My '97 Iron Butt Rally

Pre-ride preparations

It has been well over a year since September 1st, 1997.  Quoting a famous president, "A day that will live in infamy".  For me, it will live in infamy, because it was the day my BMW burnt a valve, effectively ending my Iron Butt ride and destroying whatever pride I had in holding second place.  For the rest of the world,  that day will be remembered as the day Princess Diana died in a tragic car crash in Paris.  I have had a lot of feelings and emotions to deal with whenever the subject of the '97 IB comes up.  Until now, I have resisted putting down on paper what I learned on my ill-fated ride.  However, in response to a challenge on the LDRiders email list on the internet, I decided to give it a try. At the end of each segment I have added the lessons I learned on each segment of the rally.

My desire to ride the Iron butt began in July 1993.  I had just competed in the infamous Bite the Bullet Rally, put on by the folks at Reno BMW.  I was one of only four people to get all nine "Bullets".  Of the other three riders, two, Ross Copus and Ron Major, had won the Iron Butt in the past.  Upon reporting of my achievement to Dave McQueeny and Dave Mishalof, two friends and renowned endurance riders, they both said "You should enter the 'Butt".  In fact, someone they both knew was signed up for, but had to drop out of, the rally and they were trying to find a replacement so their friend could get his or her entry fee back, (in those days there was no waiting list).

At that time it just wasn't in the cards for me to run the rally.  I was working for a motorcycle shop at the time and the pay wasn't too good and I had used up all of my allotted time off on other rallies.  However, the seed had been planted!

I moved to Colorado in '94, and between establishing a business and getting my family settled, the deadline to enter the '95 event passed me by. In September of '95 I rode to Salt Lake City with Bobb Todd, an aquaintance from the Comopuserve motorcycle forum, to witness the finish of the Iron Butt.  Talking with the competitors further cemented in me the idea that not only did I HAVE to do this rally, but also that I could do well in it.

I managed to find a seat in Steve Chalmers suite the night the rally finished, (Steve was the rallymaster that year).  A number of entrants were present, including Eddie James and Leonard Aron.  Also present was Mike Kneebone.  At some point Mike said that they were considering lowering the number of entrants n the 'Butt from the 60 they had in '95 to 40 in 1997.  I was appalled!  I knew, since there was system in place to allow preference to previous entrants, that lowering the number of available spots would greatly lessen my chances of getting into the event.

Upon returning home I wrote a four page letter to Mike Kneebone and Steve Chalmers.  I outlined what I thought their arguments were for limiting the number of entrants.  I also offered possible solutions to the problems they perceived.

A few weeks later Mike sent me an email explaining that they had received my letter and, after much dialog I'm sure, were going to increase the number of entries.  His words were "We croaked at eighty, though".  I had been campaigning for 100 slots, but was very happy to hear that the number would be 80.

In January of '97 the entry list was released.  I was on the waiting list, but pretty high up.  Mike Kneebone told me that in '95 my position on the wait list had been called, and he felt confident I would get into the rally.  Although I would have felt better being on the "go" list, I started making plans to ride the 1997 Iron Butt Rally!

In April of '97 I bought a used, 1995  BMW K1100LT, with 26,000 miles on it.  It was in seemingly perfect condition and was at the point when most BMW K bikes are "just gettin' broke in".  It had a full year of the unlimited mileage warranty left, so I felt comfortable in the purchase.  Did I mention that I got a killer deal on it?  That helped.

I don't subscribe to the Iron Butt Associations tip that you shouldn't do any major modifications to a bike shortly before a rally.  Also, I know I'm not alone in this attitude,  (one look at Warren Harhay's ST in the parking lot in Lisle the day before the IB should prove my point).  In the 4 months before the Iron Butt I; designed, had built and installed a custom fuel cell; mounted PIAA lights; ordered and installed a new seat; designed and installed an electric drinking water system; installed a flashlight mount; and probably did another 6 to 10 minor modifications to the bike.  Of course, the fact that I was working on essentially the same model bike as my old LT, just a later year, helped the process.

Finally, sometime in June, Mike Kneebone sent me the email I had been waiting for since 1993, my number had been drawn down to, I was in the Iron Butt!

Between when I bought my bike in April and  leaving for the start in Lisle, I put over 13,000 miles on the bike, including riding in two competitive rallies.  I had arranged to have new tires installed at Lauerl BMW in Westmont, near the start, and again in Orange, CA, at the third checkpoint.  I felt very well prepared, mechanically, physically and emotionally. 

