One Lap Around America

1999 is the 50th anniversary that my dad, a motorcycle dealer in Los Angeles, first let me ride down the street on my own scooter. It was a 2' tall, clutchless "Corgy", a bike used by the paratroopers in WW II for fast transport when they landed. I was only age 6, but I was on my way.

In celebration of that date, I had to make a statement. I was about to do what I was born to do. "Do you not know that I should be about my father's business?" My loved ones could only wait and hope for the best.

Those with more experience than me will most likely use this article for fish wrap, but I wrote this for those, who, like myself, don't have a clue what this type of ride would be like. I knew what to expect, but I didn't know what to expect. I've done extreme long distances in the dirt, but never on the street.

I really had no intention of doing this trip. I heard about it from Buster Prince. I remember a Star Trek episode where Ricardo Montablan implanted a burrowing worm into the ear of his enemy, and as it ate through his brain it also deposited eggs. I now believe Buster did this to me. The worm ate my reasoning and shot it all to hell. Soon after, responsible action went out the door. I had a perfectly good world class bike, a candy-apple ST 1100, which I was very happy with, but soon I was not. I had to buy a brand new bike just for this trip. Suddenly it was OK to park a 3rd bike in the garage. Logic, budget, bank balance, and common sense all seemed to fade to black as the dealer announced the price. I got the bike. I promptly threw about $4000 worth of goodies at the bike. After 16-large well spent, I had my Star Cruiser ready.

This was to be a '99 model motorcycle, piloted by a '43 model man. After 50 years of motorcycling, I didn't expect to feel like a rookie...but I was.

I also became suggestible to the 50cc, which I learned about from a fellow ST 1100 rider, Rick Brooks. He had just gone coast to coast in under 50 hours, allowing him entry into the prestigious Iron Butt Association. He told me that he rode 23 hours without sleep on Day One to accomplish this. I thought this was about the stupidest idea I had heard of for a long time, so of course I replied "Damn you, Rick, now I have to try it also". Another larvae just ate that portion of my brain that would have allowed me to reject such a patently frivolous ride.

CHAPTER ONE: DEFINE YOUR GOALS

In my case, I had 6 very specific goals in mind:
1) Entry into the Iron Butt Association. This could be accomplished by qualifying for the "Saddlesore 1000", i.e. 1000 miles in 24 hours (or)
2) Bunburner 1500: 1,500 miles within 36 hours (or)
3) 50CC: 50 hours, Coast to Coast. Choose your weapon and any route you wish.
4) I've had a best friend since kindergarten. "Crazy Joe" Todaro is his name, and riding is his game. He's done a quadzillion miles, and his best ever is 1224 in 24 hours. I had to beat him, but my best everto that point was only 667. I can still remember the motel steps at the end of the 667 day. Three small, but I took my time climbing them.
5) Four Corners of America: The time limit: Must be completed within 21 days from beginning.
6) Self-qualify to be a true "Iron-Butt Type"......in other words, find out first hand what it takes to enter the real Iron Butt competition, billed as the World's Toughest Ride.....about 11,000 miles in 11 days.

CHAPTER TWO: PREPARE

Learning about time management ahead of time: I found out which states allow lane splitting (Ca. New Mexico, and Mississippi) which came in handy during the various rush-hour motley melanges.

Packing the Bike: I must have packed and repacked the bike about 15 times before I left, 14 of which was all done on the computer. When the big day came, all I had to do was to turn the key in the morning blackness and ride away. I have been asked what I would take or leave out of another trip, and I would have to say "nothing". Everything was in its right place, all the time. Even my drivers license, rego, etc. etc., which were tucked away in the recesses so that I would have time to chat up America's Finest should the need occur and give myself time to charm him out of a ticket.

In fact, I believe that preparing for this trip was worth about 35% of the entire joy of the trip itself. Greg Harrison, in a recent AMA article, said: "I can savor a map in much the same way I can enjoy a good novel". The map reading/learning/routing, combined with the choosing and outfitting of a new bike was a real pleasure for me.

If someone sez they can get ready for one of these trips in two weeks, take 'em out in the back and shoot 'em. Just ain't so. I thought long and hard about this ride for a full six months.

Except for the aches and pains of encroaching arthritis and the variety of discomforts and physical insults that seem to arise after the half century of life experience mark, I felt I was up to the challenge and began in earnest my preparation for what was to become the "Street" ride of my life. (The "Dirt" ride of my life was San Diego to Idaho and beyond, but that's another story.)

