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September 2007

A satire inspired by Chuck DeSario

For eleven days in August, I dodged and defied the deadly iron cages of cellphone-impaired KILARYDAs to make my annual pilgrimage to Sturgis for the great gathering of the brave tribes of the proud RYDABYKA nation. I rode my steel horse 2,365 miles from Miami Beach to Gillette, Wyoming, where I made my base camp. From there, my travels took me 1,135 miles more through our sacred Black Hills and the scenic Badlands and Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming, South Dakota and Montana. I then logged another 2,421 miles of saddletime returning home.

Each year on my long ride to Sturgis, I see fewer bikes and more trailers along the way. Couple that with the fact that what actually takes place in the town of Sturgis, South Dakota is an increasingly smaller part of the overall events agenda, and a credible argument could be made to change the name from “Sturgis Motorcycle Rally” to “Black Hills Trailer Classic”. Nevertheless, “Sturgis” remains the world’s greatest motorcycling event. And despite the fact that a growing percentage of those attending were NOTARYDAs, tribes of the RYDABYKAs continued to dominate the two-wheeled landscape:

The KROMAPOSA Tribe

Members of the KROMAPOSA tribe purchase sixty grand plus chrome penis extensions from the Billys, Eddies or Paulies, then have them shipped directly to the doorsteps of their secluded ranch houses, private lodges or high-dollar hotels in or near Sturgis proper. They rarely venture far from town without their wrench in a chase car, and never mount their shiny steeds in anything less than ideal weather conditions. KROMAPOSAs can often be seen wobbling their gleaming chariots up and down Main or Lazelle … dragging their bared legs and tennis-shoed feet for balance as they make their way to the Broken Spoke or Full Throttle Saloon … where their drop-dead gorgeous gold digger raises her hot-panted ass off the bike (hopefully) just before the KROMAPOSA drops it trying to park.

The TOWAPOSA Tribe

Members of the TOWAPOSA tribe own top-of-the-line cruisers, full-dress touring bikes and Geezer-Glides, which they proudly trailer wherever they go. No motorcycling event is too far away for these hardy long-drivers, who truly “live to tow”. TOWAPOSAs are the most rapidly growing of all the RYDABYKA tribes found in Sturgis. They can be identified by the oversized HOG chapter patches that often cover their vests, and the Harley-Davidson dealership shirts they always wear beneath them. TOWAPOSAs rarely ride alone, and groups of their immaculately clean bikes can usually be seen parked in neat rows at all Sturgis area bars, restaurants and tourist traps. Unless it’s raining, of course, in which case you can expect to find them closely clustered under the nearest awning, bridge or overpass.

The POPAWILI Tribe

Members of the POPAWILI tribe tend to be younger than most other RYDABYKAs. This is partly because they are often rebellious youths who have broken away from the more conventional tribes, and partly because these Crazy Horsemen ride like there is no tomorrow, which frees them from wasting a lot of time worrying about the concerns that come with old age. Despite the shortened life expectancy assured by their high-speed stunting, this tribe’s numbers continue to swell as the attraction of the adrenalin rush brought on by doing 12 o’clock wheelies, biscuit-eater stoppies and switchback burnouts outweighs the attrition of Natural Selection. Although spotting a POPAWILI at Sturgis was once like finding a virgin in a whorehouse, the colorful blurs of their crotch rockets blazing down I-90 are increasingly commonplace.

The ELDIWINI Tribe

Rarest of all in Sturgis are the ELDIWINIs. Should you encounter one, expect them to look lost … because they probably are … most likely due to a bad GPS routing. Sturgis is, after all, the Mecca of “…the Hardly Maggot lifestyle biker, the chrome and leather crowd” that ELDIWINIs loathe and fear as much as their guiding satellites do sunspots. Perhaps a result of in-breeding, many ELDIWINIs suffer from AMHA (Alligator Mouth, Hummingbird Ass), the symptoms of which they regularly project across the Internet, but rarely in personal encounters with the dreaded chrome and leather types. ELDIWINIs are easily identified because they place blind faith in ATGATT, wearing all their gear all the time. They are most likely to be spotted on the side of the road … looking eerily astronautical in their Shoei brain bucket and seven hundred dollar Aerostich suit … with their Oxtar Matrix glove-leather booties planted softly beside their fubarred foreign ride … combining the marvels of satellite positioning and cellular communications to report with four-digit locational precision the demise of their final drive.