The above listed modifications to the bike took care of the mechanical aspect.  I had been orking out and taking some herbal supplements for a few months which helped in the physical preparedness.  As far as the emotional end of things, I read Ron Ayre's book two or three times, I studied maps of areas of the country where I had never ridden and I practiced paperwork routines till I was confident the procedures would be second nature.

On Friday, August 22nd at four in the afternoon, I said good-bye to my wife and kids and headed East for Lisle.  I stopped around two the next morning for an hour's rest on a picnic table in Grand Island, Nebraska.  I then made the run to Westmont and Laurel BMW.  I was at the dealership by noon, talking with other entrants of the rally.  By four I had two new tires, new front brakes on the bike and new oil in it.  I was set!

Later that evening the entrants and staff of the rally were treated to a great meal at Laurel BMW.  We were all having so much fun bs'ing and sizing up the competition that it took the beginnings of a rain storm to break up the party.

Sunday was spent taking care of the official signing-in procedures.  The only glitch I had was that the VIN on my insurance card did not match the bike.  Two of the letters had been transposed, (a common error, I am told).  I was fortunate.  Ed Otto, the nut that rode, and finished on, a Honda Helix in the '95 'Butt, was co-rallymaster, along with Mike Kneebone.  As it turns out, Ed is in the insurance business.  Also, he is a licensed broker for Progressive, my insurance company.  Ed faxed off  some sort of official paper to Progressive, changing the policy and making everything OK.  I was relieved to say the least.

The rest of the day was spent relaxing and talking with the other competitors.  I also spent some time watching Warren dig deeper and deeper into the innards of his ST.  He was attaching a new electronic goody and had wires and plastic everywhere.  It was quite a sight.

The rider's meeting and dinner Sunday evening were informative and fun.  However, I know I sensed the tension building.  Many of the other riders felt as I did, I'm sure, the strong desire to just get on with it.  Chomping at the bit barely describes the tension!  I think we were all very relieved when we were finally handed our envelopes with two of the three possible "poisons" for the first leg.  It gave us something to focus our pent-up energy on.

I went back to my room and quickly decided that the route to Hyder, Alaska, was not a wise move.  I then did a detailed analysis of the other route.  A third route was to be given out the next morning shortly before the official start time.  I decided that, unless the third route had a very obvious benefit, I was going to go with the Poison that included a great deal of riding in Canada.  I didn't know the area at all, having never been to the upper East Coast before.  I just had a gut feeling that I could get many of the bonuses on the route and get to the check in Gorham, Maine, on time.

Monday morning finally came.  I think I got some sleep the night before, but not much.  The adrenaline and anticipation levels were way too high to allow for the kind of sleep that I wanted.  I'm sure many of the other rallyists had the same feelings.

The third poison was handed out.  I quickly went back to my room and looked it over.  It had a Lot of bonuses on it.  It seemed to me that many of the bonuses might be difficult to find in metropolitan areas.  All of them put together didn't add up to the number of points available on the "Canadian route" , as it would become known.  My plans were fixed, I was heading for Canada!

Leg one, Lisle, Illinois, to Gorham, Maine

There was a film crew and a large number of well-wishers present as we pulled out of the parking lot at the Hilton in Lisle.  Also present, as he was for the last few days, was Bob Higdon, one of Kneebone's lieutenants.  As Bob stuck out his hand to wish me luck, I decided to test my electric drinking water system by giving him a little squirt just below the belt line.  Much to my relief he laughed and told me to have a good and safe ride.  I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway.

I had to stop a short ways down the road, having consumed an entire 32 ounce bottle of Gatorade that morning and needing desperately to relieve myself.  I saw a few of my fellow rallyists as I motored toward Hell, Michigan, the first bonus.  There were a number of riders there upon my arrival.  We all exchanged cameras and took pictures of each other with our heads through the "Devil" sign.  It was a lot of fun, but this exercise had another purpose.  Kneebone and company wanted us to learn right off the bat what would be involved if we lost our rally towels and had to rely on someone else taking our picture.  The laughter of the crowd at the bonus,  coupled with the feeling that I was finally on the road, that the months of waiting were over, gave me high like I have seldom felt before.

From Hell I headed to Port Huron, the sight of my second bonus.  It was just a gas receipt bonus, and I was in and out pretty quickly.   As I approached the Canadian border crossing station I began to remember the words of some of the competitors back in Lisle.  I was told that you can't speed in Canada without getting caught, since the use of radar detectors was illegal.  I stowed my radar detector in the tank bag before crossing the border and crossed into Canada with no incident.