CHAPTER THREE: The 50CC QUEST

("On the gas, on the road")
The concept is straightforward, like pulling out fingernails. Just conquer the awaiting road, the clock, your body, your self doubts and whatever else fate chooses to throw your way. Take no prisoners. No one cares if you encounter stop-me-cold-and-beat-me-to-death mechanical problems, bad weather, sickness, nuttin. Quit yer bitchin and just get the job done.

The Rules: The ride needs to be completely documented, and cross the United States from coast to coast in 50 hours or less. Find a police officer, firefighter, judge, or authorized Iron Butt Association member willing to sign your witness form. Fill up your tank and obtain a computer printed gas receipt with the date and time stamp. (This is your official starting time) Log entries at each gas stop. At the other coast, find a police officer, etc., and get final gas to compute official ending time.

This mission is not about searching out and recording the uniqueness of the geography or the culture of various disparate locales of the United States. It's focus is sharp and pinpoint, to reach the other side of the nation in less than 50 hours. To find out if you have the stamina, the skill and the cunning to defeat the road and the clock. Without smelling too bad. Add the regular presence of deer, night riding, hypothermia, hyperthermia and fatigue and you will begin to appreciate the demands of this premier long distance challenge.

This first leg would not be about riding at full whack, per se, not about trying to evade mandatory court appearances at full testosterone-drip speed but about time management. Forget about sleep. No warm food at all, eat snacks while on the bike. Fill up the tank and ride, applying slightly more throttle than the law allows. No written special recognitions for excellence in speed velocity achievement. No riding at warp + a bundle. No hunkering down and hanging on.

I wanted to learn how other's had coped when they could not remember if the food they were eating at the gas stations should go into their mouths or get stuffed in the gas tank. Iron Butt types call this "mush-mind". To counter that, I purposely kept all reference to time at PST. That way, I never got confused as to just how much time I had left. 50 hours is 50 hours. With that in mind, it should be noted that the first motorized vehicle to cross the United States was a motorcycle, ridden by a Mr. George Wyman. He wrote an article "Across America on a Motor Bicycle"

CHAPTER FOUR: THE FIRST 50 HOURS

I left San Ysidro at 4:55am, having fulfilled the rules needed, and looked forward with great anticipation to the emerging rhythm of the ride and the immersion into my isolated state. I took to the ride like slick willie to an intern. Once into the unfolding adventure, the welcome stillness and solitude soon engulfed me through the deserts. This is the preferred mode of the long distance rider. It's a bonding of man and machine that has no equal. My radar detector chirped and buzzed often enough to keep me company.

The Route: The Ten.

My time management mode was such that I not only prepped the bike with powerful running lights, but timed the start of the ride with a full moon night, as I would be surrounded by the blackness of the night for at least half the journey. I did not want to end my trip by having some deer committing suicide by eating my headlight. Late into the nights and early mornings waiting for the sun to come up again, I would keep awake by conversing on the CB radio and learning the life stories of the truckers sharing the ride. Some just kept talking and talking, others would barely acknowledge that I was trying to rouse a conversation. I would usually begin by identifying myself at the biker behind them and asking if they would warn me of deer and newly hatched "road alligators" (spent tire carcasses) in the road. I felt really safe at 80 mph in the darkness about 1/4 miles behind these guys for hour after hour.

Hour # 18: I kept thinking that although this was a competition of sorts, I only had to compete against myself, not the others who had preceded me and been better at shrinking the time/distance window. I never rode like my hair was on fire. No need to, really.

Hour # 23: I pulled over in Kerrville, Texas which turned out to actually be 4 miles from the freeway. Rousing the motel clerk at about 6am his time, I asked to be awakened in 3 hours, then, shouting through my helmet, made him promise to wake me in 3 hours. I also set my newly bought (mistake) alarm clock for 3 hours, but neither plan worked. However my mind had been set on this trip for so long, that instead of being dead to the world, I awoke in exactly 3 hours (lucky for me), showered, scraped off my beard, got back on the bike, and was on the road again. It was at this point that I realized that the nearly unending ribbon that lay both in front and behind me was potentially "beatable".

I never drank coffee to keep myself awake. I had heard that, in a pinch, you should drink an entire Mountain Dew........"really fast". But that was never really necessary. Boy, was I pumped for this ride!

