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May 2009

Part 1 of 4: Two Days to Del Rio

Friday, 29 February 2008, marked the end of seven days and 4,448 miles in the saddle for me. My trip began with my 31st Iron Butt Ride, a Bun Burner 1500 run from Miami Beach FL to Del Rio TX, covering a total of 1,568 miles in 34 hours 26 minutes. It ended with my 32nd Iron Butt Ride, a SaddleSore 2000 run from Carlsbad NM to Miami Beach FL, covering a total of 2,126 miles in 43 hours 51 minutes. Most of the remaining miles were spent riding through some of the most historically rich locations and incredibly scenic landscapes the Lone Star State has to offer.

At 6:06am ET on Friday, 22 February 2008, I pulled an ATM slip at the SoBe WaMu to mark the start of an Iron Butt ride called the Bun Burner 1500. Unlike the Bun Burner Gold (“BBG”), which requires that you ride over 1,500 miles in under 24 hours, the Bun Burner 1500 gives you 36 hours to cover that same distance. I already had 16 BBGs to my credit at that time (and 4 more since then), so I decided to take advantage of the extra 12 hours the BB1500 allows to not only include a sleep break but also enjoy more of the scenery by doing more of the ride during daylight.

The roads and skies were clear as I rode up IH-95 towards Jacksonville. The temperature headed south as I headed north, but wearing my rain pants prevented any precipitation. In Jacksonville I turned west on IH-10, and passed the IH-75 interchange in Lake City just after noon. From there, twelve more hours of increasingly cold but uneventful mile-eating took me through the Florida Panhandle, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and finally into Sweet Mother Texas, where I checked into Beaumont’s Best Western Jefferson Inn at 11:18pm CT. I had to set the motel room heater on high to burn the chill out of my bones. But once the shivering caused by an irritatingly persistent fever stopped, I enjoyed a good night’s rest.

On TV the next morning, a talking head on The Weather Channel assured me of “…warm sunny skies over most of Texas.” But I guess that didn’t include Beaumont … where a quick peak out my door informed me it was foggy and cold. I put on some sweats and went to pig out on the free boiled-egg breakfast buffet in the lobby. Full of caffeine and calories, I then went back to the room and bundled up, packed up and headed out at 7:55am CT.

It was cool riding with overcast skies for the first four hours of Saturday’s run, but a warming sun broke through by the time I reached San Antonio around noon. From there, I left IH-10 and the interstate system behind me, continuing west on US-90. As it was with Route 66, this highway parallels the railroad for much of its course. And also like the Mother Road, the deeper into the brushy ranch country I went, the further back in time the clock seemed to turn. Each small town along this 150-mile route to Del Rio is steeped in Texas tradition, and reminiscent of an era of simpler, better times, e.g.:

Castroville, settled in 1844 by Franco-German Europeans from the Alsace region, whose architectural influences remain to this day

Hondo, where 14,000 navigators were trained in WWII, and whose welcome sign reads “This is God’s Country, Please Don’t Drive Through It Like Hell”

Sabinal, home of the annual Wild Hog Festival (as in real wild hogs), Bow Hunters Roundup, and Buck-n-Boar Contest

Uvalde, home of former U.S. Vice-President John Nance “Cactus Jack” Garner, and birthplace of actor Matthew McConaughey and Roy Rogers’ wife, actress Dale Evans

And of course Brackettville, whose Fort Clark was once home to the famous Buffalo Soldiers, and where a replica of The Alamo was built for the John Wayne movie

I reached the outskirts of the border town of Del Rio around 3:00pm CT, and pulled in to grab some end-of-run witness signatures from the friendly folks at T&T Cycles. From there I cruised on into town, and took a cheap–and I mean cheap--room at the Western Inn on Avenue F, Del Rio’s main drag. Then I walked over and pulled an ATM slip at the nearby IBC Bank to mark the end of this Bun Burner 1500 ride at 3:32pm CT.

Located just across the Rio Grande River from Ciudad Acuna Mexico, Del Rio can be considered a “border” town in more ways than one. As you’ll learn from logging onto Wikipedia.org, “Del Rio lies on the northwestern edges of the Tamulipan Thornscrub, also called the South Texas Brush Country. It is also near the southwestern corner of the Edwards Plateau, which is the western fringe of the famous, oak savanna-covered Texas Hill Country.” And that puts Del Rio right smack dab at the eastern edge of the West Texas region of the 140,000 square-mile Chihuahuan Desert … which is where this saga will continue next month.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

April 2009

If your email address makes their Broward County list, A.B.A.T.E. (as in “Always Bring Alcohol To Events”) will keep you well posted on all the local beer-busts. And if you ever need a key ring or air freshener for your bike, A.B.A.T.E. (as in “American Bikers Aiming Towards Education”) of Florida maintains a highly paid lobbyist who’s more than willing to make side deals with legislators, or even sell out his constituents, if that’s what it takes to secure state funds for such worthwhile safety resources. But if you happen to be part of the “old guard” that originally founded A.B.A.T.E. (as in “A Brotherhood Against Totalitarian Enactments”), then you won’t need to go online and read this article in order to appreciate why a few weeks ago we rode 650 miles–to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina–with my sole intent being to dare the LEOs there to give me a ticket:

http://tinyurl.com/TheRideOfTheOneHundred

The needs of noble NVCD (non-violent civil disobedience) aside though, reading the last two installments of this column will assure you that the last thing I would normally seek out is a traffic ticket. And thanks to information from the NMA … and inspiration from an absolute necessity of not accumulating any more points on my driving record … I’m getting much better at avoiding them. Well, if not the tickets, at least the points. I admit that, not counting my act of protest against the discrimination taking place in Myrtle Beach right now, I have been pulled over seven different times in four different states over the past six months. But note that I said “pulled over” and not “ticketed”. If you’re going to defend yourself against unjust speed traps and other unrealistic speed limits and traffic laws, you have to view each occurrence as a process rather than an event, and be prepared to champion your own interests at each step along the way. Let’s consider, for example, the actions and outcomes associated with my last seven (unwanted) blue-light invites:

Incident #1: I got caught in a neighborhood speed trap operated by a Miami cycle cop. He was in a big hurry, did a lot of telling and not much asking. I knew almost instantly nothing I said was going to prevent the issuance of a citation, so I just kept quiet. But Miami-Dade is one of those counties where getting the right attorney means the ticket goes away. I did, and it did.

Outcome: Ticket Dismissed. Points Assessed: 0.

Incident #2: I weaved and whitelined my way through a slow-moving cager caravan on a North Carolina interstate only to have the leader of the procession–a state trooper in an unmarked gray Dodge Charger–hit his hidden blue lights just seconds after I’d passed him and straightened up. A rider himself, he complimented my style but gave me no slack on speed. He did, however, assign my case to a courtroom where a reasonably-priced attorney convinced an accommodating judge that what we actually had here was a non-moving offense.

Outcome: “Equipment Violation”. Points Assessed: 0.

Incident #3: Riding through Central Florida in the darkness of the wee hours, I missed a partially-obstructed reduced speed limit sign coming into a stretch of interstate construction, allowing a waiting Sheriff’s Deputy to sprung his trap. After pulling me over, he opened his door but sat in the cruiser for several minutes arguing with someone on his cell phone. (Wife or Ex, I bet.) He finally stormed up and asked me if I knew what the speed limit was, but before I could get a word out he cut me off and went straight to the “license and registration” script. I had little chance of changing his irate mind, and later learned I’d have no chance of winning if I tried to fight in court. So I played one of my five “Get Out of Jail Free” cards instead.

Outcome: Online Traffic School. Points Assessed: 0.

Incident #4: Heading west on I-10 just east of Tallahassee one crisp sunny morning, I topped a rise and caught the attention of one of the state cruisers that often lurk along that stretch. I wasn’t going what I considered an excessive speed, but apparently that wasn’t the consensus. As soon as I saw him hit his lights and hit the road, I slowed and pulled over hoping to make nice. And as the white-haired gentleman strolled up, I looked back with a grin and said “I hope you pulled me over to give me some good news!” That got a chuckle, and that broke the ice. And that, combined with him being a Harley man as well, got me off the hook.

Outcome: Warning. Points Assessed: 0.

Incident #5: There’s a rather colorful story here that I shared in last month’s column entitled “Taking a Stab at Ticket-Fighting, Texas Style”. If you missed that one, or any other previous installment of this column, you can read them all online at here LdrLongDistanceRider.com.

Outcome: Deferred Adjudication. Points Assessed: 0.

Incident #6: Prior to this incident, I operated under the misconception that the speed limit throughout the Florida Turnpike System was 70mph except for the toll booth areas. But along a stretch where I now know it is not, one of Florida’s two-wheeled troopers pulled me over and suggested I be more observant of the posted speed limits. We then shared some friendly biker chat, shook hands, and went our ways. Hey, no harm no foul, right?

Outcome: Warning. Points Assessed: 0.

Incident #7: Along the way from our motel in Georgetown to the staging area for the Myrtle Beach Freedom Ride in Murrells Inlet, one of South Carolina’s finest stopped me … ostensibly to suggest that when the posted speed limit drops 15mph I might want to consider doing the same … but I think really just to let me know there were LEOs in SC who supported what we were about to do. At least in their hearts, anyway.

Outcome: Warning. Points Assessed: 0.

So there you have it: Seven stops and zero points! Zero stops would be better, of course. But as long as we have speed traps and unrealistic traffic laws, “zero stops” will remain an improbability for even the most cautious, compliant and conscientious. And as it is when faced with any injustice, free men must decide whether to fight or submit. As Frederick Douglass observed, “Find out just what people will submit to, and you have found out the exact amount of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them; and these will continue until they are resisted with either words or blows, or both.”

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

March 2009

They say the difference between a fairy tale and a Texas tale is that fairy tales begin with “Once upon a time…” while Texas tales begin with “You ain’t gonna believe this shit, but…” Well this is a Texas tale, but I swear it’s all true. The names have been withheld to preserve the possibility of repetition:

A few weeks ago, I was riding through West Texas on a portion of I-10 where the speed limit is 80mph. I had warm sunny skies, a long open road, and a wicked strong tailwind that made it tempting to open her up. But I kept it under 90, as the last thing I needed was another “performance award”, and the LEOs will usually give you the extra 10. Usually, but not always. Scanning my rearview mirrors, which I try to do frequently, I saw an unmarked black SUV coming up fast on my tail. The all too familiar blue lights started flashing through its windshield, and I looked down to note my speed at 88mph. Who was this, I thought, and why were they stopping me for being only 8 miles over on an open highway?

My questions were soon answered. As I put down my stand and killed the engine, a County Mountie swaggered up and demanded, “What’s the rush?” His tone was confrontational, so I replied with same, saying simply “No rush.” He then challenged, “Do you know how fast you were going?” I retorted a crisp “Yes.” “I clocked you at 93 miles an hour,” he claimed. I immediately came back with “I wasn’t doing 93 miles an hour.” There ended the foreplay, so next came the inevitable “Let me see your license, registration and insurance.” I dug’em out of my wallet, handed’em over, then watched his crew-cut head bob in my right mirror as he marched back to the SUV.