I rode down the road, obeying the 100 KPH speed limit.  Within a half hour I was being passed by big-rig trucks.  They were going by me so fast I felt unsafe.  I increased my speed to a pace that would keep me slightly faster than the trucks, up near 125 to 130 KPH.  "So much for that advice" I thought to myself.  It wasn't the last time I would regret listening to people back at the start.

I had decided that I would skip the Niagara Falls bonus.  I really wanted to be sure and make the bonus in Cornwall, where Ross Copus would be.  I wanted to see Ross, an old friend from the Bite the Bullet, and I didn't want to risk missing his bonus. 

My next worry was that I would have trouble finding the CN Tower in Toronto.  As any of you that have seen the CN Tower know, that was a silly worry!  The damn thing is the tallest structure in the world and can be seen from 30 miles out!  As I exited the off-ramp in Toronto I saw a few bikes down the street.  Since it was nearing midnight, I correctly assumed they were on the rally.  I zeroed in on their position and had a photo in hand within minutes.  I headed out and made my first mistake of the then very young rally.

I looked at my map and realized that I would need to head west on the freeway for some miles before joining another freeway that would take me east, towards Cornwall.  I also realized that the road I was on, a large, four lane boulevard, headed due North and would have to cross the desired freeway eventually.

Well, it did, but not after taking me through about 15 miles of Toronto.  I saw China Town, the Vietnamese area, a college community and a bunch of traffic signals!  Actually, it was nice seeing so much of this city, seeing as how I saw very little of any other cities on the rally.

As I pulled into Ross' check in Cornwall several other riders were congregating.  It was my plan to head for Montreal, get a gas receipt securing the bonus there, then cross the border and head for the check in Gorham, sticking to my pre-made plan of taking it easy on the first leg of the rally.  I had been told in Lisle that going to Madawaska, Maine, the "biggie" on this poison, was not doable.

One of the other riders asked Ross how far it was to Madawaska.  Ross' reply was "I don't know how far it is, but it takes seven hours".  I then asked how long it would take to get from Madawaska to Gorham.  No one seemed to know, but we were all sure it could be done in plenty of time to make the check.  I quickly revised my plan, said good-bye to Ross and the others, and left.  Ross had kindly provided us with instructions on the easiest way to get through Montreal and were to get a receipt.  By daybreak I was heading into the sun only 50 miles from Madawaska, being further east than I had ever been before.

I had some trouble finding the road that took me across the border, back into the US.  I remember thinking that the Canadians didn't want tourists to leave their country, so they avoided putting up signs that would have made it easier.  This border crossing went as smoothly as the one going into Canada.  I did note a bit of surprised when I told the officer I had entered Canada at Port Huron, 850 miles back, the afternoon before.  However, he waived me through I went in search of the Post Office and the big points bonus.

I met Asa McFadin at the Post Office.  Together we went through the photo album and found the required picture.  We discussed which route would serve us best in our quest to get to Gorham on time.  It was now about 9:30 AM and we had till 2 PM to get there.  Asa said he hadn't eaten since leaving Lisle and wanted to get something.  We agreed to stop at the first roadside cafe for breakfast.

I was told back in Lisle that the roads in upper Maine were small, two lane farm roads, and that a rider wouldn't be able to make very good time.  Well, the person who told me that was correct on only one count; they were small, two lane farm roads.  However, they were fairly straight, flat, and had no traffic on them.  Asa and I found ourselves cruising along at 15 to 20 mph over the limit.  We did slow down as we passed through some small towns, but it didn't hamper our progress much.  We eventually entered I-95 and enjoyed the elevated speed limit.

It was somewhere alone here I stopped to take a picture.  Asa continued on and I was sure I would find him at the next restaurant.  As I came down the highway a few minutes later I was confused to find Asa cruising along at 50, not more than 20 feet behind a motorhome!  He motioned to me that he needed gas.  I instantly understood that he was trying to draft the motorhome to conserve fuel.

We rode that way for almost 20 miles before exiting onto a road leading to a small town.  Much to Asa's disappointment, a sign indicated the town was another four miles off the freeway.  I asked him if he thought he could make it and he replied that he didn't know.  I assured him I would stay with him, and off we rode.  We arrived in the town and into the first gas station just as Asa's BMW began to sputter.  We both got gas and Asa thanked me for sticking with him and said he was going to look for someplace to eat.  I told him I had just eaten a Cliff bar and that I wanted to get to Gorham early in order to get some sleep.  We said our good-byes and I was off.

