Iron Butt Ordeal
IRON BUTT ORDEAL
A cross-country rally for the hard of posterior and short of sleep
JOHN BURNS
NOT LONG AGO. I WAS LYING ON THE BEACH WITH MY girlfriend Jane, sipping an icy gin and tonic-an-other perfect day on the Pacific. I rolled over and said to her words to the effect that I couldn't believe my life had become so good. SO easy, that something awful must be about to happen. I was thinking in terms of an earthquake.
The next day I went to work and found out I didn't have a job anymore. Then came a letter from State Farm canceling my car insurance, which really was okay, since the old Buick had just snapped its crankshaft. Then another letter, from the DMV, threatened to suspend my license to drive ("Driving is a privilege . . ."). Then Cycle World offers me the chance to do a story on the Iron Butt Rally. Everybody ti~s to kick you whcn voure down. What the hell. I still lhRJ fly health.
Ihe first Iron I3utt Ral Iv took place in I 9~4. under the auspices of one Bob Jones. proprietor Of Monigomeryville (`vcle (`enter in Pen nsvlvania. Ever~ year or two since, the I ron Butt has recurred with the random regularity of a case of' malaria. What it entails is riding your motorcycle around the U.S-say I 0.000 miles-in about I I days. For 1 99 I the ral lv moved west, begin n ins and ending at Reno BMW in Nevada.
Upon heing made aware of' the ral Jv's existence, a norn'ial persons reactiOn is. simply. vhv? Whats the point? I don't know. All I know is that about 30 entrants turned up in Reno on the fIrst day of September. ready and eager to o. I was there, too, with a borrowed, barely broken-in I londa Gold \Ving SE. and Jane. who was to he dropped oH on the liv in Madison. Wisconsi ii.
As the accompanying map shows. I ron E3utt `9 I circumnavigated the U.S.. along a route marked by eight checkpoin ts. Each checkpoint was open f'or two hours: ii' \ou 201 there on time. you 201 2000 poi ii ts. Late arrivals were penalized one point per minute. Soii nds easy. you sa~ `! Well. yeah. Ii you took the path ol least resistance between checkpoints-interstate highways-the rally was more horinu than it was rueIin2.
I3iit you knov~ hov~' we are. Never content to simply enjoy the togetherness ol an event, it is our curse as a nation that everything must he competitive. Hence "bo nus points. garnered by taking side journeys and verified by gas receipts. post cards. etc. II' you wan ted to win. \OU could count on hein2 on your bike at least 20 hours a day for the duration.
Nlv personal philosophy places little shame in getting out of' the kitchen when the heat becomes hot, and Jane strictl~ forbade the gathering of' bonus points as long as she was navigating. Thus, my plan evolved: Until dropping her off in Madison. 1 would take the interstates and conserve strength. By halfway. I figured, those riders going for bonus points early would be spent, and 1 would blast past during the Florida-Texas-California-Nevada stretch to snare victory.
With this game plan in mind. Jane and 1 and the 'Wing blasted up U.S. 395 as fast as the law would allow, plus a little more. When it got dark and cold. 1 plugged her into the electric vest, and all we had to deal with then were the deer, who seemed to think of themselves as cornerworkers—and there are thousands of corners on that road through Oregon. At one point. I slowed for a herd on the right, and was startled to hear hooves clattering on the pavement to my left—a big buck was runningalongside the bike. We stopped in Walla Walla. Washington after a mere. 600-mile day. Eat more venison.
We're on the bike by 7 a.m. the next day. and do the 160 miles to the Spokane checkpoint in 1 30 minutes, but we're still 10 minutes late and lose 10 points. U.S. Highway 12 and Washington Route 127 were worth it. though. Prime eurvery. At the checkpoint, sealed envelopes containing bonus stops for the next leg to Chicago are passed out. A receipt from any of Tok. Alaska's three restaurants will get you 1 706 points. Nobody goes for that leg. but one or two riders (including “Fast Eddie" Sutton from Dallas) do head for Ogden. Utah, for a gas receipt worth 40 points.
It's a thinking game as well asan endurance run. On this leg. good points could be had by swinging southward through Yellowstone Park, then east. Going to Ogden involved 300 miles more riding due south from Yellowstone. then back again, through mountains, at night.