Through his windshield, I could see the over-starched deputy taking his own sweet time fumbling with a laptop and typing in my info. Several of what I knew to be “penalty minutes” passed before he finally stepped out and walked back to me with papers and ticket book in hand. I was not on a timed run, and pissed off about being pulled over, so I responded in kind. He stuck the paperwork and ticket book in my face, clearly expecting me to sign it immediately. Instead, I accepted only the paperwork, and took MY own sweet time reading it. Front … back … then front again … then back again … watching the veins in Dudley’s neck and forehead grow larger with each pass. Finally, I took the pen and ticket book from him. But before signing, I asked “Are you people running these speed traps to make up for tax revenues lost due to the recession?” The young deputy’s jaw firmed, then his lips semi-quivered as he replied “I don’t know NUTHIN’ about that!” I signed the ticket and handed back the book. He tore out a copy and almost threw it at me, then stormed back to his SUV without saying another word.

As he started up and almost burned rubber taking off, I took yet another look at the ticket and remembered that the exit to the county seat was less than five miles ahead, and the courthouse square only minutes from there. I fired up, sped to the exit, cruised to a Texas version of downtown Mayberry, and parked in front of the first lawyer’s office I saw. I walked in, and the secretary looked at me like I was from Mars. With wide eyes she asked, “Can I help you with something?” I said “Yes. I just got a ticket I want to contest. Can your lawyer handle that?” She told me he was the County Attorney, so obviously I had walked into the wrong office. She did volunteer, however, that there was a lawyer officed just a few steps away who might take my case. I thanked her and followed her directions, but the law office was closed.

What the Hell, I thought. The courthouse is right across the street. I’ll just try handling this bullshit myself!

I headed for main door of the stately old Hill Country stone edifice, and was surprised to see there were no guards, no metal detectors, nor security of any kind as I turned the worn brass knob and entered the building. Good thing that was, too: In my state of righteous indignation, I completely forgot that in addition to my skull rings and chains, I had a 9.5″ inch surgical steel bladed Case XX Model 286 Bowie Knife sheathed on my right side, and a 4.5″ brass-handled Pakistani lock blade bulging under my chaps on the left. I chuckled to myself thinking how different the situation might be if it was the Miami-Dade courthouse I was entering…

Anyway, once inside I asked a lady in the hall–the only person in the hall–where they took care of traffic tickets. She smiled and said “Just go through that door yonder.” I did, and found myself in the County Clerk’s office. No, I don’t mean a lobby with rows of clerical employees stooled behind protective glass where you take a number and wait for assistance. I mean the County Clerk’s OFFICE! There she sat at her desk on the left, with her one assistant on the phone seated to the right. Paying absolutely no mind to my appearance or, uh, accessories, she smiled a warm, disarming Texas smile and asked “How kin I hep ya?”

I immediately calmed down, as if some pressure relief valve had opened inside me, and politely drawled (it’s contagious, you know) “Ma’am, I just got a ticket that I think was unjust, and I’d like to know what I can do about it.” I handed her everything the deputy had handed me. She raised her neck-chained spectacles to her eyes, took a quick scan, then offered “I tell ya what. We normally charge $45.00 extra for deferred adjudication. But how ’bout you just pay the base fine and that be the end of it?” I smiled and answered “Deal!” then opened up my wallet and counted out the cash. The pepper-haired matron filled out a manual receipt, then handed me the top copy saying “See that ‘DA’? It stands for deferred adjudication. Just don’t get another ticket for 90 days, and you’ll be fine.”

I thanked her, but after a moment’s thought, made one small request. “Would you mind actually writing out ‘Deferred Adjudication’ on my receipt?” She took it, picked up her pen, looked out the window, then looked back at me and confessed, “I don’t know how to spell it.” (No shit, folks.) “Not a problem,” I quickly replied, “it’s d-e-f-e-r-r-e-d a-d-j-u-d-i-c-a-t-i-o-n.” As I was spelling and she was writing, another grandmotherly Texan came in. And when we finished, she asked “Was HE spelling that for YOU?!?” The County Clerk just blushed, threw up her hands, and laughed “Hey … I’m just a country girl!”

And what a sweet ole gal she was! Less than 45 minutes after signing the deputy’s ticket book, I had deferred adjudication with no points, no added penalties, no traffic school, and no attorney fees. That’s gotta be some kind of record…

NO PLACE BUT TEXAS!

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

February 2009

At 9:20pm ET on Sunday, 20 January 2008, I logged an ATM slip at the South Beach Wachovia Bank marking the end of what should be certified as my 30th Iron Butt Ride and my second in-state Florida SaddleSore 1000 (FL-1000). On this ride I covered 1,018 miles in 15 hours 31 minutes, for an MTH (miles traveled per hour) of 65.61. Beginning at 5:49am from Miami Beach, my route took me from I-95 north to I-595 west to I-75, across Alligator Alley to Naples and then north to I-10, west to Lamont/Nash, back east on I-10 to Jacksonville, then south on I-95 from there back home.

This ride was originally supposed to be an attempt at another Bun Burner Gold (“BBG”), which requires riding over 1500 miles in under 24 hours, and is far more challenging than the SaddleSore 1000. Unfortunately, however, I received some bad news in the mail earlier that week that mandated I lower my aspirations. To my surprise, a couple of out-of-state “performance awards” picked up over the prior two years made their way to my good friends at the DHSMV, pushing my point totals dangerously close to the State of Florida’s 12-month and 18-month suspension thresholds. Both would roll off my record in a couple of months. But until then, I could not afford to risk any more roadside recognition from the LEOs. Obviously, cutting my 24-hour distance requirement by 500 miles significantly reduced any temptations.

