IRONBUTT RALLY, 1997 - Part 1
by Robert E. Higdon
Subject: Iron Butt Rally: Day -1
Elgin, IL
8/24/97
The Curtain Rises:
They're gathered here tonight, these riders, from
cities as far
away as Hanover, Germany and places as strange as southern California,
at the
Hilton Hotel for the start of the father of the mother of all motorcycle
endurance contests, the biannual Iron Butt Rally. Resurrected
from the
ashes in 1991 by Iron Butt Association president Mike Kneebone, this
is the
premier event of its kind in the world. If you don't believe
that, ask one
of the 300 riders who was fruitlessly wait-listed for a place on the
starting grid.
The starters have paid a $750 entry fee for the opportunity
to
have their heads kicked in by the merciless gods of chance, weather,
and fatigue.
If the past is prologue --- and on the Iron Butt it always is --- then
they'll
be running through temperature ranges of almost one hundred degrees,
altitude changes of 10,000 feet, and six time zones. The winner
will
average better than 1,000 miles/day for eleven straight days.
No ordinary
motorcyclist will ever experience such a ride.
But these people are far from ordinary. Take two
of them, for example:
Tom Loegering and Eddie James. At the banquet that concluded
the 1995
contest, Loegering and James stood in first and second place, the
tight-knit community of hard riders vanquished at their feet.
Within a
week both had been disqualified for rules violations, a decision by
then-rallymaster Steve Chalmers which has reverberated through the
long-distance riding community nearly to this day. Stepping in
like Mighty
Mouse to save the day was Mr. Kneebone, a fellow who modestly describes
himself as "the nicest guy who ever lived." With a diplomatic
touch that
Metternich or Henry Kissinger could have applauded, Kneebone invited
both
Loegering and James to appear at the rider's meeting today, to stand
up, to
confess their sins, and to be absolved, if possible, by their fellow
communicants.
For James this was for all practical purposes a non-issue.
He had been
calling Kneebone for two years, begging to be allowed to enter this
year's
event. If Mike wanted him to come to Chicago to repent in public,
then
come to Chicago he would do. Besides, James' number had been
picked
serendipitously from the wait list. He had nothing to lose but
the
humiliation that was certain to be heaped upon him by anyone with a
tongue
to lash.
Eddie's sentence was short and swift: Kneebone required
him to stand up
at the rider's meeting, admit what he had done wrong in 1995, state
the
reasons why no rider should ever follow in his footsteps, and accept
the
scarlet letter that would brand him for a long, long time. Eddie
did it,
for the moment the utter soul of humility. And if you have ever
met Eddie
James, you will know that humility is not one of his stronger character
traits. Then again, humility is something in short supply among
these
riders. They know they're good. And they are.
For Loegering it was a closer call. Mike had told
him months earlier
that grandmothers with a history of triple-bypass surgery were more
likely to
start the event than would he. Even with no chance to enter the
event, Tom
did appear at the rider's meeting this afternoon, recite his own prior
sins, and give the contestants a warning about side-stepping rules
that not
one of them should ever forget. It was a wistful moment --- a
man who'd
come to Chicago with no chance to run the rally, who knew that his
earlier
actions had created a furor that had not subsided for two years, and
who
recognized that nothing he said would change people's perception of
him by
the width of an atom --- this small lecture by such an inoffensive
and
mild-mannered man who exhibits such grimly and single-minded competitive
qualities. In my view Loegering showed more character today than
I've seen
in a lot of my friends who've faced far less arduous circumstances
than Tom
has ever endured. When someone writes the story of the greatest
Iron Butt
rallies of all time, Loegering's name will feature prominently in most
of
them, including the one he didn't run in 1997.
Loegering's sin in 1995 involved a conspiracy to alter
the identity of a
rally towel, and here I use the prosecutor's terminology. Without
going
into this much further, the details of which are contained on the Iron
Butt
Association's web page, I merely suggest that the simple towel, or
"toalla"
for the benefit of our Spanish-speaking readers, became overnight one
of
the most hotly-debated and fiercely-contested issues of recent Iron
Butt
memory. When the towels were handed out at the banquet tonight
with all of
the catastrophic admonitions that have followed in the wake of the
Loegering incident, one rider questioned whether it might be possible
to
have one surgically implanted upon his hip. At least that's what
I thought
I heard him say. "Do whatever you have to do," Kneebone said.
"Just don't
lose that towel."
\
When the festivities were over, I ambled back to the administor's
suite in the hotel. About ten people were huddled in the cramped
space, talking
animatedly. Mike said, "Sit down. We have our first problem.
DeVern
Gerber has already lost his towel."
Time. Roads. Weather. Numbing fatigue.
It's the essential Iron
Butt.
And towels. Those too.
**************************
Iron Butt Rally: Day 0
Lisle, IL
8/25/97
0430 --- The Iron
At 0330 this morning I am walking around the Hilton's parking
lot, smoking
a cigarette, and nipping on a nicely-iced Bailey's from time to time.