1 was tempted to do Yellowstone, and would have, but Jane had sense enough to point out that it happened to be Labor Day. All those outdoorsmen seeking refuge from city life convene at Yellowstone in the summer to recreate just such an environment there. So we headed east on the interstate and hit Billings, Montana, about 8:30 p.m. —700 miles in 12.5 hours, including an hour lunch stop in Missoula. When I sat down in our rented cubicle that night, my nervous system continued to hum like a hammered Estring. but the rest of the physical plant felt fine. Dozing off a few hours later. I thought of the rest of the boys out there weaving along behind the RVs, 8000 feet up in the Jetons, fee hee.
The next day. we do 822 miles to Jackson. Minnesota, in 14 hours, pulling in at 9 p.m. Piece of cake. Jane, who never spent any time on motorcycles until she fell in with me. is taking it all much better than I'd expected. There's been very little friction of any kind, except for this morning when she pulled a third pair of shoes from her luggage to match her second purse, while I pulled on my three-dayold socks.
The Wing is a wheeled parlor. How many Japanese engineers studied the American butt before building that seat? Cruise control makes the ride effortless. Sometimes the serious guys on the BMWs pass us. I remember how my butt and right wrist felt after a 10-hour ride to San Francisco once on a K 100RS. and I have to snicker as I snuggle back into my loved one. Tee hee.
Day Four sees us hopping the Mississippi's headwaters and even making time fora stop in LaCrosse—home of Old Style beer, one of the finer American brews. We linger, dewy-eyed pilgrims at the foot of the world's largest sixpack. for several minutes, even though it gains us no bonus points. Shortly thereafter, we hit Madison and Jane's brother's house. Stop by and see the panelling job Stan's done in the basement next time you're in town. After losing another couple of hours there. I bid farewell to the old ball and chain, and light out for the McHenry checkpoint just east of Chicago, which turns out to be farther than it looked on the map (everything is). I lose 90 points by being an hour-and-a-half late. Still, that's okay. I have my strategy. I have not yet begun to ride.
At the checkpoint, we learn that one of the favorites is out: Dave McQueeney dozed off, (ell off. and broke his arm. While I've slept at least six hours a night since the rally began, some of the others look decidedly punchdrunk and scraggly. I pull the old officer-confidence trick of being clean shaven even in the midst of battle.
At 10 p.m.. I saddle up and head east again, skirting Chicago and bending back around toward Maine. I check into a cheap hotel in C icero about I a.m. and ask for a wakeup call. I he guy says there are no phones. Nice place.
I'm up with the sun and headed south across Indiana and Ohio for some bonus points. I pick up five in Merrillville w ith a gas receipt, then 30 more by finding out w ho Mentone, Indiana's favorite son is. (Lawrence Bell of Bell helicopter fame, in case you're ever a contestant on “Jeopardy" and the category is Useless Info.) A receipt from the Village Restaurant in Wiltshire bags 44 more points. Then, a stop in Honda’s Marysville, Ohio, plant (w here they make Gold Wings) racks up another 3 I. But 1 start yakking with some PR people in white coats and waste 45 minutes. Perusing my maps in the parking lot informs me I have not gone far today, not far at all. and that Maine is a fair piece distant. I get back on the bike. finally cross into Pennsylvania, finally hit 1-80 East, and settle in to contemplate the breadth of Pennsylvania.
I his state, for some reason, has always seemed kind of dark and scary to me. and after 10 p.m.. the only other vehicles on the road are trucks—speeding trucks. They crawl up the hills and I pass them, then they come screaming down the other side and I'm afraid to stay out front for fear I'll be the one to get the ticket (it's 55 in Pennsy lvania, and they use lots of radar “For Your Safety”), so they all roar past me again. The Gold Wing feels very small, a tiny boat in heavy seas. It's at this point that I begin to miss Jane. I think about my cozy house, my fireplace, my refrigerator. my cat.
It's tough enough to find decent food during the day, but at night it's just about impossible. A Pennsylvania truck stop at midnight is one of the world's loneliest places. But I tank up on coffee and ride another couple of hours until my brain feels like a ball of pink yarn and I check into a hotel in Danville.
It's at this point that I fell into Iron Butt dementia, losing track of what day it was and. sometimes, what planet I was on.