Before I continue, let me point out that excessive speed is not required to complete an Iron Butt run, and it is not recommended by the Iron Butt Association (“IBA”). Their position is stated clearly on the IronButt.com website: “Please remember that the Iron Butt Association is dedicated to the sport of safe, long-distance motorcycle riding. It does not condone nor will it tolerate unsafe activities such as excessive speed, reckless motorcycle operation, riding while fatigued or otherwise impaired, the use of stimulants to maintain alertness, or any other activity that results in riders exceeding their personal limits.”

That said, it is dictated by common sense and generally accepted in our courts that the definition of what constitutes “excessive speed” is relative to the situation and not necessarily reflected by the posted speed limit … which is arbitrary at best … and often set more with the intent of increasing municipal revenues than decreasing traffic accidents. As the National Motorists Association (“NMA”) points out on their SpeedTrap.org website: “You see them everyday. Speed Traps. The police may be out in the open, hiding behind bridge abutments, or passing overhead in an airplane. As is obvious from the traffic flow, the speed limit is grossly under-posted and universally ignored… Traffic is moving safely and expeditiously, but not legally according to the posted speed limit. As fast as the pen can be applied to paper, driver after driver is issued a speeding ticket that results in exorbitant fines, points on their driver’s licenses and insurance surcharges.”

Again I say that “excessive speed” is not required to complete an Iron Butt run. On this ride, for example, my MTH was only 65.61. Had I maintained it for 24 hours, though, I would have covered 1574 miles, which is more than enough distance to earn a BBG. But that is not to say that I always observe the posted speed limit (and I wouldn’t believe anyone who said they did). Iron Butt riders … like all other riders and motorists … may at times be tempted to exceed that limit. Especially, as the NMA says, when it is “…grossly under-posted and universally ignored”. Consequently Iron Butt riders … like all other riders and motorists … may at times receive traffic citations. And if seems like we get more tickets than other riders, it is arguably not because we’re more likely to be guilty of “excessive speed”, but simply because we spend so much more time in the saddle.

According to Goldberg-Finnegan.com, “At one point in our lives, almost everyone will receive at least one traffic citation”. And regardless of cause, justification, innocence or guilt, we will all have to decide how to respond. Up until now, my tendency was to simply pay the fine and move on, especially if it was an out-of-state ticket that I thought would entail no points. But I won’t be making that mistake again. From now on, I will be fighting every speeding ticket I get. And I won’t be fighting alone, because I’ll have the full resources of the NMA behind me:

http://www.motorists.org/fightticket/

For $35.00 a year, you can become a member of the National Motorists Association. As part of the package, their website says you’ll receive all the benefits of their Traffic Justice Program, including this protection against future tickets: “As part of our Traffic Justice Program, any person who receives a speeding ticket while they are a member of the NMA, fights it in court, and loses, will have that ticket paid for by us!”

Does their program really work? I’ll let you know…

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

January 2009

At 6:54am CT on Friday 7 December 2007, I pulled an ATM slip at the TA Travelcenter on I-10 at Foster Road in San Antonio, Texas, marking the end of what was certified as my 29th Iron Butt Ride, 16th Bun Burner Gold, and 15th and final IBA ride submission for calendar year 2007. On this ride, I covered 1,566 miles in 22 hours 56 minutes for an MTH (miles traveled per hour) of 68.29. My route was from Miami Beach FL north on I-95 to Jacksonville FL, then west on I-10 to Slidell LA, north on I-59 to Hattiesburg MS, west on US-98 to McComb MS, south on I-55 to Hammond LA, and then west on I-12 to I-10 to San Antonio TX.

Despite the advantage of once again having perfect weather and ideal riding conditions from start to finish, I set no new personal best in terms of distance covered or MTH. In fact, the only thing remarkable about this ride was the stupidity I demonstrated in the pre-dawn darkness by being too lazy to flip up a fogged-over shield and consequently mistaking a massive mud puddle for the concrete entranceway to my last gas stop in Luling TX. I spun my way out that quagmire, but man, what a mess!

My ride from Miami Beach to San Antonio may have ended up a muddy mess, but it was a successful run nonetheless. I certainly can’t say the same for my return ride two days later…

At 8:31am CT on Sunday 9 December 2007, I pulled another ATM receipt at the TA Travelcenter off Exit 583 in San Antonio TX, and began what was intended to be my next BBG run by heading east on I-10. The sun quickly burned off a light morning fog, giving me warm, sunny blue skies and light Sunday traffic all the way to Houston TX, on through Beaumont TX and into Louisiana. East of the Mississippi River Bridge in Baton Rouge LA, I merged onto I-12 and continued east. Shortly after 3:00pm, I was surprised by a sudden but short-lived downpour as I was coming into Hammond LA. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though, because the fact that I wasn’t wearing my raingear of course guaranteed that I’d hit rain somewhere. Anyway, from Hammond I headed north on I-55 to McComb MS, then east on US-98 to Hattiesburg MS. From there, I turned back south on I-59, stopping for gas a little after 5:00pm and just before sunset. The odometer reading I logged for that stop ended in “666”. That turned out to be fitting, as from there on out I would have the Devil to pay.