This
is my pre-flight inspection of the weapons to be used in the 1997 Iron
Butt
Rally (IBR). Arrayed before me in the dim light of a waning moon
and
hotel's crime lights are four score of the sorts of motorcycles that
most
bikers would die for.
I do not intend the pun about motorcycles versus life.
Of the riders
sleeping tonight as I review their bikes, there is not one among them
who
believes that he (or she) might not live to see the conclusion of this
event. That is because motorcyclists are the most optimistic
sorts of
people one could meet. They need to be in the face of crushing
statistical
data that proves not one in four of the riders today will make it out
of
the parking lot in one piece. Yet they will soon sally forth,
smiling and
confident, on a ride that many would consider terminally daunting.
They
trust these machines not to kill them.
There is decent reason for that optimism. If you
like transcendent focus,
you should see these bikes. In this parking lot I am at the apex
of the
designer's and machinist's art, motorcycles which laugh at the feebleness
of their own grandfathers. Just over a year ago, in an article
that
commented on the brilliance of one of BMW's new two-wheeled creations,
I
suggested that the mechanical advances of motorcycles in the past thirty
years had outpaced the development of every other technology except
that of
clocks, computers, and cameras. I stand by that even now, especially
when
I see what is resting in this lot tonight.
Since these riders can routinely hang onto their bikes
until the gas runs
out --- hence the name "Iron Butt," duh --- they like big gas tanks,
metastatic versions or their forefathers. Morris Kruemcke, on
the short
list of favorites in this rally, can carry 39 gallons on his Gold Wing
and
has a documented straight-line run of over 1,200 miles without his
feet
hitting the ground. He solved the rest stop problem with
a drain tube.
And besides, with enough gasoline on board to incinerate Dresden all
over
again, he has more to worry about than where to take a pee. As
someone
pointed out during the rider's meeting, if you're going to work on
Morris'
bike, you really should be wearing gloves.
But if the Iron Butt was about nothing more than measuring
the guy or gal
with the biggest gas tank and hardest ass, we could do that in the
hotel
parking lot with a volumetric tub and a hammer. The rally restricts
on-board gas capacity to not more than eleven gallons and reserves
the
right to impound finishing motorcycles to check for compliance.
To date
there has been no minimal requirement for butt hardness, something
that
tends to be self-revealing over the course of eleven days and five
checkpoints.
The iron sits, waiting. They're in beautiful shape.
When this
grueling trial is through, most of the bikes will still be in better
shape than
their owners.
1045 --- The Butts
Mike Kneebone is going to hand out the last section of
route information
in five minutes. Seventy-eight riders, upon receiving that envelope,
will
be free to depart at any time after 1100. They then have thirty
hours to
reach Gorham, Maine just west of Portland. For each rider there
seems to
be three or four well-wishers. The parking lot is packed.
The video crew
is grabbing final interviews. Local reporters scurry for last
moment
quotable quotes. Kneebone alone seems unpreturbed by the almost
palpable
tension surrounding him. Yet I may be the happiest person here,
content in
the knowledge that I don't have to compete in this brain-bruising rally.
Sometimes it really is the little things in life that count, even
negatively.
"Number one!" Kneebone yells.
Rider #1 edges through the crowd. He's Gary Eagan,
the winner of the '95
Butt following the disqualifications of Tom Loegering and Eddie James.
That he is here at all is surprising. That he is actually competing
is
unbelievable. Fifteen months ago he had a horrific crash.
When I heard
about the extent of the injuries, I predicted he'd be lucky ever to
sit on
a bike again, much less ride one.
"Number two!"
Van Singley, my BMW instructor at the American Motorcycle
Institute, steps
up with his usual big smile. He's a rookie with more than a million
motorcycle miles behind him, sponsored by Motorcycle Consumer News
magazine, and riding an F650ST, a bike provided by BMW of North America.
And if along the way the bike should be brazen enough to stop working,
Van
is capable of tearing it down to its atomic components and straightening
out its problems with his bare hands. Some rookie, huh?
The list goes on. Fran Crane, a co-holder (with
Kneebone) of the
record for the shortest time through the lower 48 states and the only
rider here
whose picture is in the American Motorcyclist Association's museum;
Marty
Jones, a DEA agent who will win this event before his career is through;
'91 IBR winner Ron Major; the hard-riding Kruemcke with more than 100
thousand-mile days in his log book; the chastened and uncharacteristically
somber Eddie James; Ron Ayres, author of a book detailing his trials
and
tribulations on the '95 rally; Asa McFadden, who once rode from Key
West to
Prudhoe Bay, Alaska in less than seven days; Canadians Herb Anderson,
Horst
Haak, and Peter Hoogeveen. A win by any of these riding animals
would
shock no one
And if they're not riding in the event, they're working
on it ---
'86 IBR winner Ross Copas is waiting at a bonus stop in Ontario, Dave
McQueeney in
southern California, and four-time IBR finisher Gregg Smith in Florida.
You can't swing a cat in this crowd without hitting a legend.