On the way down Peter Hogeveen passed me on the freeway.  He waved, then got off at the next exit.  There were no bonuses there, and no signs of gas stations or other civilization.  Peter later told me he didn't remember the incident, but figured he was pulling off to get some sleep.

As I approached Portland I caught up to another rider that was on the rally.  He motioned me to follow him, indicating that he knew where the checkpoint was.  I had heard that Reynolds Motorsports was hard to find, so I gladly fell in behind him.

As we got closer to Portland the traffic picked up.  I allowed a little space and a bunch of cars to get between the other rider and myself.  I could still see him off in the distance and followed as he exited the freeway heading towards downtown Portland.  It wasn't until I got way lost that I realized the rider I was following was not on the rally.  Somehow, in the heavy traffic, I lost the rallyist and began following a local rider. 

I got back on the freeway and, after about 30 minutes, found my way to the right road.  I pulled into the check at Reynolds just as it started to rain.  I had almost two hours before the check would close.  I hadn't slept at all in the last 18 hours, but I felt real good, although I was looking forward to checking in and taking a nap.  However, my hopes were dashed as I walked into the showroom of the dealership and saw the long line of people waiting to check in.  It seems that some of the checkpoint personnel had not shown up.  Mike Kneebone, Bob Higdon and Ross Copus were trying to get all of the riders checked in as quickly as possible.  They did a great job under the circumstances, and before too long it was my turn to be checked in.

Ross took my paperwork and checked off the  bonuses I had achieved.  Mike then took the papers and read the bonuses I had obtained out loud to Bob.  I had bugged Mike for months when I wasn't sure if I was going to get into the rally.  As pay-back he said to Bob, "Let's see how good he really is."  After Bob finished inputting the information into his laptop, he put out his hand and said "Congratulations, you're in first place".  I was shocked and almost overwhelmed.  I said "Thanks, but Peter isn't in yet, that will change".  Mike told me to go get some sleep, which I gladly did.

The rain had stopped and I found a quiet place behind a building behind the dealership.  I took my Aerostitch off and laid on top of it.  I set my Screaming Meanie for two hours and was fast asleep before my head hit the ground.  I don't remember them now, but I know I had some great and intense dreams.

Lessons learned:

#1) First and foremost, don't let anyone psyche you out at the start of a rally!  As nice           and generous as most of the veterans are, there is lot of mis-information thrown out.  Let's face it, this is a competitive event and no one who is in it to win is going to give anyone all of their secrets and strategies.  There are also a number of people who enjoy getting rookies all worked up.  Then, there are also a number of people who just don't know what the hell they're talking about!  Giving them some credit, there is a lot of stress present at the beginning of the Iron Butt and I think some people talk just to ease the tension, whether they know what they're talking about or not.

#2) Keep flexible.  No plan should be written in stone.  If there are people at bonuses, ask them for advice on the route ahead.  These people, in my opinion, can be trusted to give a rider the straight scoop.  If it weren't for Ross Copus' advice I wouldn't have gone for Madawaska.

#3) Before you follow another rider make sure he or she is in the rally and try to make sure they really know where they are going.

Leg two, Maine to Florida

I awoke from my slumber in the field behind Reynolds Motorsports in Gorham about 30 minutes before the timer was set to go off.  I tried to get back to sleep, but was unable to.  I decided to get up and find out what was going on.

As expected, when I looked at the official standings, Peter had moved into first place.  I was a little surprised to see that Morris Kruemcke had tied me for second place.  I knew Morris was a serious competitor, I just didn't expect him to make his move till later in the rally. 

I had a bite to eat, (the people at Reynolds had provided Subway sandwiches and drinks), and talked to a few of the riders.  Many were surprised when I told them that it hadn't been difficult getting to Madawaska and back to Gorham in time.  I don't know why it seemed so difficult to the other riders.  I assume they were under the mistaken belief (as I was a day and a half earlier) that you wouldn't be able to make good time in Canada.

When we were handed our envelopes with the leg two bonuses in them I quickly found a quiet spot at a picnic table in the breezeway between the buildings.  I got out my calculator and highlighters and went to work.

One of the poisons had only one bonus.  It was in Springfield, Missouri.  I calculated the route and mileage and came up with a number that made me believe it was possible to get to Springfield then to Daytona, before the check would close.  I looked at the other poison and then went back to the Springfield one.

I traced a route from Gorham to Springfield, then down to Daytona.  By this time several other riders had found "my" table and were busy plotting their own strategies.  Some of them were talking out loud to each other.  I found it very difficult to concentrate on what I was doing.  I was sure I had all the information I needed, so I folded my maps and began to prepare to leave.