A few minutes after getting back on the interstate, I began to feel a chill. But not the chill I was expecting as the temperature dropped after sunset. This chill seemed to emanate from someplace deep inside me. I tried to ignore it and kept riding south, but by the time I reached Slidell LA and turned east on I-10, my leg and stomach muscles were starting to cramp from the constant flexing I was doing to keep from shivering. I managed to push on, reaching Diamondhead MS just after 7:00pm, where my body gave me no choice but to exit.

I rolled into the Kangaroo Express lot, pulled up next to a pump, and then struggled to bring down my sidestand and step off the bike. The Gulf Coast night air was cool, but not cold, yet I was shivering as if I’d been riding naked in a snowstorm (don’t ask). I went inside the c-store hoping to warm up, but it was cooler inside than out. With shaking hands, I bought a bottle of water and headed back outside to try and walk off the trembling. It didn’t work, so I opened my bag and pulled out my H-D hard weather suit, hoping the additional layer of clothing would warm me up enough to cease the shivering. I managed to get the “waders” over my boots, but my coordination was so impaired that I couldn’t pull the straps over my shoulders. The effort nearly exhausted me, and I finally had no choice but to ask a cager at the pump to help me out. He did. And as the suit warmed me up, my shivers subsided. Soon after, though, the quakes in my muscles were supplanted by queasiness in my stomach. I dropped to my knees, and vomited all over my rear tire.

I started feeling a little better at that point, and actually began to think again about completing my BBG run. I’d lost 45 minutes here and still had over 800 miles to go, but riding “over 1500 in under 24” was still a possibility. I gassed up and continued east. But not for long… The shivers returned, forcing me to stop and recover again less than 20 miles down the road. I fired her up and pushed eastward once more, but Moss Point MS proved to be the end of the line. My body started feeling like it weighed a ton. Every movement was a major effort, and I was so weak I was getting dizzy. I’d had it.. I took the next exit, checked into the first motel, and used my last remaining strength to unload the bike, undress myself and get into bed … where I stayed for two shivering, sweating, miserable days.

So ended my worst ride ever.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

December 2008

At 5:37am ET on Monday 5 November 2007, I pulled an ATM slip at the South Beach SouthTrust Bank to mark the end of what was certified as my 28th Iron Butt Ride and 15th Bun Burner Gold. On this ride, I covered 1,564 miles in 21 hours 39 minutes for an MTH (miles traveled per hour) of 72.24. Despite the advantage of having perfect weather and ideal riding conditions from start to finish, I set no new personal best in terms of distance covered or MTH. But it was a successfully qualifying and for the most part enjoyable ride nonetheless.

My route was from San Antonio TX eastward on IH-10 to IH-12 to Hammond LA, then north on IH-55 to McComb MS, east on US-98 to Hattiesburg MS, back south on IH-59 to Slidell LA, then east from there on IH-10 to Jacksonville FL, and south on IH-95 to Miami Beach FL. And aside from some a few miles of patchy fog just west of Houston, I had clear skies, calm winds and dry roads the whole way. This is a rarity in LDR (“long distance riding”), as normally a 1,500+ mile ride straight through from anywhere to anywhere carries with it a guarantee that you’ll encounter rain, sleet, hail or snow at least once somewhere along the way. Just one more Global Warming anomaly, I guess…

Anyway, on the previous morning–after rising early, checking the weather forecast one last time, then strapping my gear on my bike and my flip-top lid on my head–I rode the short 20 miles from where I was staying to the TA TravelCenter just east of San Antonio on IH-10 at exit 583. There, after a quick breakfast of coffee, milk and six scrambled egg whites, I collected my mandatory start-of-run witness signatures from two waitresses and a biker-friendly trucker, pulled an ATM slip to log the start of my run at 6:58am CT, then mounted up, fired her up and headed east. Mostly sunny skies and sparse, Sunday morning traffic made it temptingly easy to twist the throttle, so I flew through Houston and on into Louisiana, making it across the Mississippi River, through Baton Rouge LA to IH-12 and all the way to Hammond LA by 1:17pm ET. From there, I turned north on IH-55 and began my 145-mile loop up through Mississippi and back down to Slidell LA and IH-10, which extended my total riding distance sufficiently to meet the “over 1500” BBG mileage requirement.

Soon after crossing into the Magnolia State, I exited the interstate in McComb MS to continue eastward on US-98. Although not a limited access highway, US-98 has four smooth lanes running all the way from McComb MS to Hattiesburg MS, so I was able to continue taking advantage of the unusually lovely weather and light traffic for that entire 70-mile stretch of nostalgic, down-home country scenery and backwoods beauty. From Hattiesburg MS, I turned back south on IH-59, making a quick dog-leg through the polluted Pelican State to get back on IH-10 and continue my ride eastward.

The sun was setting as I rode through Mobile AL, and as the sun goes down of course so does the temperature. But my leather jacket and gloves kept me warm enough to make it another 325 miles to Live Oak FL. By the time I got there, midnight was approaching and I could definitely feel an uncomfortable chill in the air, so I took a 15-minute break to drink some coffee, stretch, and put on my H-D hard weather riding gear. Normally I try to avoid taking breaks that long on BBG runs. But in this case I had more than 8 hours left to cover less than 430 miles remaining, so I figured I could easily afford to invest the time to warm up and assure I was comfortable for the remainder of the ride. Avoiding that 15-minute break might have improved my MTH for this run from 72.24 to 73.08, but that would not have been a new personal best. (FYI, my personal best BBG-wise was BBG #9, ridden in May of 2007, on which I covered 1,708 miles in 23 hours 3 minutes for an MTH of 74.09)