At 1100 CDT precisely the starting flag dropped.
Just one rider, Ken
Hatton, was sitting at the line, staring fixedly in front of him, a
picture
of impatience. He holds the record, under 42 hours, for the fastest
time
from New York to San Francisco. As soon as the starter nodded,
Hatton's
Kawasaki ZX-11 shot out of the box. There are three basic routes
to Maine;
it is almost a certainty that Hatton will be taking the hardest one.
That's what they do best, these people. They don't
look back.
**************************
Iron Butt Rally: Day 1
Gorham ME
8.26.97
A Good Start, Eh?
The eight Canadian male riders in the '97 IBR represent
just 10% of the
starters but 50% of the top four places at the first checkpoint in
Gorham
ME. This isn't a novel position for our friends from the Great
Frozen
North. In 1986 Ross Copas of Cornwall, Ontario, arguably the
greatest of
all endurance riders, took the lead at the first checkpoint and never
relinquished it. That was the usual Copas style in his heyday.
If he
entered an event, he won it. To competitors, Copas must have
looked the
way Babe Ruth did to American League pitchers in 1927.
It's the short riding season, I think, that accounts for
the Canucks'
remarkable success rate, a season that usually starts in the second
week of
July, when the spring muds recede, and continues until the first snowfall
about ten days later. But for those ten days the guys with the
maple leaf
license plates are pure hell on wheels. My guess is that some
of the U.S.
hopefuls in this year's Iron Butt will be praying for some snow soon.
It
may already be too late for such divine intervention, however: the
rally is
now on its way to Daytona Beach for checkpoint #2 on Thursday.
August
blizzards in Florida, I'm told, are not common.
Mike Kneebone and rallymaster Ed Otto designed the course
for this rally.
They are fond of setting up different routes from checkpoint to checkpoint,
forcing the riders to choose among visiting different bonus sites.
The
first leg from Chicago to Maine consisted basically of a Canadian section,
a northeast U.S. section, and a throwaway ride with bonuses in the
midwest
and Alaska, a choice that no one in his right mind could take and,
as it
turned out, that no one --- not even Ken Hatton --- did.
This style of rally construction is similar to eating
in a Chinese
restaurant. If you like the egg rolls in Column A, you can't
have any
wontons in Column B. A rider opting for the ride through Canada
can pick
up bonus points only from that route. And if, along the way,
he came
within ten feet of a staggering bonus belonging to the U.S. route section,
he'd have to pass it up. The contestant is forced to make difficult
choices about route planning before leaving the checkpoint, knowing
that a
minute spent looking at a map right now could save two hours tomorrow.
It
isn't easy. It isn't supposed to be.
Sometimes a poor choice made in haste can make or break
a rider. That
wasn't the case on this rally's first leg. The potential bonuses
on the
Canadian and American sections were rougly equal, but the presence
on the
Canadian ride of a 700 point bonus in Madawaska at the northernmost
tip of
Maine was alluring to nine riders. Those who took that route
now occupy
the top nine positions on the leader board today.
But the score differential between them and the riders
who follow isn't
much. Indeed, the gap between the top and bottom finishers on
the first
leg is just 1,241 points. That might seem substantial, but the
fact is
that the bonuses will increase in value with each leg. On the
final run
from Yakima WA back to Chicago next week, there could be bonus sites
that
will make Madawaska seem like child's play.
Still, if you want to make a statement about your intentions,
Leg #1 is
the place to do it. You guarantee that for a couple of days at
least you
are the one to be chased. That day arrived today for Canadian
Peter
Hoogeveen, one of the finest riders never to have won a major endurance
contest. Not that he hasn't come close. He finished second
in the '91
IBR, missing the winner's platform by two points. This year he
lost the
Utah 1088 by not much more. So heartbreaking have these losses
been that
stories about Peter's ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory
are
the stuff of Iron Butt legend.
This could be his year. He has the machine for the
long haul, a Honda
Blackbird, the fastest street motorcycle ever made. He has the
sponsorship, judging by the decals that are plastered over the bike's
bodywork, of every motorcycle dealer east of the Canadian Rockies.
At the
rider's banquet last Sunday night, I said to him, "Not that this should
be
much cause for pressure, Peter, but it looks as if the national pride
of
Canada is hanging on your success." He just smiled.
Behind Hoogeveen, tied for second, are Colorado's George
Barnes,
winner of last year's California 1+1 and the Utah 1088, and Texan Morris
Kruemcke.
Canada's Herb Anderson, the victim of a 150 point lateness penalty
that
knocked him from second place to fourth, survived a broken sub-frame
on his
BMW. He said that he could have lived with the bike's abnormal
flexing,
but when the broken end of a large diameter pipe began burrowing through
the bike's seat and into his own --- thus giving new meaning to the
expression "Iron Butt" --- then it was time to find a welder.
That took
some doing in rural Quebec. Anderson spent more time finding
someone who
spoke English than the welder did gluing the frame back together.