The MOTOHICAN Tribe

Once as plentiful as the blades of grass on the prairie, the MOTOHICAN tribe is now going the way of the buffalo. Like the bison before them, the thunder from the engines of thousands of MOTOHICAN cycles converging on Sturgis every August once shook the very ground for hundreds of miles around. But alas, those days of unbridled freedom and glory are waning, as each year more and more of these riders forsake the ways of their ancestors, abandon the exhilaration of wind in their faces, and put their horses in their carts. Despite their dwindling numbers, it is easy to pick the members of this tribe out of the crowd at the great gathering: Just look for the riders with raccoon sunburns, blistered noses and grit-encrusted fingernails … wearing well-worn leathers adorned with serious pins and soiled patches … smiling and sitting proudly on theirs, the grungiest of all motorcycles. These will be THE LAST OF THE MOTOHICANS.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

August 2007

At 10:04am on Sunday, 11 February 2007, I logged a fifty-one cent gas receipt in Fort Lauderdale marking the end of what I hope will be certified as my 17th Iron Butt ride and 6th Bun Burner Gold. A BBG requires that you cover over 1,500 miles in under 24 hours, and I made it by the skin of my teeth: 1,501 miles in 23 hours 55 minutes. Looking at those statistics alone, this would appear to be the worst of my six BBG rides. Less miles covered, and more time logged, than any of the previous five. But as we all know, statistics can be misleading:

My ride began in South Beach at 10:09am the previous day. With warm sunny skies, dry roads and light traffic, riding conditions were perfect and I was making excellent time on the run north up I-95. Everything was looking good until, a few miles south of Exit 191, I looked down to see my engine light was on. Must be a faulty indicator, I told myself, and optimistically thumped it in hopes it would go out. No dice. But except for the fact that my odometer went out, the bike still seemed to be running alright. So I continued on to the next exit, where I’d planned to stop for gas anyway.

My bike sputtered and died as I pulled into the closest c-store lot, leaving just enough momentum to coast up to the gas pumps. I went ahead and filled the tank (hope springs eternal, don’t it?), and then gave the motorcycle a quick once-over. I couldn’t see anything wrong, so I turned the key to see if she’d fire back up. Neutral lit, but the odometer didn’t come on. And when I hit the Start button, absolutely nothing happened. She didn’t have enough juice to fire, which forced me to accept that I was S.O.L. Ugh! But I reached into my saddlebag for my trusty HOG Road Atlas, and found that the closest Harley dealer was only a few miles away. I gave them a call, and an hour or so later, my bike was in their shop and the diagnosis was delivered: Busted stator. But they had ONE replacement in inventory, and in two hours more they had my battery recharged, my new stator installed, and me back on the road.

This unfortunate little episode had cost me almost four hours, and I realized that nothing short of a miracle would allow me to complete the rest of my BBG route in what was left of the 24 hours. I thought about aborting the run. But realizing that I might still qualify for a regular Bun Burner (1,500 miles in 36 hours) or SaddleSore 1000 (1,000 miles in 24 hours), I decided to hang in there and give it a shot. And shoot up the road I did. First north on I-95 to Jacksonville, then west on I-10 to Mobile, where I turned around and headed back the way I’d come. All through the cold night, I held my throttle open racing eastward on I-10 across the Florida Panhandle. I paid at the pump, stopped for no meals, and drank next to nothing to avoid having to piss. This minimized both the frequency and duration of my stops, allowing me to recover as much lost time as possible. By sunrise I was south of Jacksonville, and after two more hours of hard riding, I stopped for gas in Vero Beach at 8:31am.