Except for occasional eighteen-wheelers, I pretty well had the highway to myself from this point forward. That is one of the (few) advantages of riding straight through the “wee hours of the morning”. From Live Oak, I continued riding eastward through the cool night air under cloudless, starry skies, following IH-10 to its terminus in Jacksonville, then heading south on IH-95 through Daytona Beach and on to Miami, SoBe and Home Sweet Home.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

November 2008

At 5:15am CT on Wednesday 31 October 2007, I completed what was certified as my 27th Iron Butt ride and 14th Bun Burner Gold by pulling an ATM slip at the TATravelcenter off IH-10 at exit 583 near San Antonio TX, a destination I was able to check out in advance on the Web at TATravelcenters.com. On this ride, I covered 1,535 miles in 22 hours 24 minutes for an MTH (miles traveled per hour) of 68.52. This was no personal best for me in terms of distance covered or MTH, but it still met the primary BBG criterion of riding over 1,500 documented miles in 24 hours or less as is stipulated in the Rides & Rules section of IronButt.org.

My route for this ride was from Miami Beach FL to IH-95, then north to the Florida Turnpike, continuing on IH-75 to IH-10, then west to Slidell LA, north on IH-59 to Hattiesburg MS–where Jimmy Buffet earned his bachelor’s degree in history at Southern Miss in 1969–turning west there on US-98 to McComb MS–birthplace of Moesha’s Brandy Norwood, the oversold and undergifted Britney Spears, Rock-and-Roll Hall-of-Famer Bo Diddley, and blues/jazz pianist Bobby Lounge–where I turned back south on IH-55 to Hammond LA, and from there west again on IH-12/IH-10 across the polluted Bayou State and half of Texas to the Alamo City.

Motoring a direct route from Miami Beach to San Antonio is only 1,390 miles, so I added the 145-mile loop up through the Magnolia State to be sure I met the BBG’s “over 1,500” distance requirement. Using Maps.Yahoo.com, I originally plotted my course from Miami Beach north on IH-95 to Jacksonville and then west on IH-10 from there, but a last minute check of the weather forecast at Nws.Noaa.gov, convinced me otherwise. A nasty storm front with heavy rains and 40 mile-an-hour winds was pummeling the northeastern section of the Sunshine State, so I decided to take the Turnpike and IH-75 in hopes of avoiding the worst of it. If you’re wondering why I would be routing through Jacksonville in the first place–given that I was heading for the Lone Star State–the answer has to do with more than just avoiding the tolls or extending the total mileage of my run. For Iron Butt rides originating in South Florida, I always prefer IH-75 or IH-95 over the Turnpike, and for a number of reasons. Here are two of them:

First of all, the Florida Turnpike gives you fewer gas exit options than the interstates. And you often have to stop to pay a toll getting off or back on, which costs you precious time. You can avoid many toll stops, of course, by purchasing a Sunpass transponder at Sunpass.com, but why give Big Brother yet another easy way to track your comings and goings? You might avoid all of them by making your gas stops at Turnpike Service Plazas. But you can only count on one being there every 45 miles, and Citgo Petroleum Corporation (Citgo.com)–a subsidiary of Hugo Chavez’s Petroleos de Venezuela S.A.–has the exclusive gas concession through December of 2008. This strategy can force you to make extra time-consuming gas stops, however, because you can’t pass a Service Plaza unless you are sure you have enough gas to ride 45 more miles to the next one. IH-75 and IH-95, on the other hand, usually offer gas exits every 20 miles or so. One exception is IH-75’s Alligator Alley, along which there are no gas stops for the 52-mile stretch between exits 101 on the west and 49 on the east. Exceptions aside, though, the interstates make it easier to maximize your riding distance between stops, and thereby minimize the number of stops you have to make in completing a timed run.

Secondly, the Florida Turnpike gives you fewer gas branding options than the interstates. More brands to choose from (BP, Chevron/Texaco, Exxon/Mobil, Shell, etc.) means you have more gas debit/credit/gift card options … which gives you more opportunities to “pay at the pump” without increasing the likelihood that some bank will cut off your credit card for “frequent or unusual use”. Every minute counts when you’re trying to cover over 1,500 miles in under 24 hours, and paying at the pump can shave 3 minutes or more off each gas stop. Do that 10 times, and you bank 30 minutes that you can apply to increasing your total mileage, decreasing your total time, or both.

Prepaid gas debit or gift cards are an excellent way to pay at the pump without getting your credit cards flagged. Except for Citgo, you can buy them online for all the brands mentioned above at SvmCards.net (Citgo offers them at “participating retail locations”.) The SVM people charge a hefty fee for their services … but you’ll see that as a small price to pay the first time you end up nursing your reserve to reach the only working gas pumps between East Jesus and West Bumfuck … and having one of their prepaid gas cards in your pocket means the difference between (a) paying at the pump at 2:00am and riding on to complete your run, versus (b) waiting ’til 6:00am for “Buck” to pull in and park the wrecker, turn on the lights, start the coffee, open up the station, and mercifully end the four dark hours of lonely lamentation over your lost ride certification.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

October 2008

At 12:31pm ET on Monday, 3 September 2007, I logged an ATM receipt at the South Beach Wachovia marking the end of my 26th Iron Butt ride and 13th Bun Burner Gold. On this BBG run, I covered 1561 miles in 22 hours 52 minutes. My route–which included several scenic/nostalgic miles of the historic Lincoln Highway and Route 66 through rural Illinois–was from the Chicago suburb of Plainfield to Miami Beach by way of East St. Louis, Paducah, Nashville, Montgomery, Dothan, Tallahassee and Jacksonville.