The rally packets for the Maine-to-Florida leg were handed
out at 2000
Tuesday night. There are two alternatives, a straight shot down
to Florida
or a more circuitous route to Daytona by way of Springfield MO that
is
possibly doable by anyone willing to take a real chance of being
time-barred in Daytona. Upon receiving the bonus packages, rallyists
normally sit down with a large map, a Magic Marker, and any support
crew
they might have on hand to assess the route's possibilities.
Karol Patzer,
the top female finisher in 1995, huddled with a couple of her backers
from
Minnesota. And Peter? He was seen consulting with Ross
Copas. If you are
going to ask for advice --- there's no prohibition about receiving
such
assistance, since the entrant still has to it ride those pesky
miles ---
it can't hurt to take it from The Man himself, eh?
Oh, Canada . . .
The top twenty at Checkpoint #1 (30 elapsed hours of 264 total):
Rank Name Miles Points
1 Hoogeveen, Peter 1,654 5,241
2 Kruemcke, Morris 1,614 5,107
2 Barnes, George 1,639 5,107
4 Anderson, Herb 1,711 5,091
5 Ayres, Ron 1,721 5,084
6 Hatton, Ken 1,619 5,020
7 Gottfredson, Gary 1,644 5,006
8 McQueen, Gregory 1,655 4,888
9 McFadden, Asa 1,599 4,748
10 Morrison, Rick 1,588 4,694
11 Major, Ron 1,494 4,586
11 Crane, Fran 1,414 4,586
11 Hogue, Brad 1,390 4,586
11 Young, Boyd 1,477 4,586
11 Johnson, Mary Sue 1,488 4,586
11 Stockton, Michael 1,489 4,586
17 Keating, Keith 1,377 4,541
18 Johnson, Gary 1,394 4,485
18 James, Eddie 1,395 4,485
20 Mann, Philip 1,734 4,471
Note: Complete standings and other information concerning the Iron Butt
Association can be found at the Iron Butt Association's home page,
http://www.ironbutt.com.
**************************
Iron Butt Rally: Day 2
Washington, D.C.
8.27.97
Room at the Inn
When Mike and I rolled into my driveway this morning at
0905, Bud, my
ex-female cat, wandered over to the car. She's seventeen this
month.
Occasionally she exhibits some signs of advancing age, though not nearly
as
obviously as I've begun to do in the last four days. This idea
of shoving
a rental car from checkpoint to checkpoint seemed like a good idea
once.
As we left Chicago last Monday, it didn't take long for us to realize
---
an hour maybe --- that it indeed was one of the most massively ridiculous
ideas either Mike or I had ever devised.
The long-suffering Susan, my significant other for so
long that the memory
of man runneth not to the contrary, came to the front door with the
usual
relief in her eyes. She's not a fan of big rides, especially
ones I take.
She and Mike hugged. I just sat down, stone weary. Bud
looked at me,
probably wondering if I'd brought her something to eat from Maine.
A crab
leg possibly? Part of a fish?
"We saw something this morning," I began, "that would
have brought real
tears to your eyes. It was at one of the service areas at the
northern end
of the Jersey Turnpike."
"Was anyone hurt?" she asked. It's always her first
thought when
motorcycles are mentioned.
"Not in any real medical sense," I said. "I think
they were beyond what
we think of as true physical pain."
It was an archetypical Iron Butt tableau. Mike spotted
them first as we
rolled into the parking lot.
"There are a couple of our guys," he said, pointing to
a dimly lit area.
I looked. Then I saw them, two people flat on their
backs on the
sidewalk, lying about fifty feet apart. Their motorcycles, a
Gold Wing and
a BMW K-bike, rested on their sidestands a few feet from each owner.
One
of the riders had folded his left leg across his upraised right knee,
almost as if he were relaxing calmly in a chair, except that he was
supine
on a concrete sidewalk, his hands lying on his chest, his helmet still
strapped on, stretched out in a service area of the NJ Turnpike at
five
minutes after four in the morning, sound asleep. I've slept on
the side of
the road before, but I don't think I ever looked quite so professional
while I did it.
"It's Morris," Mike said.
It was. I grinned at Kruemcke's quiet body.
Maybe for once I could gain
some ground on him.
The other rider looked dead. His legs lay straight
out, not bent like
Morris'. His hands were also folded neatly upon his chest, the
way
morticians arrange the dearly departed. And he too was wearing
his helmet,
though a leather jacket had been thrown across his face, as if he had
been
in a catastrophic accident and the ambulance had not yet arrived.
I walked
to the back of his BMW. A Florida plate. I looked up at
Mike.
"Asa McFadden," he said quietly.
Right. The guy who'd made it from Key West to Prudhoe
Bay in
under a week.
"I have to take a picture of this," I whispered to Mike.
Why I whispered
I'm not sure. Tractor-trailers thudded by on the nearby turnpike,
jarring
the earth as they passed.
I unlocked the car. Instantly all hell broke loose.
The horn began
blasting away intermittently, headlights popping on and off.
