traveled to Oregon or New Jersey may be surprised to hear that you're not generally allowed to pump your own gas. It's all "mini-serve" and I was curious how well a minimum wage teenager was going to deal with my brand-spanking-new FJR. She was a nice gal and gave me the go ahead to pump it--just keeping an eye on my to make sure I wasn't going to gape or panic like apparently every other Oregonian must do for such an asinine law. She eyed me a bit nervously as I pumped out a couple extra fuel blurps between clicks so I settled on a fill a little below the screen.

I munched on a granola bar and drank some water as I walked in little circles around the pumps. 192 miles and ummmm my average speed seemed to be a bit higher than laws of speed limit physics should be. Oh well, I'm sure I'd be slower that last 800+ miles.

The next stage was another batch or two of mountains and then into the flats of Burns, a heavily patrolled stretch of 24 miles to Riley, and then onto what I remembered as a set of straights only punctuated by little 30 foot rises. Suffice it to say that this is one of the most efficient bits of pavement you'll find outside of Nevada. I counted literally seven, and only seven, road angle changes from Riley to Wagontire. Two straights of 9 miles each and the bends on the seven are maybe 15 or twenty degrees each.

I might have been able to skip Wagontire as a gas stop, but the appeal of literally a wide spot in the road with a set of old pumps and cafe attached in the middle-of-nowhere just seemed Westernly appropriate, and it failed to disappoint. Since there was a single mud-splattered Dodge pickup parked there I surmised I'd be the only customer and the fact that the proprietor owner lay prone sleeping in one of the cafe booths made me chuckle. I asked if he needed to pump gas and being in the boonies he said he'd go turn on the pump and I could do it.

The analog dials whirred away as I put a smallish 3.65 gallons in, but at $2.49 a gallon the nostalgia of the event wore off quickly. I returned to the cafe and ask I quickly figured out I was on the honor system and had to tell him how much gas I had pumped and how much it totaled. Fortunately, J.D. had a stack of business cards by the register and he happily, if not groggily, obliged to writing down pertinent details and signing with "J.D." on the back. The IBA ought to get a chuckle out of that gas receipt.

Back onto the road I got into the twist part of the state and counted eight turns in eight miles, a positively twisty section for this country, and then it just got straight for an obscenely long amount of time even by FJR top standards. It is so completely barren of development and traffic that you think you've survived the flu in Steven King's The Stand and you may be the only person alive for hundreds of miles. (Second movie reference)

What I do remember vividly is suddenly descending elevation to a sweeping vista of Lake Albert and the obvious shallowness and gray encrusted shore of an alkalai lake.

Ocean. The smell went to my gut and it was totally out of place half a state away from the real thing. But, the smell of marine biology was omnipresent. And alkalai. A subtle yet unmistakable smell of alkalai laden soil I had only previously identified with the dry dust of playa at Burning Man near Gerlach years earlier.

This was also perhaps the most memorable part my trip as I came down to lake level the road narrowed to a non-existent shoulder and cows roamed nearby. Mocked up cattle guards painted on the road to confuse bovine with the real things. Thank God they didn't really exist as real cattle gates would wreak havoc on a velocity induce FJR. And then the most beautiful sweeper I have seen so far in my life. It just begged to be accelerated through as it arced to the west ever closer to the lake shore. This set me up for the nicest set of twisties you can ask for. Unencumbered with view blocking trees you can literally see a mile to the next turn of the lake and you own the road for that distance. The turns are textbook entries with easy to find apexes and the road cambers all predictable if not perfectly flat. It's also a section where I entered a little hot, but the FJR is so forgiving it let me recover without even giving me a lecture. I'm going to grow to love this bike even more than now.

After Lake Albert I got back into a smattering or forest, ranches, and signs again of civilization. I wandered through Lakeview at the posted 25 and felt like I could get off and jog faster.

Barbeque. Strong, mesquitey flavored. Charcoal with too much lighter fluid. Wham up side the head. It's 1:15 and I'm hungry. 54 miles to go and I'm having lunch at the Big Bear Diner at my turnaround point, Alturas California.

I had fully resigned myself to do this section at snails pace, but some Chevy with California plates insisted on exploring the limits of his speedometer and owning one I know he topped out at 98 mph. Running as rabbit he was extremely polite and after passing cars would purposely stay in the left lane with signal flashing as if to communicate to me, "C'mon. My brother is the sheriff and cousin is a CHiP and they're on the other end of the county." What do do? So I obliged him and gave him a satisfied nod as we entered Alturas.

The lore of the Black Bear Diner and the route I chose to ride today is well documented by Warchild in his August run, "The Good, The Bad, The Coyote Ugly". Thinking I might able to drop Dale's name and have the whole diner go, "Norm!"--I was a bit disappointed, but nonetheless famished. The nice waitress seated me as I sat by the window nearest my bike.