I went into the dealership for one last trip to the bathroom.  As I was leaving I overheard one of the employees giving directions back to I-95 to Suzy Johnson.  After she was done, I politely asked the same employee to repeat the directions.  I was sure I had them right and headed out to the bike.

It turns out Suzy must have been heading North on I-95 for the bonuses up near Bangor.  I found myself riding about 20 miles north before finding the freeway, only to head south and, eventually, pass the point where I should have entered the freeway.  I figure I lost about 40 minutes on this wrong turn.

I continued south and west, getting onto I-495 to miss the Boston area traffic.  About one the next morning I started to doze off.  I knew I was seriously tired and headed for the first exit. 

I got off the freeway in a posh residential neighborhood near Danbury, Connecticut.   There were no businesses or parks visible, so I headed down a side street.  I stopped in front of a large colonial mansion and got off the bike.  I set the sleep timer for one hour and laid down on the grass of the parkway in front of the mansion.

As my head hit my arms, the timer went off.  "Damn" I thought to myself, "the stupid thing is broken".  A quick glance at my watch told me otherwise.  I was so tired I didn't remember sleeping at all when, in fact, I had been out for exactly an hour.

I got up and quickly got on the bike and left, fearful that the timer might have woken someone in the neighborhood.  Although I had slept, I didn't feel rested.  I stopped at the first rest area to use the bathroom and to splash water on my face, a tactic that usually wakes me up.  Outside of the building, under the lights, I decided to look at my map.  I know I was still tired and was probably devising mental games to delay my getting back on the bike.

As I was trying to re-fold the map, a gust of wind caught it and began blowing it down the parking lot.  I had to sprint about 20 yards, in my 'Stitch and riding boots, to catch it.  By the time I had the map folded and stowed, I was wide awake, the exercise did the trick.

I rode on till I was just south of Scranton, PA, when I stopped for more sleep.  There was a restaurant and motel just off the freeway.  I went into the restaurant and had breakfast; it was about five in the morning.  After breakfast I went over to the motel and got a room.  I took a quick shower and set my timer for 4 hours. 

Upon awaking I felt great; well rested, clean and ready to go.  I got out my map and began to re-check my game plan.  I decided before the rally that I would do this whenever got a fair amount of sleep.

Well, as I peered at my map I saw a nice orange line squiggling down from Gorham, Maine, to Springfield,  ILLINOIS!  In my haste to leave Gorham, and with the distractions of the other riders plotting their courses, I had made a serious error.

I re-calculated the distance to Springfield, (Missouri, this time), then on to Daytona.  I quickly realized that there was no way I could make it in time.  I remembered that there were a lot of bonuses on the other poison in Florida, so I got out that sheet and began to formulate a new plan.

Looking at the map I realize that I was not too far west of the I-95 corridor.  I decided to hit that main north-south road and make a bee-line for Florida.  I would assess which bonuses, if any, to go for when I got further south.

I stopped for lunch across from Andrews Air Force Base in Arlington, VA.  I felt good and was confident I could get a few bonuses further south, possibly enough to keep me in the top 20.

I grabbed the easy Pedro's South of the Border bonus on the state line between North and South Carolina.  I went into the gift shop at Pedro's and got a card showing the mileage from most major cities in the US to this tacky tourist trap.  I quickly figured that I had enough time to go to Miami and still make it back to Daytona in time.  There was a really big bonus in Miami, so it was worth the risk.

A fellow Coloradan, Greg McQueen, was across the street getting gas.  I went over and talked to him, not wanting to be rude and just leave without saying something.  He seemed to be in a really relaxed mood.  He did, however, agree that we could make it to Miami and back in time.  I wished him luck and pulled out with him munching on a candy bar.

I stopped in Vero Beach, Florida, and had dinner (another Subway sandwich), then I stopped again a couple of hours further south and slept on a picnic table at a rest area for an hour.  There were two armed guards at the rest area who assured me they would keep an eye on the bike.

Then it was on to Miami.  I crossed the bridge into Miami Beach a little before day break.  As I came down the street towards the house boat that was the bonus, I saw two bikes parked.  I pulled over and was greeted by Harold Brooks and Jerry Clemmons.  We all took pictures of the house boat and headed out.  I stopped at a gas station and got out my map to see if it was possible to make the bonus in the everglades.  I decided not to try, opting instead to go for the easier points in Lake Placid and the Kennedy space Center.