Hour #44 or so: During the long second night of darkness, the intellectual quality of my conversations with station attendants had taken something of a nosedive. Ordinarily, lightening fast pit stops are the norm. Except at a Truck Stop in Spanish Fort, Alabama, where the pump didn't work. My exchange with the clerk on the intercom:

Attendant: "Ess, can ifheal us*rchesh?"
Me: Yes, this pump won't pump"
Attendant: "Pusm/#letlch the corkgktoi;l bufllsidkrnsch ON!"
Me:"What?"
Attendant: "I said you should Pusmletlch the corkgktoi;l bufllsidkrnsch FIRST!"
Me: "F*#h;ejclj; !"

Hour 45 or so: "How far to Jacksonville, I ask. "Exactly 210 miles" the station attendant said, glancing down at a mileage chart. I returned to the freeway. In a few minutes, a sign read: "Jacksonville, 220 miles". OK. Just keep going.

Hour #46. By now, I just wasn't feeling all that well. I was beginning to pull over into EVERY rest stop that I came upon, made sure the side stand was fully down, got off the bike, unrolled the blue cushion carried on the trunk, laid it out, and laid down. I never removed my ear plugs or helmet, because I did not have the time to redo them. Besides, I found the helmet really comfortable to sleep in. Hey! what was that noise? Me snoring? Get up, roll up the cushion, back on the bike, go. At this point, there was a monstrous level of self-induced sleep denial, especially all during the second night.

Hour #47 or so: "How far to Jacksonville, I ask. "Exactly 110 miles" the station attendant said, glancing down at a mileage chart. Got back on the freeway. In a few minutes, a sign read: "Jacksonville, 130 miles". Damn, these S.O.B.'s are moving the city away from me faster than I can get to it. OK. Just keep moving. The reward for error at this point is harsh on the 50CC, but the stakes are high and way out on the edge.

As a high school teacher in Australia, I once asked another teacher to whip a cane at my fingertips. This was the preferred method of student punishment in that country. He warned me against doing this, but I wanted to experience what the students were experiencing. The remembrance of incredible and lasting pain has never left my memory. I was noting the similarity during the last 50 miles of the 50CC.

Hour #48. Still 2 hours left. Only 50 miles to go. About 100 yards after yet another rest stop, I realized something was not right. I had the heebie-jeebies. My whole body felt weird. Think.....what can I do. I know.......I'll stand up on the pegs, open my face shield, and breath deep of some fresh air. That did not work, then I realized what was happening.......I was about to throw up inside my full face helmet. I had just overdosed on 48 hours sleep-depravation, powerbars, fig bars, Gatorade, ibuprofen, Tylenol, diesel fumes, constant 75-80 mph with the unknown road passing 7 inches below my feet, etc.

Hour #48 + 1 minute: I honestly thought I was going to lose control of the bike on this 2 lane eastbound, with semi's roaring by at 80 mph. Pulling over on the 4' shoulder, I got down on one knee on the right side of the bike, ready to heave my cookies. I breathed deep for about 10 full minutes, trying to calm down. OK, now I'm over that sensation, but I'm really sleepy. To stay awake for this last leg, I kept belching mightily inside my helmet. The noise and release of tension kept me awake for the last 50 miles.

By now I was relying on dead reckoning. Dead, as in brain dead. Remember, this is the second straight day of riding for 23 hours straight.

Hour #48:35: Am in gridlocked, rush-hour morning traffic in Jacksonville. Wanted desperately to slice through the congested traffic like an ax murderer at the senior prom, but couldn't lane split. Ready to drop the bike and quit. I didn't feel all that great. And with Dr. Jack Kervorkian now in jail, there was no one else to call on, so I just had to finish this ride.

Off the freeway into a minority neighborhood to end the trip with a stamped gas receipt. No gas stations. Went north, east, south, west. No gas stations.

Hour #48:55 Finally found one, time stamp did not work. Off to another, gave them a dime, and said "Just give me a receipt....I don't don't want no stinking gas". To make SURE that I was logged in properly, I got 3 witnesses to verify the time. Two station girls and one Harley biker type that was loaded up with tattoos and a moustache. She wasn't very good looking, either. True story.

The Fire Captain that signed my finishing form directed me to a first class hotel, where I stayed in the shower until I devolved into Prune Man. In a couple of hours I was back to merely abnormal. After a very expensive (but I'm worth it, I kept telling myself) dinner, I let my lead-weighted head sink into a cloud of pillows with a smile on my face.