I took a good, long stare at my bug encrusted motorcycle and counted no less than seven yellow jackets looping back and forth around the windshield. Seems they were famished too....or were recognizing yellow jacket guts of long lost relatives. I suddenly envisioned a Gary Larsen Far Side strip where one yellowjacket says to the other, "I think that's Vern. He went up to Oregon to the easy life of eating bugs on a lake. Now he's back home here......zzzzz......and here....zzzzz.....and a piece over there."

The waitress came back as I began chuckling to my private joke. Although I forgot about the famous Italian sausages WC raved about--I ordered their California Burger that looked tasty and a diet coke. Maybe the caffeine was against one of the rules, but I figured I was going to be here a while soaking up the ambience and internalizing Black Bear Credo #4 from their table mat.

"WOW!"--If you don't say that when you get your food, you either ordered toast or my cooks flashed back to when they were working somewhere else. We buy huge platters, and we do that for a reason: I want to fill them with food!

I gave a call to Dad to tell him I was alive and well and on my way back and then the food came.

"Wow!", I said to myself and not at all just because I read Credo #4. A big, beefy burger with a mound of fries. No doggy bag for me as I added several pounds of food and drink to my gut and emptied the platter. I said "Wow!" again.....which wasn't on any of the listed credos, but just seemed appropriate. The waitress smiled knowingly.

(insert scan)

I logged the 40 minute stop and drove across the street for gas and noticed that my butt was starting to feel a bit monkey like. I had pre-planned and brought some baby powder and think it helped a bit--even if I smelled like a baby and looked like I had a horrible chalkboard accident. Although Alturas was technically less than half way at 460 miles it was largely symbolic as the point that I knew I was going to be able to achieve my 1000 mile goal. I had to drive 460 miles back to Tri-Cities and it seemed easy to rack up another 100 or so on a nearby interstate to get over the top with miles to spare.

My pace back was much more leisurely until Lakeview. Then a couple of farkles fumbled. First my Radio Shack temperature gauge kept vibrating out of it's holder.  My Camelback also seemed dry even though it felt half full as I squished on it behind me.  My butt was also complaining even with the baby powder as were my throttle hand and shoulder.  I had yet to take any ibuprofen, so it was time for an unscheduled stop.

Vinyl tape for the temp. gauge, pour additional gatorade in the bladder as the luggage rack was pinching off the latter half of fluid supply (reengineer after I get back home), I layed a polar fleece on my saddle as a makeshift pad, and popped 4 ibu's. Off again like a  Jeff Gordon pit stop.

I found myself much more comfortable once the meds kicked in and the fleece worked surprisingly well under my raw butt. I'm a briefs guy, but maybe I'll buy boxers in the future or go commando as I imagined leg bands and red lines across my posterior.

The lake came back into view a while later and I stopped for a photo of the cow guards that had so amused me earlier.

 

And of the rare traffic I got a Nissan full of wayward hippies slow down and asked if I smoked.  Denying them any nicotine they putted away dejectedly knowing they had a long time to go at 50 mph in their valve clacking sedan.  I thought about how time-distance physics are so much more cruel to average automobiles in this country (see them in the picture below)  I mounted back up and tried a full power launch lifting the wheel for the first time in first and second gear.  (just an inch or two)

Burns couldn't have come soon enough and I gassed up thinking about the next mountainous leg. It was going to be tough as I scanned the sky to the north and saw darkening overcast clouds. 17:30 and I had made as good speed as I was going to make on this trip so I settled into a more conservative pace.   

Alfalfa. Fresh cut and pungently sweet. Absolutely one of my first memories of growing up on a farm was Dad cutting alfalfa. Sure enough off to my right was a Heston swather with fresh bright green rows of unsettled alfalfa and slurry of evening bugs surrounding it as a haze.

And two minutes later. Rain. From the dry of a valley flat to the next mountain range I could smell that it was raining even before I saw the first drop on my visor. The kind of rain makes the clouds in the mountains be at your level, swirling up and swirling down as drops spatter from the top, side, and from clear patches out of nowhere.

And it was also dusk. I knew the forest rats would be coming out.  And like clockwork, as I came around a corner I was greeted by the flank of a receding doe.  Steering way clear I felt fine, but I did not expect her sister would be dumb enough to cross.  There was my big rookie mistake.  I should have expected her.  I'm no Warchild.  Not sure I'll ever be one, but I shouldn't be counting misses by feet and fractions of seconds. I should be far enough away that I'd need a rifle scope to make out if she's a muley or a white tail.   Lesson noted.   Continue driving.

Cedar.  I don't think it was the forest in this case.  I had barreled past a little mountain home and think they were using cedar ships.  It reminded me of horse barns and my sock drawer.