Somehow I'd
tripped the alarm on the rental car. For forty or fifty seconds
we
desperately tried to halt the racket. Finally Mike did something
with the
door lock and the din stopped. I was stricken with unbearable
embarrassment of having awakened two people who needed sleep more
desperately than I did. Slowly I turned to look at them.
Neither had moved a millimeter.
"You see these guys here," I said, "and you see some homeless
guy wobbling
down the street. And you wonder if there's any metaphysical difference
between them."
"Homeless guys don't own $14,000 motorcycles," Mike said,
heading
for the bathroom.
For five minutes I looked at Morris' inert form.
I've known him for a
long time, have slept on his couch often, have gone to dinner with
him and
his wife a dozen times, and have written a story about his "project
bike,"
a motorcycle so aerodynamically perfect that it delivers better than
100
miles/gallon at 60 mph. I'v seen him in many different ways,
but I'd never
seen him quite so vulnerable.
Suddenly he moved. The left ankle came off the raised
right knee,
planted itself flat on the sidewalk, and the whole body shuddered slightly.
Morris, a bear-like human except shorter, was coming out of hibernation.
I
was transfixed by this scene from rawest nature that was reeling out
before
me. He sat up, then saw me.
"Well. Hi," he said. No surprise or shock.
It was almost as if he had
been expecting me.
Yuppies call it a power nap. Long riders call it the Iron
Butt Hotel. No
one can ride forever. You have to sleep. And when you wake
up in Room 42
of the Iron Butt Motel, you're liable to see anything. Morris
knows that.
They all know it.
* * * * *
The Oddball Files: Part A
----- Mary Sue Johnson, a truck-driving teamster for Roadway
Express,
wanted to run the 1991 Iron Butt on her Harley but Jan Cutler, the
rallymaster that year, told her to go away. "Insufficient experience,"
Jan
said. Mary Sue's not that large a woman, but I wouldn't want
her angry at
me. She applied again in 1995 and was accepted. She finished
respectably.
Then she got serious. When her Harley was stolen the day before
the start
of the "8/48" last year, an event requiring the contestant to touch
the
contiguous states in eight days or less, she immediately bought a big
BMW,
headed into the sunset, and returned in third place overall.
That's faster
than I did it ten years ago by about three days. She is currently
in a
six-way tie for eleventh place after the Maine checkpoint, along with
Ron
Major, the winner of the '91 rally that Mary Sue wasn't good enough
to run.
----- A rider rolled up to the start line in Chicago. Safety-pinned
to
the left lapel of his Aerostich jacket was a 5" x 2" sign enclosed
in
weather-proof plastic: RECEIPT PLEASE. "That," I thought, "is
a guy who
knows what he's doing." A receipt on the Iron Butt, any receipt,
is a
ticket to ride. It proves you were somewhere. Receipts
are the ultimate
currency in this strange and twisted land, and you ask for one everywhere
you go. But if this rider forgets to ask, a cashier seeing that
sign walk
in isn't likely to forget too.
----- One of the riders coming in to the checkpoint in Maine
handed his
gas receipts and other papers to Mike. Then he showed Mike another
piece
of paper with a National Park Service passport stamp imprinted upon
it.
"There aren't any bonuses on this leg that require you
to get a passport
stamp," Mike said.
"It's the Martin van Buren birthplace site," the fellow
said.
"But it's not a bonus location," Mike repeated.
"I know," the guy said, "but I needed it for the passport
hunt."
"You have time to do that on this rally?" Mike asked.
The guy just laughed. A lot of riders are running
around the country this
year getting passport stamps at national parks, monuments, and historic
sites. It was Kneebone's idea, a better one than driving a rental
car from
checkpoint to checkpoint on the Iron Butt Rally.
**************************
Iron Butt Rally: Day 3
Daytona Beach FL
8.28.97
Essential Kindnesses
When Manny Sameiro awoke yesterday morning, he dressed,
automatically
sticking the baseball cap on his head. The stitching reads, "Iron
Butt
Rally/World's Toughest Motorcycle Competition." They had been
handed out
to all the starters back in Chicago. Sameiro glanced in the mirror.
A
wave of disgust rippled through him when he saw his reflection.
"If I'm not good enough to finish this rally," he thought,
"I don't
deserve to wear this hat."
He sat down on the bed, reached for the telephone, and
began to make some
calls. His movements were deliberate. Gauze bandages covered
both of his
upper extremities from forearm to mid-biceps.
Manny had a few problems. The biggest one was that
his bike was in ruins,
the victim of a crash the afternoon before at a velocity the New Jersey
attorney later described as being "somewhat in excess of the speed
limit."
He'd been hurrying to make the checkpoint at the Reynolds Motorsports
checkpoint in Gorham. He didn't make the checkpoint. He
did make the
emergency room of the Houlton hospital, 260 miles north of his goal,
with
abrasions on both arms. His Tour Master riding coat had shredded.