At this point in the run, to earn a BBG I had to cover at least 114 more miles in 98 minutes or less. And factoring in the time required to get back on the interstate, through the Palm Beach and Broward traffic, off the interstate again, and to an ATM or gas pump for a computer time stamp, I figured my only chance for success would be to run flat out. But I knew that doing so might cause my thirsty Mikuni carburetor to guzzle all the gas before I completed the necessary miles, and I’d miss the mark anyway. I was pulling back onto I-95 pondering this paradox, when Divine Providence made its play:

I felt something unusual, and looked down to see that my breather had broken off at the mount. It was hanging on by a hose, and lying against my leg. Apparently, the constant vibration of several hundred miles of hard riding had taken its toll. At first I was disheartened…but then I was delighted! You see, loose banjo bolts had caused me to lose this breather once before, so I knew that running without it would give me much better gas mileage. And it did. So much better, in fact, that I was free to open her up and make the miles in the time remaining despite the fact that I was still to lose several more precious minutes wading and weaving through a major accident’s traffic jam before taking my final exit off I-95 at Commercial Boulevard.

A broken breather proved to be just the break I needed! Maybe there really is a silver lining behind every cloud…

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

July 2007

At 1:07am on Tuesday 23 January 2007, I completed what should be my 16th IBA-certified ride, having met the Iron Butt Association’s SaddleSore 1000 requirements by covering 1,060 miles in 16 hours 27 minutes. My performance as indicated by an MTH (miles traveled per hour) of 64.43 was no personal best, but it was much better than I expected given weather conditions at the start.

I began the previous day by opening the curtains of my warm and cozy room at the Best Western in Falls Church, Virginia, hoping for sunshine, but instead finding snow-covered grounds and cloud-filled skies. And from a distance even my bike–which I had tried to protect by parking under the hotel’s covered entrance–appeared to be wrapped in a frosty white blanket. Beyond that, a snowplow was carving out access to an icy Arlington Boulevard, where hundreds of federal employees and other commuters were slipping and sliding their way to work in nearby Washington DC. Being in no rush to join them, I closed the curtains, strapped on my sandals, and made my way to the hotel restaurant for coffee and a breakfast that I knew would likely be my only meal for the day.

Having absorbed a hearty ration of caffeine and cholesterol, I went back to my room, soaked a bath towel in hot water, and took it outside to clear the snow off my bike. The hot towel got rid of the snow alright, but as the temperature was still below freezing, I had to follow up with a dry towel to avoid an icy residue. Then it was back to my room for one last look at the weather before I headed south to Miami Beach.

The Weather Channel told me pretty much exactly what I didn’t want to hear: No more snow was predicted for Virginia, but a huge front was expected to blanket the Southeast … from the Carolinas to Florida, basically my entire route … with rain and thunderstorms. In other words, I was about to ride over 1,000 miles through what was forecast to be some of the worst of all possible riding conditions: Snow, sleet, icy rain, thunderstorms … and not just freezing cold, but wet and cold. Ugh!

Oh well … when you gotta go, you gotta go, right? I turned off the heater and cracked open the outside door to my room. That way, I could gradually adjust to the frigid temperatures and avoid soaking myself in sweat as I girded for battle with “Old Man Winter”. First the lower half: socks, then leggings, then another pair of socks, then another pair of leggings, then jeans, waterproof riding boots, leather chaps, and waterproof outerpants. Then the upper half: undershirt, cold weather riding shirt, leather vest, neck bandanna, fleece balaclava, leather jacket, and waterproof outer jacket. Then it was out the door to strap my bag on my bike, put the key in the ignition, and hope for the best.