When I reached Jacksonville, Florida, I had traveled 2442 miles, done in 46 hours of actual seat time, (not counting unpacking for the 3 hours sleep) which equates to 54 MPH average while on the bike including gas stops.

When the ride was really finished, however, I felt just fine. For most of us who enjoy this sport, too much is just about right. In other words, when your eyes are glowing coals, you've just had a great ride.

The only really dangerous "happening" on the 50CC was in Mississippi, in pitch blackness, alone on a partially resurfaced road. There may have been a sign warning of "uneven" lanes ahead, or, being Mississippi, there may not have been. No traffic, no lane paint. The right lane was about 1.5" above the left, which I found while attempting to change into the right lane. My dirt experience saved me with reflexes.

Before any reader says to himself "Boy, that was some ride", consider this: In 1997, the first ever 100CC was completed by Randell Hendricks. Back and forth in 100 hours. I just don't understand how!

Now that the difficult portion of this ride was over, I could relax and do the next 9,000 miles at an easy clip.

I was surprised at how effortless the entire trip was. 2 days at a "leisurely" pace. In 1919 a young Army captain, Dwight D. Eisenhower, traveled in a convoy from Washington D.C. to San Francisco. It took 62 days. When he became president, he proposed the road system that changed America. All the states have evidently heard about Mr. Eisenhower except Louisiana.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE FOUR CORNERS - MY ONE-LAP RIDE

This is an event like no other. The Four-Corners is about riding! It's not about sightseeing, or leisurely meandering to out of the way places. Nor is it about casually searching out unique restaurants or talking at great length to locals. It's not about waiting for just the right moment to capture a photographic memory or shopping for that perfect souvenir for friends back home. It's about getting on the machine and staying on for up to 21 days, more if you'd care to. (I took nineteen plus another four days to pull up in the driveway. You see a good portion of the lower 48. You'll see it in the ever-brightening dawn of day, the blazing afternoon sunshine, the golden haze of sunset, and the cold darkness of night. You'll travel through extremely heavy gusting crosswinds. You'll experience 100 degrees and 100% humidity for hours on end under the the Kevlar jacket and pants. You'll learn how to outride fringes of hurricanes and maintain intense concentration in storms.

The simplicity of the rules is that they (Southern California Motorcycle Association) ask only that you circumnavigate the country, and do it in 21 days or less.
Some years ago, Dave McQueeney started this ride in L.A., rode to San Ysidro, and back. Picked up a different bike, rode to Blaine Wash., and back. Rode another bike to Madawaska, Maine and back. Then finished with bike #4 to Key West and back. 16 consecutive 1,000 mile days.

Some highlights of my ride:
- The surprising beauty of West Texas.

- The long miles of raised highway crossing the swamps before Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It's REAL primitive down below. Mile after mile of engineering marvel it was, giving me pause to think how long I would survive if I went over the rail into the swamp 60' below. How on earth did they build this highway?

- Dunlop 491's, which still look pretty new after 11,500 miles. I always kept the front @ 36 lbs., and the rear at 40.

- Saw the African Queen in Florida. Still working. Built in 1912 for the British East Africa Railway. Made famous by Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn. Takes an hour to fire the engine up.

- Saw a MC club in the middle of Florida. They were negotiating a freeway onramp. Probably the highlight of their ride. Flat nothingness and sameness for hundreds of miles. Felt sorry for them. Then I saw the Blue Ridge Parkway, and felt sorry for the rest of us.

- Blue Ridge Parkway. 750 miles of perfect curves, from the Alleghenies to the Great Smoky Mountains. It's about mountains, mountains, and more mountains. You won't see a billboard or a commercial vehicle anywhere. Not allowed. Hardly any traffic. Thousands of perfectly cambered, constant radius turns. No stop signs, no signals, no police that I saw. Pavement is glassy smooth, and the sides are manicured & cut grass. Constant views to left and right, as this road is on the spine of the mountains. This road did not degenerate into a high-speed curve binge. This is a road for all ages, a road to be savored like a good wine. Try it. You won't stop grinning. Takes 3 days.