He needed to get to the Reynolds dealership in a hurry, buy another
bike,
and somehow make it to Florida before the Daytona checkpoint closed.
He'd
already missed one checkpoint. If he missed a second, his rally
was
finished. He had about thirty hours to make everything work.
And he did. I don't know how. We may never
know, but at 2:52:42 p.m.
today Sameiro showed up at the American Motorcycle Institute checkpoint
in
Daytona Beach, took a 10,000 point penalty for switching motorcycles,
received a 3,000 point bonus for making the Florida checkpoint, and
now
stands in dead last place with -7,000 points. It is the lowest,
ugliest
running total of any rider at any time in the history of the rally.
Manny Sameiro is too busy smiling to care..
* * * * *
Joan Oswald was dying. Indeed, if she could have
found a cemetery to lie
down in, she'd have taken it. But it was a small town in North
Carolina,
darkness had fallen, and she was well beyond her last legs. She
saw an
Amoco station.
"Please help me," she told the owner. "I'm falling
asleep on the bike.
I need to find a town park or somewhere to lie down for ninety minutes.
Do
you know of anything?"
"Follow me," he said, leading her through a filthy storeroom.
Joan
shuddered. A door was shoved open. "This OK?" the stranger
asked.
A bed, a shower, a lamp. A promise that she'd be
awakened on time. It
would do. It would do nicely, thank you.
* * * * *
Crossing the border into the U.S. from Canada can be a
problem, especially
when you're a British subject like Phil Jewell, have a resident alien
status in the U.S., and are riding a motorcycle. But the problems
grow a
bit worse when you find that you don't have any identification because
when
you stopped for dinner an hour ago, someone stole your wallet out of
your
tankbag. The English have a word for it, but it's probably not
printable.
Somebody found the discarded wallet and called the cops
in Atlanta where
Phil lives. They called Phil's wife. She called Phil.
Someone called
Federal Express. I call it the blind luck of mad dogs and Englishmen.
He
zeroed Maine with a miss, crawled into Florida before the checkpoint
slammed shut, and is tied for 73rd place. But he's grinning from
ear to
ear, as usual. He's 10,000 points ahead of Sameiro.
* * * * *
Dennis Cunningham prayed nightly to make the cut for the
starting field in
this year's Butt. He didn't. Undaunted, he called Dave
McQueeney, a guy
who has major league clout with Mike Kneebone. "This guy will
do anything
to get in," Dave told Mike. "He said he'd even bring a sidecar."
"He's in," Mike said.
The crab cakes were just settling down in Cunningham's
stomach as walked
out of the restaurant in Ocean City MD yesterday. He was feeling
pretty
good. The rig was getting a steady 29 miles/gallon, the Ocean
City bonus
was hefty, and life couldn't be rosier. Well, maybe just a little
rosier
when the waitress came running out of the front door waving Cunningham's
wallet.
"Hey, mister! Do you need this?"
* * * * *
The lives of Rider A and Rider B --- those are not their
real names ---
intersected along Interstate 95 last night at a photo bonus.
Rider A, a
rookie, was happy to see a fellow Butt. And Rider B is a big
Butt, a pro.
How nice, Rider A thought. A close encounter of the human kind,
too often
a rarity on this long, lonely event.
"Are you following me?" Rider B snarled. Rider A
sat back, momentarily
speechless. "If you're not following me, what the hell do you
want?"
"I just thought I'd say hello."
"Got no time to talk," Rider B shot back.
"And I was wondering if you knew if there was gas at the
next exit."
"I'm not riding with you," Rider B hissed irrelevantly.
"I don't ride
with anybody. Understand?"
Rider A understood.
Rider B reached for his camera. One quick shot.
Wouldn't take a second.
Nail a few points. Rider A began to speak, but the words stuck
somewhere
south of the larynx. The flash went off and the Polaroid film
oozed out of
the camera. Rider B examined the picture, apparently approved
it, stuck it
in his tankbag, and turned back to Rider A.
"I told you not to follow me," he said angrily, popping
his throttle. A
moment later he was gone.
Nearly all bonuses that require a photo for proof of the
rider's
appearance at the location also require that the rider's identification
towel, imprinted with the rider's number, be seen somewhere in the
shot.
It's an ingenious solution to a nagging problem. Without the
towel in the
photo, the opportunities for cheating are boundless. That's why
the loss
of a towel is nearly always a catastrophic event. A rider without
a towel
is often deprived of what would otherwise be an easy bucket of points.
Rider A was sitting at a photo bonus that required use
of the
identification towel. Rider B had forgotten to use his.
He would later be
reminded of his mistake at the checkpoint when the scorers would refuse
to
give him any points for the picture.
"In my whole life I have never once refused to come to
the aid of a fellow
motorcyclist," Rider A would later say. "I guess this time I
just forgot."
* * * * *
You cast bread on the water. Sometimes it comes back
wet. Sometimes a
bread truck arrives at your doorstep. Blanche Dubois knew.