I rode north on I-95, then headed west towards lake Okeechobee.  This was the only place on my rally that I really opened the bike up.  I had been caught in rush hour traffic north of Miami, then in small town traffic in Okeechobee.  I guess I was getting impatient and found myself traveling at close to triple digit speeds for a short stretch as I headed for Lake Placid.

At the bonus in Lake Placid, a gift shop of a pineapple plantation, I met Harold and Jerry again.  We talked awhile, then I headed out alone.  As I was getting gas up the road, they came into view.  We wound up riding to the Kennedy Space Center together.  We were leap-frogging at the toll booths, the rider in front paying the toll for all three, then dropping back and the next rider doing the same at the next booth.  It was a lot of fun!

We pulled into the Space Center and parked with a bunch of fellow 'Butters.  We got our pictures taken eating our space dots, a high-tech form of ice cream devised for the astronauts.  Jerry and Harold were busy talking with other riders when I said my good-byes and headed for Daytona.  They caught up to me just before I reached Daytona.  At the red light at the bottom of the off ramp Harold offered to let me clean up at their motel room before going to the check.  It seems they had stopped and gotten a room on their way to Miami earlier in the day.  I gladly took them up on the offer and we headed for the motel.

After a quick shower and a change into shorts, I donned my 'Stitch and rode over to the check.  It was hot and very humid, making sleeping out of the question for me.  I turned in my paperwork, called home and checked in.  I then went out and, after permission from Terry Evans, a checkpoint worker, jumped in the pool.  It wasn't long before I was joined by Gary Eagan and a few other riders.  I laid down on the floor of the gazebo and actually fell asleep for a few minutes.

When I got up they were just posting the standings for the checkpoint.  Much to my amazement, again, I was still in second place, and no longer tied.  Peter was still ahead of me, but considering I had made what I considered a fatal mistake, I was elated!

Lessons learned:

#1) Don't give up hope!  If you make a mistake, work around it.  In an eleven day rally you have time to overcome some errors.

#2)  Check your strategy and progress when you are fresh, after sleeping.  In my case it allowed me to re-think my plan and stay in the game.

#3)  Enjoy the company of fellow riders, you never know when they can help you out.

 #4)  Make it a habit of doing some calisthenics or other exercise to wake up.  Don't ride when you're over-tired!

 Leg three,  Florida to Texas

 I had vowed not to make the same mistake in Florida that I made in Maine.  Upon receiving my bonus list I was going to ride to the nearest Denny's and go over it in air conditioned peace and quite.  However, before I got on the bike, I decided to look it over, having heard somewhere that there are, sometimes, bonuses right at the checkpoint, (a tactic used later at the California check).  I didn't see any bonuses in Daytona, but what I did see got me more excited than I had been on the entire rally.

One of the poisons had numerous bonuses in and around Florida, Louisiana and even in the Carolinas.  Those didn't excite me.  However, as I thumbed to the later pages I began to notice bonuses in Death Valley and near Big Pine, all in California.  I had lived, and ridden, in California most of my life.  There was a bonus at the Bristlecone Pine Forrest south of Bishop.  I did a term paper on that forrest when I went to high school in Bishop.  There was a bonus at Whitney Portal, a place my family went fishing nearly every year for many years.  There were two bonuses in Death Valley.  My family used to vacation in Death Valley every Easter and I would frequently ride there for lunch in the years prior to moving from California.  There was a bonus at the Manzanar camp, a place where we would often stop for lunch on our way north from Los Angeles.

There was also a large bonus in Atoka, Oklahoma.  I decided to head for Atoka, picking up a couple of small bonuses on the way.  Then, from Atoka, I would make a bonzai run to California.  No maps would be needed for this segment of the rally, I knew every road and bonus location by heart.  Believe me, I was in heaven as I pulled out onto I-95.

As I approached Biloxi I began to get tired.  I pulled off and into the parking lot of a Motel 6.  I was a little uneasy that the clerk was protected behind bullet-proof glass.  But I didn't feel I could ride any further.  As I took my gear up to my room, I noticed two police cars converging on the parking lot from different directions.  Great, I thought to myself, there's going to be some big drug bust and I won't get any sleep.

As it turned out the officers just pulled in to talk to each other (all four of them).  When I looked over at them one of them asked if everything was OK with me.  I told him yes, but that I was a little concerned about leaving my bike out.  The officer said they would drive by every half hour or so and keep and eye on it for me.  I went to bed and slept soundly for four hours, comforted in knowing the bike would be there when I awoke.