- In one of those very strange twists of fate, I entered a blocked-off street under construction in Blaine Wash., to write postcards, and sat down in front of a lonely auto repair shop called Tommy's Foreign Auto Clinic. No humans in sight. After a while, Tommy himself drove up and introduced himself and I learned of his upcoming bike trip to Chile. On an old but very maintained BMW. This was no ordinary man I was talking to. He mentioned that famous world traveler Helge Pedersen came up for the graduation of Tommy's daughter. I started thinking....."Just who is this Tommy, anyhow?" I want to know more. I offered my roof as he swings through San Diego.

- On a small, non discrept two-lane road in Bennington, Vermont, I passed by a driveway with a small sign. Did my eyes deceive me, or did I read, in a nano-second, "Hemmings" something or rather. Turning around, I returned to find Hemmings Motor News , the world's largest publication serving the collector-car hobby. It's a mecca for enthusiasts from around the world. Stick a pin in the very large world and U.S. maps to denote where you are from. They have to clear the maps of pins every two months, as there is no more room left. Down the street they run a gas station complete with the "ding-ding" chord to drive over before a bow-tied attendant services your windshield, tires and checks the oil for you. It's out of a time-warp.

- It takes a few days to cross Ontario. Most of it is lakeside travel. Most beautiful.

- Banff National Park in the Canadian Rockies puts the Sierras to absolute shame. Sad but true.

- There is a surrealistic tunnel before Pensacola, Florida. It's like riding inside a pinball machine slot. Elevation changes with curves. Lit up like a ghost.

- Alligator Alley at the bottom of Florida. Everglades. Swamp rides. Panther crossings.

- New respect (as if I need any) for the exploits of Lewis & Clark.

- Gettysburg. Tearful.

- A bald eagle flew low in front of me on a bridge in Ontario. A poppa bighorn sheep left the two others inside Banff and started walking directly towards me and the bike. I was foolishly OFF the bike taking his picture, when I suddenly realized I was not practicing safe photography here, and what if he should take on the bike. Dead armadillos. Live turkey momma's & their babies crossing the road. I really regret not being able to stop for the turtle in the middle of the 4-lane in Ontario.

- Antebellum rest stop on a Georgia interstate. This is a large bathroom pit stop that looked like "Gone with the Wind's" Tara. Full size.

- Gas stations that have no names, and no name brands, unless "Regular" counts. They do the windows and headlights, and pump the gas.

- In Canada, no radar detectors allowed. Speed: 62.5 = 100 kph.

- In Canada, every day on the road afforded me the chance to savor the sights and scents of fresh roadkill. Seems the blackfly & mosquito population was at an all-time high, and the moose and deer had to escape to the highway just to escape the stinging blackflies.

- Canadian maniacs on 2 wheels. So many bikes, that to wave, you would best put your arm in a cast & hold it up. Every 10th vehicle was a bike between Quebec & Montreal. One had to be selective about who to wave to. Crazy fast. One crotch rocket rider was going about 180 kpm, leaned over the tank with left hand on the throttle.

- The Medusa-like interchange in Montreal was totally in French. I was on full alert.

- Sleeping in full rain gear on an open air park bench during a horrific thunderstorm, I stayed totally dry. The other bikers were huddled against a wall to stay dry as the rain came down sideways. The thunder was like cannon fire.

- Nearing Banff, a monsoon-like wall of solid rain the likes of which I had not seen since Vietnam came at me on the road. Pretty scary not being able to maintain speed, with about 10' visibility, no turnoff, and huge trucks bearing down.

- Stopped at the Continental Divide in the Canadian Rockies, from whence all rivers either flow to the Pacific or the Atlantic. There was a story written there about the hardships of the pioneers who had to figure that out.

- And my vote for worst road? Louisiana's version of an interstate that beat me and my kidneys into submission. The decaying infrastructure cared not that I had new Progressive springs in front, and new Progressive shocks in back set to "soft". It's not really a road, just a bunch of slabs laid down that have no relation to the height of the next slab. Car passengers reminded me of the dashboard dolls with the spring-loaded heads. What a sorry excuse for a state road. I felt like a frog in a blender.

CHAPTER SIX: THE LONG RIDE ITSELF:

The wind sometimes blew from 64 different compass points.

I enjoyed staying in front of flickering thunderheads across Canada, and encountering patches of fog on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I enjoyed to feeling of accomplishment of completing a difficult ride and of a rapid climb in prestige to near the top of the two-wheeled food chain.

I enjoyed being awed by the questionable and fascinating road tales of new, albeit besotted dinner friends.