My bike usually fires right up in warm weather, but having sat out in sub-freezing temperatures for two days, it took several tries to get my Big Twin turning. But turn she did, and the next challenge was to get the bike off the sidewalk, into the parking lot, and out on the streets. The handicapped access ramp I’d used to ride up on the walk was also the only way down, as the curbs were too high to simply roll over. But the snowplow had pushed up a large pile of snow and ice right where the ramp was. I saw no alternative but to plow through what was plowed up, so I did. Once I made it to the parking lot, I realized that most of what looked like pavement was actually black, icy slush, so I eased my way towards the street very, very slowly and very, very carefully. Arlington Boulevard was likewise covered in slush, but I managed to keep my balance well enough to get to a nearby bank ATM. There, I logged my start of run at 9:15am, plugged my ears, donned my lid, put on my gloves, and then slipped and slid my way through a two mile sea of slush to get to the Capitol Beltway.

Thanks to an overnight salting and Monday morning’s rush hour traffic, road conditions improved dramatically once I finally made it onto the interstate, headed south on IH-495. And from there to Richmond, flying sheets of frozen snow and ice breaking off of car tops and trailer roofs in front of me left no time to worry about how frigging cold it was!

South of Richmond, the snow disappeared as the temperature eased upward, finally topping 40 degrees (24 degrees WCT) as I crossed the border into North Carolina. There, for a brief moment, I thought the sun was going to burn its way through and trump The Weather Channel. But soon a solid blanket of dark gray clouds indicated otherwise. I cringed at the thought of once again having to ride through hundreds of miles of rain, yet at the same time was resolved I had done all I could to be prepared for that eventuality.

Southward I rode through both Carolinas, with ominously gray skies the whole way, but no rain other than a light mist. Onward through Georgia and into Florida, I encountered more clouds and mist, but the temperature kept heading up, and the rain refrained from pouring down. In fact, I didn’t hit any serious showers until I was well south of Jacksonville. But by then, the temperature was near 70 and, with all my waterproof gear doing its job for once, I made it safely and comfortably home, never feeling a drop of the downpour.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

June 2007

At 11:08pm on 19 January 2007, I pulled an ATM receipt at a 7-11 in the Washington DC suburb of Falls Church Virginia, marking the end of what should ultimately be certified as my 15th Iron Butt ride. This time it was another SaddleSore 1000, as I had covered 1,113 miles in 18 hours 30 minutes. With an MTH (miles traveled per hour) of only 60.16, this was far from my best performance. But I still logged over 1,000 miles in under 24 hours, and that is all the Iron Butt Association requires for their SS1000 certification.

My ride began at 4:38am that Friday morning, but I was awake and gearing up well before that. My route would be mostly a straight shot up IH-95 from Miami to the Capitol, and one last look at the weather forecast gave me good news … and bad news. The good news was that clear skies–a sunny day followed by a starry night–were predicted all along the way, so I could expect to be dry. The bad news was a nighttime forecast low of 28 degrees … which at 70mph translates into a wind-chill temperature of 6 degrees … which meant I could expect to be cold.

I hate riding in the cold, especially that cold. But it was supposed to be dry, and at least riding cold but dry beats the hell out of riding cold and wet. It didn’t matter anyway. I had places to be, I don’t fly and I don’t like cages, so it was two wheels to Washington regardless!

Once again, “hope for the best, but prepare for the worst” was the order of the day, and that meant dressing for a long wintry ride: First, one pair of knee-high Gold Toe socks, then a pair of UnderArmour ColdGear leggings, then another pair of socks, then another pair of leggings, then my jeans. Next, I pulled on and laced up my waterproof Harley-Davidson Gore-Tex FXRG-2 boots, and zipped up my leather chaps. I did all this in the warm comfort of my bedroom, of course, so well before I began to dress my upper half I was already sweating profusely from the multiple layers insulating the lower. I paused to dry off, put on a tank top and snapped the skulls of my vest, bagging the rest of my cold weather gear to be added as riding north forced temperatures to head south.

I stepped outside to find my bike being misted by more than just the timed sprinklers. So much for dry! But it was a very light mist, too light for rain gear, so I just zipped up my leather jacket, plugged my ears, strapped on my Fulmer Modus brain bucket, and rolled off the beach and up IH-95. The mist stopped before I got to Stuart, but the skies didn’t clear until I was north of Daytona Beach. The sun shined brightly over Jacksonville, but the warming effect of its radiation on my black leathers did not offset the steady decline in temperatures I was to feel from that point northward. And with each gas stop through Georgia and the Carolinas, I donned more clothing to compensate: First my H-D Gore-Tex gloves … then a bandanna around my neck … then a Schampa Warmskin riding shirt under my vest and jacket … and so on.