I was up and on the road as the sun came up.  For some dumb reason I decided to get the small bonus at the Lake Pontchatrain Toll Bridge.  The bonus list said that we needed to get a receipt from "Covington or any city north of the lake AND from New Orleans".  I jumped off of I-12 and got the Covington receipt, then crossed the bridge.  I got gas at the first station on the south end of the bridge.  I read the receipt and, to my horror, the address was listed as Metarie, not New Orleans.  Since I was sure Kneebone and crew would be pretty anal about this, I jumped on I-10 and headed east, into New Orleans proper.  I got off the freeway when I saw the Superdome, figuring I had to be in New Orleans.  I found a gas station and asked the clerk if the receipt would say New Orleans.  She had to dig a receipt out of the trash can to be sure.  After confirming that I would get the proper documentation, I managed to squeeze another fifty cents worth of gas in the bike.  I made a mental note to always allow for a little more gas in the future in case this happened again.

I got back on I-10, going west.  Then I worked my way up to the site where Bonnie and Clyde were gunned down, east of Shreveport, Louisiana.  A note on the monument revealed that about 6 other competitors had been there before me.

I rode on to Atoka, arriving at Boyd Young's place about 9:30 at night.  We couldn't check in till 11:00, so I went into town and got a room and a couple of hours sleep.  I left the key in the room and the door ajar when I left the motel.  When I got back to Boyd's I saw Dale Wilson talking to Warren Harhay.  Dale looked really tired, so I told him about the room and told him he could go crash there for a few hours if he needed to.  Judging by Dale's performance on the remainder of the leg, he didn't take me up on my offer!

After going back to Boyd's and having my Iron Butt meal, I was turned loose at midnight.  I headed west, then north, making my way towards Interstate 40 which would be my turnpike to California.

I stopped for gas just before getting onto the interstate.  The bike was running fine and I felt good.  All I could think about was how easy the next few bonuses would be.  I kept re-calculating the time needed to accomplish my goals.  I set benchmarks, places I needed to be at certain times.  I knew that I had to be at Big Pine, CA, by about two in the morning on Sunday in order to make Orange on time.

About 30 miles after getting onto the freeway I caught up to Morris Krumeke.  He must have taken a quicker route to the interstate.  We stayed together until Oklahoma City, when he fell back for some reason.  As I cleared a construction zone in Oklahoma City, I rolled on some throttle to get back up to cruising speed.  The bike felt down on power, but I shrugged it off.  I had been hearing reports on the radio about winds in the area, and I just figured I was fighting a head wind.

About 230 miles later, around 5 AM, I was getting tired.  I decided to get off the freeway and do some calisthenics.  I took the next exit and, as I slowed to the stop sign at the bottom of the off-ramp, I noticed the bike was no longer running properly.  Thirty years of riding multi-cylinder bikes told me that I was not running on all four cylinders.  I pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned truck repair shop.  I looked for an obvious problem; loose plug wire, injector wire off, whatever.  I didn't see anything that looked out of place, so I got back on the bike and decided to ride to the next sign of civilization, knowing full well that my Iron Butt ride was in jeopardy.

I got to the outskirts of Amarillo, a ride of about 20 miles, and pulled off at a large truck stop.  A quick glance at my clock showed it was only 5:30 in the morning.  I didn't want to start calling anyone then, so I went around to the back of the building and laid down and took a nap.

I got up about an hour later and got out my BMW club anonymous book.  It has phone numbers of members all over the world that are willing to help riders in need.  After a few phone calls, I found out that the nearest BMW dealer was in Lubbock, about 120 miles to the south.  I called the dealership and, although it was before 7 on a Saturday morning, someone answered. 

It turns out he was the service manager.  I explained my situation and the symptoms and he told me to ride on down.  I asked him if that would hurt the bike and he said it didn't really matter, at least I would be closer if they had to come and get me.

I got back on the freeway and, after getting up to 80 mph, the bike felt pretty good.  It didn't have any extra power, and was getting about 25 mpg according to the Fuel Plus, but it was running.

As soon as I arrived at High Plains BMW in Lubbock, they took the bike right in and put it on the rack.  Within 30 minutes we had determined that there was no compression in one of the cylinders.  Since most dealers don't stock pistons and valves for K bikes (they never need them, ha!), a repair was out of the question.  I bummed a ride to a motel, my ride officially over and me suffering the worst depression I can ever remember.

As I was checking in to my motel I heard on the TV in the lobby that Princess Diana had been in a car accident and was in serious condition.  I tried to console myself by saying that, no matter how bad my situation might seem, it could be a lot worse.  It didn't help much.