I enjoyed walking among the uninitiated in full gear like some Borg drone, and being accorded a wide berth.

I enjoyed listening to new country songs, like "She had a gap in her teeth you could drive a truck through, and breath like a dumpster. The hair on her legs and armpits never saw a razor. But drunk as I was, she sure looked good to me". I love romantic songs, don't you?

I overdosed on my first experience with an electric full jacket. Motorists in the slow lane sat up and took notice of the faint smell of burning flesh as I passed. It was marvelous.

The sounds of different types of birds while resting on bench tops at rest stops. No other sounds.

I really enjoyed the constantly changing scenery. Every minute. Every mile. Except Manitoba, which is a flat state, with flat roads, flat buildings, dogs with flat faces. Looks not unlike Holland, but really boring.

Have you ever stayed in one of those cheap generic Asian-Indian dump motels that cater to pre-homeless people, truckers, and bike scum? Neither have I.
If I was lucky, some motels actually had two! light bulbs. Some were built about the time when Studebaker and Nash were fighting for market share with Packard and DeSoto. A hint: Always look for motels next to carry out beer stores.

I appreciated the fact that I rode on world class motorcycling roads. Lots of them. I was drunk with it all.

Didn't matter if ZZ Top or classical, the music seemed to fit the scenery.

I enjoyed watching my long shadow on the pavement below.

I enjoyed watching myself ride by in shop windows.

I just enjoyed the whole damn trip.

For the next few weeks I would awaken in the morning with an urge to be somewhere else. I was restless for movement.

Why did I do it? Selfishly, I must admit, I did it for myself.

Mistakes? Only two:
Trying to ride up my cousins' half-mile dirt driveway in Oregon, which would have been better suited for a gondola. My bike must have weighed over 800 pounds, and has a rearward weight bias, but I figured my dirt experience would see me up the steepness. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It would have been easier to train a goldfish. It took two of us a long, sweaty time to back the beast down the slope. Bulldog style.

After leaving the ignition lock in the wrong direction (read: drained battery) overnight in Winnipeg, my morning started out a lot more interesting than it should have been.

Dislikes? Only Seven:
- High bridges with cross winds. Try the Baton Rouge bridge over the Mississippi River. Unforgettable.
- Running on instinct and gut fear through the freeway inside Houston. Many a rider has gotten lost in the tangle, as signs come up fast, but lane changes are difficult in the tight traffic.
- Fear of ceasing forward motion with my face as a result of deer strikes. I desired no Sic Transit Gloria Bambi's on this trip. The closest I got was a buck the size of a housing project in the Pocono's of Pennsylvania. Eye to eye at 70 mph, he bent downward on his front legs, and decided to spring backwards off the edge of the freeway. How close? It needed breath mints. Thank you Mr. Deer.
- Off to the Canadian Rockies. Rockies meant mountains. Mountains bad. Mountains cold. They icy. After the failure of my heated grips, I immediately entered these Canadian Rockies, and my hands lost all feeling. Pulling into a rest area, I recovered until I could perform manipulation of delicate objects like bowling balls.
- Riding through criminally hot and muggy weather in full gear. But I did not buy that gear just to strap it to the back of the bike. I never knew what was up ahead, and protection overrode comfort.
- Brain dead cage heads.
- The bug count through the Florida swampland and Canada.

I seemed to have overdosed on trucker & hillbilly talk from all that local radio I heard.
Upon my return, my wife Kyoko asked me "Do you love me?" I replied she was right as rain on a thirsty cornfield. I don't know where that came from. Another time, I asked if she could hear me. It went something like "Hey good buddy, youall got yer ears on? Come back."
10-4 on that, I hear you on that.

CHAPTER SEVEN: HISTORY

The feeling of generations of souls surrounding my bike never ended as I rode through the following towns:
Cochise's Stronghold
Head Smashed In
Buffalo Jump
Devils Courthouse
Jumpingoff Rock
Northwest Trading Post
Thunder Bay
Medicine Hat
Swift Current
Rain Cloud
River Watch
River Run
Moosejaw
Swift Current
Cherry Lane
Bear Den
Devil's Backbone
Hogwallow Flats
Blowing Rock
Bat Cave
Little Switzerland
Shenandoah River Valley
Daniel Boone's Trace
Boone
Also, I noticed a lot of gas stations bearing the name: El Cheapo gas.