I remember cruising along the Massachusetts Turnpike at about 70. watching the rope holding an antique table and chairs to the top of a minivan loosen, followed bv a multitude of screeches as the nice pieces of' f urniture are reduced to splinters which the other cars swerve to avoid. That's the kind of thing that kills people on bikes, I think. And everybody would just tut-tut about how dangerous motorcycles are as they hosed you off the pavement. Anyway, I make the checkpoint at Gorham. Maine, by 5. where one spectator goes on to me about what a “great honor" it is to finish the Iron Butt. Fran C rane, the rally's lone female, is out with fuel-injection trouble on her K 100. I wo hours later, we all hop back on our bikes, turn right back the other way on 1-95 and head south, watching out for moose.
At least we'd be going through the Eastern megalopolis at night. I figured. I had a route planned, maybe a few miles longer than the shortest way, but a simple one that bypassed the worst congestion, stuck to main interstates and would be hard to get wrong. But I made the mistake of' stopping for gas and bumping into a couple of other Iron Butters with a foolproof' route.
We made a good start toward Albany before changing course for Long Island. We toured Yonkers and nearly visited the Statue of Liberty before finally getting pointed in the right general direction. If you ask a New' Yorker for directions, make sure there are no others within earshot.
I hev stroll over, casually at first, until the direction-giving heats up and becomes a competitive event. Theonlv thintz everybody can agree on is that you are totally going the wrong way and are an idiot, a difficult theory To refute. New Yorkers love to tell you to make the next three rights. Think about it.
So I just stopped and w ent to sleep, but somehow did get to the next check in Montgomeryville. Pennsylvania, the following day—an hour late and another 60 points in the hole. Last Ed. who'd led ever since Reno, lost out on 200 points by failing to get a receipt the night before when he'd crossed the George Washington Bridge. Since tolls are collected eastbound only, you needed To backtrack over the bridge to get a receipt. Eddie didn't, and Steve Black, a traveling nurse currently residing in Lodi. California, moved into the lead.
From here, it's a straight shot down 1-95 to Florida. Frazzled at the halfway mark, most of the entrants ride straight south, ignoring bonuses. J do about 600 miles before stopping in Florence. South Carolina, for the night. 1 feel good. I like the South. The lady at the gas station comes outside to look at the Wing, chat awhile and ask me, tactfully, after she finds out what I'm up to. from which mental condition I suffer.
I hit the Baldwin. Florida, checkpoint seven minutes early. Perfect. An hour later. I'm on the road again as huge rain clouds pile up over the Gulf of Mexico to the left. I cruise through Pensacola and then through Mobile. Alabama. at dusk, and hook up with Ed from Chicago, a guy going for the win. The time has come to make my move, to ride hard for points.
We stop for gas in Hattiesburg. Mississippi, about I a.m. I'm ready to push on. but Ed peers up from his gas hose and says this looks like a good place to stop and sleep. One look at how tired he is makes me tired too; my non-competitive drive has infected him. We try to buy a six-pack to put us to sleep, but it's after midnight and the kid at the store can't sell us beer. Obviously, we're heathens for even wanting alcohol at that hour, deep in the Bible Belt.
The next day. it's across the Mississippi and across Louisiana, hot and humid. Finally, we hit rain, but don't even bother to suit up. It's a warm shower that fills my boots, yet an hour after it ends. I'm totally blow-dried. The humidity fades as Ed and I slide into Mansfield. Texas, just before the checkpoint opens at 7 p.m. Nichols Touring Specialties has laid out a spread of fried chicken and Gatorade.
We learn that another rider has dropped out. Richard Shrader has piloted his BMW R 100 off the road and into a swamp in the middle of the night. When a pack of Iron Butters happen upon him. he is just crawling from the ooze, mud and weed further adorning his already hirsute self. At first, the other riders think they have come upon Swamp Thing, and almost don't stop. Finally, they extricate his bike and leave him at the next town.
After Mansfield, me and Ed push on another I 50 miles and check into a hotel in Abilene. But I'm a loner and have grown tired of Ed. who has begun to impress me as a hybrid of' Baby Huey and Uncle Fester. I make a point of getting up before dawn the next day and blowing out of town without him.
1 head for Guadalupe Mountains National Park (yes. Texas has mountains) for bonus points, and bump into Harold Brooks and points leader Steve Black. They'd already' been down to Big Bend National Park and back in the wee hours, sleeping an hour at a time at the side of the road. I decide to tag along.