I began my ride the previous day at Clarke’s Joliet I-55 Auto/Truck Plaza on US-30 in Plainfield, about two miles southeast of the historic three-block alignment of Route 66 and the Lincoln Highway. The Lincoln Highway was America’s first transcontinental highway. So as John Steinbeck wrote in The Grapes of Wrath, if Route 66 was America’s “Mother Road”, then the Lincoln Highway is our nation’s “Father Road”. Formed in 1913, it spanned over 3,300 miles, running from New York’s Times Square in the east to San Francisco’s Lincoln Park in the west. According to Wikipedia.org, the final routing corresponds roughly to the following:

• U.S. Route 1 from New York to Philadelphia, PA
• U.S. Route 30 from Philadelphia to Aurora, IL
• Illinois Route 31 from Aurora to Geneva, IL
• Illinois Route 38 from Geneva to Sterling, IL
• U.S. Route 30 from Sterling to Granger, WY
• Interstate 80 from Granger to West Wendover, NV
• U.S. Route 93 Alternate and U.S. Route 93 from West Wendover to Ely, NV
• U.S. Route 50 from Ely to west of Fallon, NV
• From west of Fallon to Sacramento, CA, there are two routes over the Sierra Nevadas:
  • Northern Route:U.S. Route 50 Alternate to Wadsworth, Nevada, then Interstate 80 and old U.S. Route 40 over Donner Pass
  • Southern Route: U.S. Route 50 around Lake Tahoe and over Echo Summit
• Interstate 80 from Sacramento to San Francisco, CA

At Clarke’s, I collected my start-of-run witness signatures from biker-friendly truckers and others having lunch at the restaurant counter. From there, I left our “Father Road” heading south on I-55 through Bloomington to Divernon, where I exited the interstate to cruise down a few more miles of the “Mother Road”. Route 66 was formed in 1926. It originally spanned 2,448 miles from the intersection of Lake Shore Drive and Jackson Boulevard in Chicago through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California, ending at what is now the intersection of Olympic Boulevard and Lincoln Boulevard in Los Angeles. Much has changed since 1926, however, and as Route 66 author and cartographer Jerry McClanahan observes:

“Although long, unbroken stretches remain, Route 66 today is essentially a discontinuous byway, a wild mix of original roadbed, overlapping upgrades, Interstate service roads, and abandoned remnants…. Some are too rough to drive, lead to dead-ends, or have no access, while a few are absolute jewels of the road…. [A trip down Route 66 lets you] experience how America found its way west in the days of greasy spoons and neon signs and nickel pop.”

One place for such nostalgia is the small Illinois town of Litchfield. As you will encounter at many other points along the “Will Rogers Highway” (as Route 66 was dedicated in 1952), riding southward into Litchfield the Mother Road forks making two alignments: the older (1930-1940) two-lane to the left, and the newer (1940-1977) four-lane to the right. Although either fork will take you through a quaint community suspended in a slower, simpler time, I recommend the left. Down that lane, I found three of those “jewels of the road” McClanahan refers to: First was the Skyview Drive-In, which as of this writing remains one of America’s last operating drive-in theatres (call 217-324-4451 and find out what’s showing!). A little further down was the Ariston Cafe which was founded in 1924, relocated to its present location in 1935, and inducted to the Route 66 Hall of Fame in 1992. And a few blocks more was Stacey’s Route 66 Cafe, where I stopped to guzzle some cold iced tea and snap a few photos of some real friendly people. You can view them and hundreds more online here.

Logging my stop at Stacey’s reminded me that I was on a Bun Burner Gold run, and that I wasn’t going to cover the required 1500+ miles in under 24 hours if I stopped to smell the roses all along the way. So reluctantly, I ramped up onto the freeway and back to the present, heading southwest for the few miles remaining before I reached the outskirts of St. Louis and turned back southeast for the long, hard ride home to South Florida.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

September 2008

Early Monday morning, 4 August 2008, I checked out of room 20 at the Lazy-T Motel and pulled a gas receipt at the Timewise/Valero Junction Country Store, logging 8:16am CT as the start of the second 1500-mile leg of my fifth IBA Bun Burner Gold 3000 attempt (only 2 of the previous 4 were successful). I rode west on IH-10 out of Junction TX, my goal being to make Tucson AZ and back within the 23 hours remaining on the 48-hour ride clock that started ticking back in South Beach at 8:51am ET the previous day.

At 10:52am CT, I stopped for gas at the Kent Kwik in Fort Stockton TX. Nine miles further west, my odometer rolled over 150,000 miles. And only minutes after that, the bike momentarily stalled as the engine tried to seize. Suspecting the inevitable, I began scanning the vast, empty West Texas desert and praying for signs of civilization (it was 100 degrees; I had no water, and no cell phone signal). I came over a rise, and ahead I could see a Fina C-store cresting the left side of the next hill. I made it to the exit ramp just seconds before a brief but ominous grinding brought a lump to my throat, and my engine began to gasp as if it had no fuel.

I coasted to the top of the crossover, where the motor died with the Fina parking lot still a quarter-mile away and up a steep slope. Resigned that I had nothing to lose, I hit the start button. And as if it sensed my desperation, my faithful iron steed fired up one final time, giving her last full measure of devotion to bring me within ten feet of the hilltop. There, just moments before noon and with 150,069 miles on the odometer, a few final seconds of metal crunching metal marked her passage on to Harley Heaven.

Having witnessed my arrested arrival, a couple of orange-vested highway workers hopped out of their white truck and hustled over to help me push my dead horse up the last few feet of incline and over to the one shady spot in front of the store. There, holding back tears brought on by an emotion not unlike that of a lost loved one, I pulled a HOG manual out of my saddlebag and went inside to cool down and assess my situation.