Then there were the gaps in the Blue Ridge and Great Smoky Mountains the settlers came over:
Hickory Nut Gap
Rockfish Gap
Pinefield Gap
Swift Run Gap
Big Witch Gap
Wagon Road Gap
Roaring Gap
Fancy Gap
Irish Gap
Bear Wallow Gap
And lastly, Deal's Gap, a motorcycle mecca: 318 turns in only eleven miles. Its called the Dragon.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE BIKE ITSELF

My anti-Klingon shields were fully deployed with air deflectors, the tallest Clearview windscreen for quiet when listening to the 45 tapes I selected, and a really excellent $600 "Day Long" saddle from Russell seats. After adding heated grips, my cross continent mile-muncher was ready. And I was enjoying my new toy, a CB radio, learning how to talk like a trucker. In no time at all I could say "Narg mungher slink squalk awak ssssssh rakwanker you'all." Just like the big boys!

Modern engines: The bike itself? It really doesn't matter, as all the new bikes are just so marvelous.
At 3200 rpm, those little pistons are traveling about 1000 feet per second, in 1.5 inch, stop and go increments. That's about 192,000 ups and downs in an hour. Which equates to almost 2 million explosions a day. The suck-squeeze-bang-blow drill of my 4 cylinder engine occurred exactly 35,328,000 times and never missed a beat. Think about that one for awhile.
For the 23 days I was gone, it never hiccuped, never complained, and never used any oil! Every Japanese bike can do that today. We are living in a great time to ride bikes.
But for the record, I bought a new Kawasaki Voyager just for this trip. It was bulletproof.

CHAPTER NINE: WHY DO THIS?

OK, so the question sometimes arises......"How come?" Firstly, its nice to be able to submerge yourself in an activity that you love so much. Why not try an endurance run that not one motorcyclist in 100,000 will ever experience?

2- It's a chance to step out of society and experience myself in a totally different context. And I've always set goals for myself to see what I could do on an individual basis.

3- This 11,500 mile trip was begun with 49 hours of work, intensity and commitment. But they were just subheadings under the main theme: Have Fun. Mix them all together and it's hard to find this level of excitement doing anything else.

4- I had always promised myself that I would someday do something like this when I was old and senile, and now I am.

5- I am a certified Biker Trash. And I wanted a ride with a different set of fingerprints on it. This was about as different as it gets.

6- I had questions that needed answering: "How far can I go? Where are my personal limits? Where will my central nervous system finally turn into Malt-O-Meal? Can I possibly make San Antonio before sleep?

7- Who am I kidding? Unlike some of you, I'm not getting any younger. I notice more and more people referring to me as "that old guy".

8- To take advantage of the wonderful human defect so prevalent in motorcyclists, which allows us to barter security for psychic reward.

9- "The communion of man and machine in pursuit of "The Ride" is the holy grail of motorcycling. The Ride is the dispenser of motorcycling, that most elusive and addictive narcotic of the motorcyclist, who is at one with his machine in pursuit of the fulfillment and joy of The Ride"
- Warren Harhay

10- To avail myself of the 99 gas prices available everywhere else in North America.

11- The simple truth is that for a motorcyclist, the ride is its own end, meaning, and justification. End of story.

12- Ralph Waldo Emerson once said "Everyday, we should do something that scares us." I have always lived by that precept. It makes for a much fuller life.

13- On your deathbed, you'll not regret the risks you took, but the risks you didn't take.

14- When you really think about it, motorcycles offer a unique accessibility to heroism. As motorcyclists, we epitomize the American Independent Spirit. It's easy to forget how lucky we are. There are millions of Walter Mittys living in quiet desperation out there. But how many people get to experience the freedom and joy we receive from riding?

15- I very much wanted to learn how to continue upright on a two wheeler while hallucinating. I had read about others doing this on extreme long rides, and I thought....."How is this possible?" In my case the white lines undulated vertically like white snakes, and I was constantly going into caves & tunnels where there were none.

16- If you want to launch big ships, you must go where the water is deep.

17- To gain entry into a very small community of riders.

18- When was the longest motorcycle journey of YOUR life? I wanted to define that. I seized the opportunity.

19- When was the last time you far exceeded your known limits? Redefined who you were and what you do?

20- On a long distance ride one has a rare opportunity for introspection. You have an uninterrupted appointment with yourself, a meeting to get back in touch and once again become whole. At the surface your skills of survival still instantaneously interpret the steady stream of messages of alarm and concern broadcast by the road, but deep down within, thoughts about life and death and friends and family concurrently move about as if on a different, more basic level of consideration and consciousness.