The construction that took place on my way down south of Pilot Rock was the next ordeal and the inky blackness was only marginally improved by my headlights. These are the sections that make the $600 PHID headlights so worthwhile. At least when I get back home I'm going to steal my 80/120 H4 lights from my snowmobile.

The mud from the day's construction in the rain made slippery run-off strands across the roadway and I wished stripes were there for me to help form lines to follow. This was the most tiring section of the trip. Parts I literally drove 25 mph and was passed by several cars.  Fine with me.  I'm being safe and going to make it back home without falling over.

The edges of Pilot Rock came back into view and I started to feel better.  It was still raining and I hugged by jean covered knees into the warm tank.  No heat issue here this time of year.  Straighter roads and the occasional light to make out the landscape outside my headlight beam.

Kava.  I can't explain this one because it clearly wasn't kava.  Kava is indigenous to Fiji and nowhere near Oregon, but having drank the stuff many times while in Fiji I swear I smelled it.  Smells are funny sometimes.

Pendleton couldn't have come sooner.   My knees were getting wet and my temperature gauge appeared to lose batteries and was hiccupping electronic fits.  I would find out later that it hates to get wet and was getting some back spray from the windshield.  Don't know how to fix that one yet, but figure Rat Shack is getting a returned item.

I gassed up and called Dad to let him know I was mostly done and with an easy stretch in front of me.  I'd probably be home by 1 a.m.

So, on the I-84 slab to Umatilla, unwind the miles of I-82 to Kennewick, and divert west towards the Yakima Wine Valley.  By day I'd be sipping fine cabernets or merlots, but at 10 p.m. I was all about cruising a perfect +10, get my receipt and get back home.  Sunnyside, the home of FJRGoodies.com seemed a logical place, but from my figures was just a little to close to the 1,000 mile mark for comfort.  Which towns with gas stations open at 11 p.m. are open in this area?

Cow Crap.  Not a field of a few dozen cows and the aroma wafting onto the road.  But, an entire ecosystem of stench for 5 miles straight.  Industrial grade, feed lot, concentrated bovine poop.  Sunnyside is a big stocking area and it's just so overwhelming that I can't not note it.

Then I remember I had just come from Alturas with an “A” so it seemed appropriate I should stop in Zillah with a “Z”.  Topped up, noted the mileage, and cruise back to Tri-Cities.

Now, the formidable task of finding an end witness.  Sure, I could have gone out to my Dad's house and woke his butt up.  Who's up at midnight?

My good buddy Greg probably is.

So, I pulled into a Shell in south Kennewick and got my ending receipt time:

End Time: 12:07 a.m.

Summary: 1029.1 miles (1020 as certified by IBA), 17 hours 22 minutes

I called Greg after gassing up

Me: “I hope I didn't wake you up.”

Greg: “Just getting ready for bed.”

Punchy I said, “I just drove 1,000 miles and need you to witness me being back and my odometer.  Can I come over.”

Greg: “...........You're a crazy man!   ….Sure!”

So, Greg and I kibitzed for a few minutes looking over the road spooge encrusted FJR.  He was a fellow geek and understood.

I then hauled my butt home, parked the bike in the garage, and went to bed.

Home.  Can't describe this smell, but just know I'm home.

I slept very well and dreamed that night.....

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Post Ride Syndrome

I woke up at 11 a.m. the next morning and inventoried my body.

Butt was remarkably fine.   This surprised me.  I figured my tailbone would be numb, but it felt good.  I was a bit raw like a monkey's butt, but not too bad.

My throttle hand index finger and thumb are numb though and bit tingly.  That lasted, in fact, for a couple days.  I've gotta install that Vista Cruise.

It took a good solid hour of cleaning to get the bike de-splooged and bug guts removed.

What was probably more interesting were the montage of images stuck in my mind from the previous day.  Inclines of mountains, open straight roads of meadows, sweeping vistas across scablands, crusty lakes, a big furry stuffed bear at lunch counter, an Oregon state waving at me, the sound of crickets and elk in the pitch black on a mountain stop, the spray of rain from passing cars, and all of the smells of the trip.

I'm going to ride long distance again.

I gathered up my receipts and submitted my paperwork to Iron Butt with my check.  Can't wait for validation.

 

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Epilogue

December 6, 2004

It was a bit of a wait, but I just got my certification paperwork, license plate, and lapel pin in the mail.  It just seems so official now.  I'm installing the plate this evening and the certificate will find a home in a nice frame and go on my office wall.

However, I've got the bug now and am thinking of longer, harder rides to try.  I was accepted into the Utah 1088 next June and look forward to the rally of newbies and pros alike.  I'm not liking the cold weather much and I'm just getting over a nasty ear infection that even the antibiotics are doing a double-take on.  But, Spring and real riding is just a couple months away.

Until the next installment--just call me IBA # 20850.