In one of the
indelible lines of the American stage, she says, "I have found that
I can
always rely upon the essential kindness of strangers." I think
that was in
one of Tennessee Williams' plays, "A Motorcycle Named 'Desire'."
--------------------------
Florida Standings
Riders hoping for an early snow to stop Canadian Peter
Hoogeveen were
disappointed today. It was in the low nineties in Daytona and
Hoogeveen
increased his lead slightly over the unflappable George Barnes.
Morris
Kruemcke, claiming to be taking it easy in preparation for the ride
west,
dropped to fifth, just behind the fast-rising Ron Ayres and Fran Crane.
Shane Smith, a rookie from a town in Mississippi so small that even
residents can't remember its name, rode in lockstep with Crane, something
I
wasn't aware that anyone below the master rank of Hot Zoot could
accomplish. He came out of nowhere to take over ninth place.
The biggest
points grabber of all on the leg was the human bear, Gary Johnson.
Bonus locations literally were to be found all over the
map. Some riders
went to Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod. Others were seen
at the
Montauk lighthouse at the end of Long Island. A group of riders
took the
ferry south from Cape May. Three others --- modesty forbids me
from naming
them --- actually showed up at the infamous Gary Hart townhouse on
Capitol
Hill in Washington, D.C., the place where Hart's dreams during the
1987
presidential primaries for occupying the White House evaporated in
erotic,
hypocritical smoke.
Many of the current leaders headed instead for locations
in south Florida
like the Kennedy Space Center and the biggest bonus spot on the leg,
the
Miami houseboat where spree killer Andrew Cunanan committed his final
sin.
The Iron Butt organizers love ghoulish sites --- the ashes of the Branch
Davidian compound had barely cooled before riders were heading for
it in
1993 --- and if they can't find an actual murder scene, they'll take
a
fictional one. In an alley in San Francisco, there's a memorial
to mark
the spot where Sam Spade's partner was shot in "The Maltese Falcon."
Yeah,
they've been there, done that.
The Top Twenty as of Florida (73 total elapsed hours):
Rank Rider Miles Points
1 Hoogeveen, Peter 3,710 10,771
2 Barnes, George 3,729 10,260
3 Ayres, Ron 3,502 10,115
4 Crane, Fran 3,572 10,092
5 Kruemcke, Morris 3,500 10,085
6 Johnson, Gary 3,546 10,066
7 Anderson, Herb 3,692 10,043
8 Hatton, Ken 3,536 9,924
9 Smith, Shane 3,339 9,891
10 Johnson, Mary Sue 3,593 9,850
11 McFadden, Asa 3,499 9,700
12 James, Eddie 3,160 9,678
13 Major, Ron 3,427 9,565
14 Young, Boyd 3,383 9,564
15 Morrison, Rick 3,213 9,548
16 Hogue, Brad 3,132 9,522
17 Ferber, John 2,867 9,485
18 Keating, Keith 3,028 9,462
19 Ray, Bob 2,862 9,453
20 Brooks, Harold 3,182 9,388
20 Clemmons, Jerry 3,145 9,388
**************************
Iron Butt Rally: Day 4
Central Louisiana
8.29.97
Swamp Thing's Last Stand
I hate this place. In the jungle on each side of the interstate
there are
things that have arrived here directly from the Paleozoic era in undiluted
form --- 500-foot death adders, 9,000-pound alligators, spiders the
size of
compact cars, and other nightmares that zoologists are too afraid to
examine. At any time of day coming through the Atchafalaya Swamp
is eerie,
but at dawn and dusk it's positively frightening. Louisiana is
the Land
That Time Forgot, and with good reason.
Fortunately, Mike and I are squeezing our way through while
it's still
daylight. The traffic is heavy on the eve of the Labor Day weekend
but
manageable. If we can average just forty miles/hour for a while,
we should
be able to get out of here alive. Not everyone does. The
movie "Dead Man
Walking" was in part about a vicious double homicide that occurred
not far
from where we are.
Even if Louisiana doesn't kill you, it can change your
life. It changed
Swamp Thing's.
No one has ever loved the Iron Butt Rally more than Rick
Shrader and no
one has ever done worse competing in it. Any athlete can have
a bad streak
--- Hall of Fame Dodger Gil Hodges once went 0-21 in the world series
---
but Shrader's slump is now in its seventh year. With his latest
strikeout
yesterday, surely a new Swamp Thing Rule will be formulated: three
whiffs
and you're out.
In 1991 he was a rookie Butt aboard a dishevelled, thudding
BMW R65. As
pets and owners begin to resemble each other with age, so had Rick
and his
rat bike melded imperceptibly into a single, dramatic unit. He
had the
mien and carriage of a pre-homeless person, the look one gets about
a week
before the eviction. Sporting a variety of Druidic tattoos, a
vengeful,
wiry beard, a thousand-yard stare, and a rich supply of doomsday theories
interwoven with dark veils of conspiracy and meta-voodoo, Rick Shrader
was
not about to be confused with any physician, lawyer, saintly grandmother,
or CPA on the starting line of an endurance motorcycle rally.