CHAPTER TEN: A WORD ABOUT THE IRON BUTT CONTEST AND ASSOCIATION

Every two years, the association (see ironbutt.com) puts on an event that also reaches to the 4-Corners of America, with lots of bonus sections for the mileage starved.
This ride is called the toughest motorcycle competition in the world. With all due respect to the Paris-Dakar race, this IS a tough ride. The winners average about 1200 miles a day for 11 days. Rider magazine once took a survey and found that the average ride on a one-day trip for most readers is 125 miles.
Don't want to try for the bonus's? You'll still have to average about 823 miles a day.
Median riders average 920 miles. You ride that distance for just 4 days and you've already surpassed what the average American rider will do in a year.
It's said that only 1% of motorists are bikers. Only 1% of them are long distance riders. And only 1% of them are Iron Butt types. There is a bond that exists between riders that have completed the IB. It's like a brotherhood of shared isolation. Less than 180 riders have actually completed the Iron Butt ride as of 1997. As I write this (9/99), 98 riders left the gate for this years ride.
Average age of the starters: 46
Mike Kneebone (one of the founders) and Fran Crane (a female) once toured the 48 states in 6 days, 6 hours on nine hours' sleep. Fran Crane is a leader among women. She once completed the 4-Corners ride in 9 days.

PROLOGUE

1) Saddlesore 1000: I did 1285 miles during the first 23 hours.
2) Bunburner 1500: I crossed 1500 miles before Houston after 3 hours sleep. Total time: about 28 hours, leaving 8 hours to spare.
3) 50CC: I only had 1:05 remaining, but I did it. Total miles: 2442.
4) Crazy Joe Todaro's record, after riding for about a quadzillion years & miles: 1224. I did 1285 with an hour left in the day. I could have gone perhaps 70 miles more, to San Antonio, but these were uncharted waters for me, I thought the better of it while I was still coherent.
5) Four Corners of America: Done with 2 days to spare.
6) Self-qualify to be a true "Iron-Butt Type"............sorry, but I just don't know how they do what they do. They are the true masters, I am only an apprentice who now knows his limits. But that was, in part, what this trip was all about.

As I replay the ride, I realize I broke personal riding boundaries by about, uhh, two orders of magnitude. Including 4 extra riding days at the end, the trip totaled 11,500 miles in 23 days.

I learned how to sleep on park benches. Inside a helmet. OK, so it's not a valuable piece of information for the real world, but then again, this was not the real world I was dealing with.

Some, upon finishing this ride, have broken into tears. Most have pushed their limits to a new level. If you ever find yourself wondering where your limits are, go out and push them a little....it feels real good!

It was a magical motorcycle ride. Hour after hour of flowing over the roadway, absorbing and digesting the road in all its challenges and quickly appearing variations. Even when surrounded by traffic, I was in my own private universe.

I had ridden "alongside" the legends. I rode with the big dogs. I had been roasted, soaked, frozen and starved. I had been gravel strewn, mud caked and cut off. I had been exhausted, dirtied, and had the time of my life. I had triumphed, I had finished. 552 straight hours of something new every minute while on the road.

The journey was more joy than pain. It never ceased to be anything but wonderful, even in the worst moments. I was always totally entranced by the whole thing. It was harder to stop than to start. Someone later asked me what was the best and worst time of the ride, and I said: "The finish".

Would I go again? Probably. I can't believe I just wrote that down here.

Now that's it's over, I just think about all the wonders I saw, and grin to myself. 22 states + all 7 providences. It was a bitchin ride. The best ride in 50 years.

Lou Caspary
San Diego
1999

postscript:: As this article "goes to press" I have received the final email from the daily dispatches from the Iron Butt Association. George Barnes has just won the 1999 Iron Butt Rally with an amazing 13,346 miles. All in 11 days. Calculator, anyone?
On a much more serious note, Fran Crane had a single vehicle accident caused by a helmet misfunction and was air lifted to a Salt Lake City hospital, where she was mistakenly given an incorrect I.V. solution that contained a blood thinner, which built up pressure and rendered her brain dead. Mike Kneebone has asked for prayers all around for this fine lady of the motorcycling world. During this rally I believe she was briefly tied for first place. She will surely be missed.

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