Lessons learned:

#1) No matter what problems you might encounter or mistakes you might make in the earlier stages of the rally, have faith that things can turn in your favor later on.  The bonuses in Arizona and California would have, if I had succeeded in my plan, put me in the lead at the Orange check.

#2)  Don't get too over confident.  A mechanical failure can take you out of second place as easy as it can take you out of 20th place.

#3)  CHECK YOUR RECEIPTS!

 #4)  Leave a little room in your tank for some more gas, or ask to see a receipt BEFORE you fill up.

#5)  Carry some sort of emergency phone number source.  Hopefully, you'll never need it.

The Aftermath

Upon checking in to my room at the Super 8 Motel in Lubbock, I took a long, hot shower and got into bed.  No Screaming Meanie, the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, no plans to wake up at all.

I slept for about 6 hours.  I had phoned my wife from the dealership and asked her to look into a plane ticket home.  After my nap, I called her and got the flight number and other information.  I then went back to sleep, too depressed to do anything else.  Since there were no restaurants near by, I ordered pizza delivered about ten that night.

The next morning I took a cab to the airport and flew to Denver.  From there I took a shuttle bus to my home town of Carbondale.   Upon arriving home I called Irv Seaver's, the site of the checkpoint in Orange.  I informed Mike Kneebone that I wouldn't be arriving in California.  I then checked email and followed the progress of my fellow competitors and friends via Bob Higdon's reports to the LD Rider list.

My wife had relatives in the Chicago area.  We had purchased plane tickets for her and my three kids to fly to Chicago to be at the finish when I got in.  We were going to spend a few days seeing the area and her relatives.  However, upon my arrival home I was so down and depressed I told her there was no way I was going to go to Chicago.  Besides, I rationalized, I had messages while I was gone from people asking me to do work for them (I'm self employed).  I would rather stay home and make some money to help offset what I spent on the rally.  It was a decision I still regret making.

As I followed the rally electronically, I was first saddened to hear of Herb Anderson and Morris Kruemcke making contact in Death Valley, effectively taking them both out of the rally.  I know they both would have been in the top spots at the finish.

Then I began to hear the rumors and worries about Ron Major.  I met Ron back in 1990, before he won the Iron Butt and became known to most people in the endurance riding community.  I'm pretty sure I knew him longer than most of the people on the rally.

As the conflicting reports about Ron kept coming in, the only thing I knew for certain was that something had gone terribly wrong.  Ron wasn't the kind of person that would have allowed the organizers and other competitors to worry about him for one minute.  He would have called someone if at all possible.  I figured, since no call had come, that it was because he couldn't, which was bad news no matter how you look at it.

Finally, as the riders of the Iron Butt were approaching the Washington check, the word came out that Ron's body had been found.  It's strange, but this tragedy is what broke my own personal depression.  I was now engulfed in the same grief and pain that Ron's family and many friends were feeling. 

A few weeks later my wife's great aunt died in Chicago.  That, as you can imagine, did nothing to lessen my feelings of guilt.  My wife, who gave up her vacation, was very upset by the whole ordeal.  My kids were disappointed at not having seen Chicago.  All in all, the whole experience had turned out pretty rotten.  It literally took months, probably until my trip to Daytona in March, until I was feeling "good" again.

The dealer in Lubbock finally got the bike done in late October, after numerous problems that I am still not clear on.  The cause of the loss of compression was a melted intake valve in the number four cylinder.  What caused that, no one seems to know.

When I called and found out that everything was in working order, I asked the service manager what it was that they finally did to get everything right.  "I don't know" he said, the frustration evident in his voice, "we're just going to send all of the parts to BMW and let them figure it out"  To this day I have no idea what caused the problem.  I'm leaning toward the theory, however, that the engine may have had a defective valve from the very beginning. 

The valves in number four cylinder where changed, a new exhaust system installed and numerous other parts changed.  The only charge I had to pay was for a new battery, $93.00.  I flew back to Lubbock and picked up the bike October 25th, 1997.  The same weekend as the first Gerlachfest and the biggest blizzard to hit Colorado in several years.

I rode home through snow and cold, but I made it.  The bike now has 73,000 miles on it, over 20,000 since the work was done.  It seems to be running fine and will be my mount for the '99 IBR.

Lessons learned:

#1)  As hard as it may be when feeling great personal pain, try to step back and see what the people you love may need.  My selfishness in not going to Chicago caused a great deal of pain in all of my family members, a pain that only recently has begun to subside.

#2)  No matter how bad or down you might feel about you're own situation, it could be worse.  At least I was able to come home to my family (although I'm not sure they wanted me around).