I didn’t need the Harley Owners Group telephone rep saying my location was “…not in the computer” to know I was broke down in the middle of nowhere. El Paso’s H-D was roughly 170 miles to the west. But my daughter’s upcoming wedding would be in San Antonio, almost 400 miles back east, so that was the direction I felt I should head.

I relayed my tale of woe to the friendly teenaged “good ole boy” minding the store. He immediately pulled out a stack of business cards and began trying to track down a tow. Minutes later, he had me on the line with Manuel, who offered to haul me and my bike back to SA for twelve hundred bucks. I balked at the price, and said I’d call him back.

Overhearing our conversation–and perhaps sensing opportunity in my angst–a t-shirted twenty-something Tex-Mexican stepped up and offered “Mister, let me go get my uncle’s truck, and I’ll take you back to San Antonio for nine hundred dollars.” Figuring my chances of getting a better deal were slim to none, I accepted.

Four wearying hours later, the enterprising young man returned from Pecos TX driving a cardboard-windowed SUV hauling a rickety trailer with two may-pop tires. I cringed as loading the bike caused the wooden bed to creak. But load it we did, anchoring her with a comic assortment of ropes and straps that only a Clampett could appreciate.

Eight hours and nine hundred dollars worth of ATM stops later, Providence delivered our one-car migrant caravan to the Alamo City, where we rolled my busted bike down a rusty ramp and up the driveway to a relative’s garage. And there she will sit, until I can scrape together a four-figure sacrifice to the Harley God of Remanufactured Reincarnation. Those readers wishing to offer your much-needed support can make much-appreciated donations online here:

https://ldrlongdistancerider.com/please_contribute.php

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

August 2008

At 7:45am CT on Friday, 31 August 2007, I pulled a gas receipt at a Chicago suburb c-store marking the completion of what I submitted to the IBA as my 25th Iron Butt ride and 12th Bun Burner Gold. I covered 1,510 miles in 23 hours 40 minutes, riding from Miami Beach FL to Summit IL by way of Jacksonville, Atlanta, Nashville, Paducah, and East St. Louis. The most remarkable aspect of this ride was that–once again–it was only by the intervention of Divine Providence that I was able to complete it…

I began the ride by logging a Wachovia ATM slip in South Beach at 9:05am ET the previous day. The sun was bright, the skies were blue, the roads were dry and traffic was light, so I made excellent time for the first couple of hours northbound on I-95. Then somewhere around mile marker 162, I moved into the left lane and opened her up to pass a slow caravan of cagers. And just when I reached a point where there was nothing ahead of me but empty road, it happened: All of a sudden, the bike started wobbling in the front and fishtailing in the rear. And even though I hadn’t heard it or seen what caused it, I knew that my rear tire was flat. Really flat, and it got that way really fast. This was no slow leak like I’d experienced outside of Tallahassee a few months earlier. This was a blowout!

The wobbling and fishtailing came on so suddenly and was so severe that the bike was weaving erratically over both lanes of the interstate (must’ve been one helluva show for the cagers behind me). My first thought was “This is it…” But imagining what it would feel like to have my body smeared down half a mile of asphalt like bloody butter over so much bread steeled my nerve: I firmed my grip on the handlebars and vowed to keep my “wheels on the road” for as long as I could.

I knew better than to touch my brakes in this situation. Instead, I eased off on the throttle, expecting the bike to stabilize as it decelerated. It should have, but it didn’t. Instead, the more I tried to keep the handlebars from jackknifing, the more the rear end would fishtail. And the more play I gave the handlebars, the more erratically I weaved from left to right. I am not sure why it happened this way, but I suspect that whatever stability I was gaining from deceleration was being lost as the rear tire was working its way off of the rim.

I had done everything I knew how to do, and even though I’d slowed to half the speed I was running when the blowout occurred, I still did not have full control over the bike. I knew I was losing the battle. I stopped wondering if I was going to go down, and started thinking about where and how it would happen. Before me and to my right was solid asphalt, but on my left was an open median, about forty feet wide sloping gently to the middle, covered with a bed of tall, thick green grass. The options were hard pavement or soft grass, so my choice was obvious.

Ever so gently, I leaned/eased/influenced/willed/somehow got my wildly wobbling wheels angled towards the median. I shot over the edge of the pavement, airborne just briefly before my wheels touched down in the grass. What happened next was so unexpected as to seem surreal: I did not go down! Instead, when my rear wheel landed in the deep blanket of soft grass and sandy soil, the bike immediately stabilized, then slowly rolled down to the bottom of the slope, and stopped. Still upright, and with me still in the saddle! I planted my feet, and thanked a merciful God for being able to do so.

The engine had died because the bike was still in fifth gear when it stopped, but I shifted down to neutral and she fired right up again. I then nursed her back up the slope to mile marker 164, my rear rim plowing up the grass as I went. I pulled my HOG manual out of my saddlebag, and luckily found a Harley-Davidson dealership only ten miles away. I called and they quickly came and towed me, changed the tire, and had me back on the road by 1:15pm. That left me with just enough time to twist my throttle and log the required 1500+ miles in under 24 hours.

Both Heaven and Harley-Davidson had come to my aid, and I won’t forget that. But I must also report that no cager stopped to offer me any assistance. Not the ones that I passed just before the blowout, who must have witnessed the entire spectacle. And not the ones who passed in both directions as I was flying off into the median, rolling down the slope, or fighting my way back up to the roadside. I won’t forget that, either.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!