But in
truth, if you could withstand Rick's initial over-the-top impression,
you'd
discover a quite remarkable, good-hearted character.
Three-quarters of the way through the '91 IBR, Shrader
made history.
Apparently falling asleep, he ran off the road into a Louisiana bayou
and
sank. Rescuers pulled him out. He was unhurt, but from
that moment he
carried a new name: Swamp Thing. And although he didn't know
it at the
time, that spectacular exit from the rally marked the high point of
Swamp
Thing's IBR career. Never again would he run so flawlessly or
for so long.
Most of us celebrate victory. Rick celebrated the disastrous
'91 Butt by
adding another tattoo to his arm, the logo of the Iron Butt Association.
Mike Kneebone was suitably impressed by that unusual display of dedication.
When Shrader applied for a slot on the 1993 Iron Butt, he was honored
with
being named Rider #1.
Though details are understandably sketchy, by most accounts
Rick went into
orbit on about the third day of the '93 IBR, wandering around in Nevada's
high desert on a random trajectory for a day or so until someone at
mission
control nudged him back into a path for re-entry. Englishman
Steve
Attwood, the eventual winner of the rally, came across Shrader during
one
of Swamp Thing's low passes near the earth and tried to talk him down.
Rick went home early with his second DNF. That year is known
as The Year
Swamp Thing Didn't Crash.
At night in the Grand Canyon during the '95 Butt, he judged
the object in
front of him not to be a curb. It was a curb. Again he
was unhurt, but
he'd bent both wheels, a terminal condition that produced a third straight
DNF and a record that as of yesterday stood unbeaten and untied.
In spite
of himself, Swamp Thing was nearing the very apex of comic immortality.
But no one's laughing today. Rick had an accident
yesterday --- one in
which he didn't even fall over --- on the way to the Florida checkpoint.
He was admitted to the hospital in Daytona late yesterday afternoon
and
underwent surgery on his right knee. We don't have any further
word on his
condition but we do extend to Rick and his wife Jean our most sincere
hopes
for a full recovery. He may be gone from the rally but he is
sure not to
be forgotten. You'd be more likely to forget a typhoon coming
through your
kitchen.
It's inevitable. Bikes will break, riders will tire,
and someone will
fall. But behind those raw truths are some awesome statistics.
In the
first three days of this event contestants have ridden in excess of
212,000
miles. An average motorcyclist covers 2,000 miles in a year.
Ten Iron
Butt riders surpassed than that in forty hours on the leg from Maine
to
Florida. When one has an accident, as Rick Shrader and Manny
Sameiro did,
the safety Nazis begin to swarm, forgetting that between them those
two
guys probably have more than one million miles in their wake.
They go down
sometimes, but it's an uncommonly rare event when they do.
It's the bikes that normally take it in the chops on a
big ride. This
year is no different. Jim Barthell's Kawasaki ate its sprockets
on the
first day. Dr. Dan Cooper's BMW croaked with a fuel problem.
Marty Jones'
Kawasaki ground to a halt with a charging system failure. Marty
recovered,
but missed the first checkpoint. The transmission on Jim Geenan's
Moto
Guzzi went south. An electrical problem on Frank Parsons' Honda
finished
his rally. Leonard Aron's 1946 Indian, a DNF in 1995, fared no
better this
year. It went out with a massive oil leak on the way to Florida.
Today an
unspecified case of bike angst sent Bob Grange's BMW home early, while
engine problems on Ken Hatton's Kawasaki wiped him off the potential
finisher list. It's a fast bike, that ZX-11, almost as fast as
Hoogeveen's
Blackbird, but it has failed Hatton now in three consecutive IBRs.
I caught up to Karol Patzer as she was packing up her bike
yesterday in the AMI parking lot.
"California's that way, Karol," I said, pointing toward
the
sinking sun.
She smiled wanly. I think she's feeling a little
blue. Two years
ago, as a rookie, she was the top finishing woman. Three days
into this event
she's in 38th place overall, well behind Fran Crane (4th) and Mary
Sue
Johnson (10th).
"Hey, stop worrying," I said. "Remember that the
race is not always to
the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor fortune to men of
understanding, but time and chance happeneth to them all."
"This isn't a race, and I'm not a man," she corrected.
"It's from the Book of Ecclesiastes, kid. I speak metaphorically."
"I know."
She'll be all right. She can ride with anyone.
Last June she left
Minnesota on Friday, got to Oklahoma in time for a two-hour Iron Butt
Association meeting on Saturday, turned back home, and was at work
on
Monday morning. Two days later she rode back down to the middle
of Texas
for a motorcycle rally, spent a day there, and rode back home.
I grow
weary thinking of it.
Get on the bike, ride into the sun for a few days, hope
it keeps
working, and don't fall off. And if you do fall off, try to do
it in a bayou.
Swamp Thing tells me that, up to a point, water is easier to smack
through
than concrete.
Bob Higdon
higdon@ironbutt.com
http://www.ironbutt.com