On this leg. you could've stayed south, or you could've gone north, up through C olorado Springs, Denver and Utah. The northern route would bag about 90 more points, but Steve had it figured as a much longer ride, and we decided to stay south.
We ride our butts off and get to a bonus stop in Hereford. Arizona. We're eating bad chili when in walks my old riding buddy Ed. who decides to accompany us. Fine. On the way to Nogales, we need to ride to the top of Montezuma Pass, the last three miles of which is kinky dirt road, to find the answer to a bonus question. We make it up fine, and the stars are just big frozen clouds of dust; we doze for an hour under them. By now. I've learned to sleep without getting off the Gold Wing: I lean back on Jane's insulated rainsuit. rolled up on the passenger seat, and with my helmet on. my head rests perfectly against the seat back. With the electric vest plugged in under my Aerostieh suit. I am as good as in bed. if a little lonely.
We start back down the mountain, but see a sign pointing down a different dirt road: “Nogales 55 miles." Hmm. A shortcut.
“Probably turns paved in a few miles." Steve says, and the rest of us figure lie's had good luck so far. so okay, let's try it. We go probably 10 miles, cross a couple of axle-deep water crossings, and the road gets no better. We decide to turn back, when it occurs to us there’s no Ed. Five miles back, we come upon the Edster walking down the road with a feeble flashlight.
“Where's vour bike. Ed?"
“I left it. I can't ride on this dirt stuff.”
Ed's genes apparently are devoid of the off-road chromosome. so I ferry Ed to the pavement, then take Brooks back to the abandoned Beemer so he can reunite it with Ed. All in all, a wonderful evening. After that, the others headed for Nogales for 30 points, but I got back on the interstate to C alifornia.
I then got lost somew here around Tombstone, w here it's real spooky at night, and to cap off the evening, ran over a skunk w hose last act was to anoint the Wing just before it snuffed him. His memory lingered for several hundred miles.
This is the true Iron Butt. Every time my eyes get heavy, I pull off the road into a dark spot and lie on the bike with the key on Accessory so the electric vest will keep ticking over. The only holes in the darkness are the blue digital clock and radio buttons, sort of like a nuclear submarine resting on the ocean floor. After a lew minutes’ snooze, I start the engine and roll off the centerstand and back onto the road without even dismounting. I make the Santa Ana, California, checkpoint an hour late, at 5 p.m.
Rallymaster Mike Kneebone, who laid out the course, points out to those of us who'd taken last night’s southern route the fact that we're blockheads. Not only was the Colorado route worth more points, it was actually shorter.
Now that it's evening, I feel pretty good again, and go eat chicken with a bunch of people from Irv Seaver’s BMW/Suxuki dealership. I just need to be back in Reno by noon the next day, and this cross-country adventure will be over. Thinking traffic will be lighter if I loiter awhile, I don't get out of' I..A. until about 9 p.m.. and make it only as far as Victorville before the chicken settles in my stomach. the coffee gives up and my brain informs me that it's shutting down operations. The Iron Butt tests ability to stay awake more than anything. For the next few' hundred miles. I ride 10 minutes and park for an hour, ride 8 minutes and park for an hour. Nothing is harder to do than stay awake when your brain doesn't want to, and nothing is more dangerous on a motorcycle. Harold Brooks, who was up there in the standings, fell asleep on his Gold Wing somewhere on the way from Nogales, luckily breaking only a collarbone.
Toward dawn. I finally perk up and make Reno only a little late. While I struggled to get there the quickest way. the frontrunners had been to San francisco for a Bay Bridge receipt, and Fresno and Tonopah and Kings Canyon and basically all over Hell and back.
Reno BMW had a great spread of food arranged, but nobody felt much like partying—although some people wanted to keep riding. Seriously. At the end of all those miles and 12 days, six points separated the top three finishers.
Steve Black, on an '8 I Gold Wing, finished third, with I 9.629 points (he also stopped to help McQueeney when he fell and broke his arm. and helped get Ed down from Montezuma Pass). Canadian Peter Hoogeveen, of Rexdale. Ontario, finished second on a BMW, with 19,631 points. Ron Major, a television engineer f rom Los Angeles, turned out to be the glorious winner, on an '87 Gold Wing, gathering 19.635 points. How they did it I'll never know'.
Why they did it must remain an even greater mystery,
John Burns. a former associate editor at Cycle magazine. will he contributing stories on a regular basis. If he ever catches up on his sleep, that is.
