Two years ago I found an application on a web page for the Iron Butt Rally. After reading about the rally for years, I now held in my hands the printout that, with a deposit of US$250, would give me a chance at being an entrant. I still had to wait for a drawing to fill the slots, of which there apparently weren't enough. I found it hard to imagine that more than 80 people would apply for the privilege of abusing themselves and their bikes for eleven thousand miles in the space of eleven days. Still, it seems that the Iron Butt Association gets more applicants than entry slots available, so my entry will be put in the hat with other applicants and hopefully drawn. After the big day of the drawing, my name came out. My entry check was on its way to be cashed, so it was too late to back out now.
Over a year later, I pull into Lisle, Illinois and find the Hilton where I am to check in for the start of the Iron Butt Rally. I've got only one other endurance rally to my name, so I have no clue as to what I am doing. I already know that my bike is out of its league. The twelve year old Honda V65 Magna, which a year ago came to my house in boxes, is going to look kind of sad sitting next to the newer BMWs, Honda ST1100s and various other high-dollar rigs with shinier paint and better gear attached. It doesn't matter much to me. I put this bike together with much sweat equity and I know the bike from the final drive to the fork seals. I personally can attest that the bike is as solid as any of the new stuff sitting in the Lisle Hilton parking lot. So, then, why do I feel so intimidated?
After making my presence known, there is the dreaded technical inspection. I've been worried about this for months. I've added an auxiliary fuel cell to the pillion of my Magna. I followed the rules as best I knew how, but what if I screwed up? The rules say the cell is to be "solid, with no movement". It's solid, with over-engineered aluminum brackets holding it, but it can be made to wiggle if gripped with enough force to pull the bike off the sidestand. What if that counts as "movement"? I'll be forced to remove the fuel cell, I'm sure of it.
Insurance papers must be in order, as well as having a tire repair kit and first aid kit on board. I know these items won't be adequate and I'll be spending my Sunday afternoon searching Chicago for the right items.
I apparently spent way too much mental energy worrying these last months as I sail through tech inspection without a single glitch. All that is left is the odometer calibration. Follow an easy course and record the odometer reading so that the rally might be able to account for odometer error. Three rights turns are all that is required, but I'm sure I'll screw this up.
Odo calibration is completed without error. So far, my secret is safe: I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Off to Ed Otto, the rally master, to sign off on the final disclaimers. The disclaimers amount to a stack of papers that need my signature to confirm that neither I nor my estate will try to sue the Iron Butt Association if I'm carried off in a tornado in Kansas, if the wolves of Montana eat my carcass or if the rally makes me feel really tired to the point that I want to cry. In other words, I'm agreeing to not be a whiner.
I'm given my hat, a name tag and a "good luck" from Ed Otto. Good; so far no one has found out that I don't belong here. Katherine and I walk back out to the parking lot to check out the bikes. The only bike I see that is older than mine is a '46 Indian. It's nice to know I'm not riding the *oldest* bike. It seems Leonard, the Indian owner, is riding the bike more as a novelty, though, hoping to just finish. I actually have hopes of grabbing some bonuses and placing well. I keep reminding myself that even Ron Major, with his US$2000 driving lights and very trick Honda ST1100, has said that it's the rider, not the bike, that is the biggest factor in the Iron Butt Rally. Easy for him to say, since he's riding a bike made in this decade.
As Katherine and I walk about the parking lot, a rider walks up with a hardy, "Mi-i-i-i-i-ke!" It would seem that my long hair distinguishs me amongst the riders, because I haven't a clue who this guy is. As I try to paint a look of recognition on my face, I search frantically for this rider's name tag. Thankfully, Dale Wilson has his tag pinned to his shirt. Haven't met Dale before, but I have read his e-mail messages. As is almost always the case, Dale isn't *anything* like I expected. Not the uptight ex-Navy dude I figured him for. The wild gleam in his eye tells me to watch my backside once the rally starts.
Various other introductions are made, along with some riders I've met before. I bump into Ron Ayres and, as always, Ron greets me warmly and converses with me in a way that makes me feel like I'm really part of this elite group. I'm just a newbie with practically no experience, but you wouldn't know it the way Ron talks to me. It's just Ron talking to another of his peers. The two times I've met Ron has always made me feel at ease.
After a bit, it's time for the rider's meeting. Mike Kneebone goes over rules and tips that I've read a hundred times before. Mike tries to give insights on how the rally works, but I get the impression that one can't really know without actually running the rally. I brought a notepad, but it goes unused since I've just about got this stuff memorized from months of reading and rereading the rally packs that were sent out.
Later on is the banquet, which also brings with it the rally towels and the first bonus listing. The towels are essential for the "photo bonuses" that are a large part of the rally. In order to prove that a rider was at a bonus, the rider's towel must be present in the picture. Losing the towel is a tragedy, as the rider must then use his own face as the identifier. This method would require enlisting the services of a bystander willing to snap the photo. Two a. m. at Chimney Rock, Nebraska could prove it difficult to find a willing helper. I'm not worried as I've packed a portable tripod and a Polaroid camera with a timer. I'd still like to keep the towel as a souvenier, so I don't plan to misplace it.
After dinner, I grab a few Budweisers at the bar. I had originally planned to abstain from alcohol before the rally, but I know that I'll be so wired that I won't sleep. I hope the Buds help to put me out.
No such luck. I finally give up on sleeping around five a. m., grab my recent purchase of Ron Ayres' book _Against the Wind_ and head to the pool to read. After getting through a third of the book, I go out to check the bike. Why, I don't know. The bike is still there, nothing has changed. I guess I just want to confirm that it is still ready for its eleven thousand mile journey. I think I need to worry more about myself than the bike.
Breakfast, then stand around and wait. I guess the late eleven a. m. is to get around Chicago rush hour and to give riders a chance to sleep in. I just wish they'd get the show on the road. I can only chit-chat for so long.
After meeting fellow members of the internet Sabre/Magna list, I stand around and wait some more. The activity picks up as the hours tick away. Pictures are snapped of riders, first the Harley crowd, then the Beemers. It comes time for "unusual" bikes, with myself, the ZX-11 owner and Peter Hoogeveen with his Honda Blackbird standing together. Martin Hildebrandt and his 175cc Zundapp get a photo shoot of their own.
Pictures are done and we synchronize watches to the rally clock. It's getting close.
The final announcements are made. The final bonus listings are handed out. I had a route planned out from the listing given out the night before. Do I deviate from the original plan or go for the listings given this morning at 11 a. m.? It seems that two of the listings match for the first three bonus locations. I can go straight to Hell . . . Michigan, that is. From there, get a gas receipt in Port Huron, MI and then on to Niagra Falls. The Port Huron receipt is only listed on one of my options, but if I grab it, I can wait until Niagra to make a decision as to where I want to go. I've got the plan, so I throw the maps and listings into the tankbag and mount up. I kiss Katherine goodbye with the knowledge that I won't see her or a six-pack of beer for eleven days. It's a tough goodbye. With a wave, I'm off on an eleven day odyssey that I had only dreamed of years before. A tear rolls down my cheek as I realize that I am *really* competing in what will be one of the highlights of my motorcycling career. To me, it's the Olympics of endurance motorycling. I still can't believe I'm really here.
Copyright (C) 1997 Mike A. Stewart