Dusk was approaching as I exited for gas in Rocky Mount, North Carolina. It was already cold, and I knew that once the sun set it would quickly get colder. To prepare for that, I stopped to put on all of my remaining cold weather gear, including BassPro Gore-Tex rainpants, my H-D outer jacket, Seirus Hyperlite glove liners, and a fleece balaclava. I then continued my run north up IH-95, crossing into Virginia, bypassing Richmond via IH-295, then back onto IH-95 for the approach to DC. My gear did its job, in that I didn’t start to feel uncomfortably cold until I neared Triangle, Virginia. But there I stopped for gas at the Exxon station just outside the gate to the Marine Corps University at Quantico, and the break from the wind in so doing was enough to get the chill out of my bones.

From that point, it was a short ride to the Capitol Beltway, where I merged onto IH-395 and followed it right on into downtown Washington DC for a quick nighttime mini-tour. Then, I made the mistake of heading east on US-50 into Maryland, my idea being to hit IH-495 there and loop back south, west and north to my final destination in Falls Church. My mistake was that required me to go over the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge, a drawbridge that spans the Potomac River between Prince George’s County, Maryland and Alexandria, Virginia. My luck being what it is, construction at the bridge had four full lanes of traffic merging into a hiking trail, and I must have spent at least an hour waiting, wobbling, and weaving my way through a thousand-car nightmare.

There was one silver lining to that cloud though: The heat coming from so many internal combustion engines in such close proximity sure did feel good!

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

May 2007

At 8:31am ET on Saturday, 25 November 2006, I logged an ATM slip at SoBe WaMu marking the end of a run that upon certification should be my fourteenth Iron Butt Association Certified Ride, and my fifth IBA Bun Burner Gold. Riding from San Antonio, Texas north to Waco, east to Fairfield, south to Houston, east to Jacksonville, and then south to Miami, I covered 1,602 miles in 22 hours 40 minutes for an average MTH (miles traveled per hour) of 70.67. Although this accomplishment pales in comparison to those fabled few who have ridden 2,000 miles in a day, it was a new personal best for me in terms of both distance covered and MTH achieved in under 24 hours.

On the brisk but sunny Friday morning before, I ended my Thanksgiving stay with loved ones in San Antonio by having breakfast at the local landmark Jim’s Cafe on the corner of I-410 and Broadway. There, I gathered start-of-run witness signatures from cafe staffers and a couple seated close by that appeared to be and were biker-friendly. Then I popped a 12-hour Chlor-Trimeton tablet to alleviate some allergy symptoms I’d picked up, walked across the parking lot to a Valero c-store and pulled an ATM slip, and logged the start of my run at 8:51am CT.

Speaking of logging … a key aspect of Iron Butt rides is that receipts must be kept and a written log maintained, recording your starting point, ending point, and every stop along the way. The logging process itself is time-consuming; even more so in cold weather, because with every stop you must remove your gloves to pump your gas, get your receipt, pull out your pen and journal your log, and then put your gloves on again before you head back out. For this ride, I found a way to avoid many of those gloves-off/gloves-on delays: At an Academy Sporting Goods store in San Antonio, I bought a pair of Seirus® Hyperlite™ All Weather Gloves, which the label claimed could be used as either ultra-thin gloves or weatherproof glove liners. I questioned what they meant by “weatherproof” (they are not waterproof) … but I tried them on, and not only were they as warm as my much bulkier H-D leather gloves, but I found I could easily write while wearing them. I wore them as gloves through cool of the day, and as glove liners in the cold of the night. They proved to be a great time-saving convenience over the course of the ride.

Now back to the ride. A steady southerly breeze was at my back as I headed north out of S.A. on I-35. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, my Mexican tailwind had whisked me all the way to Waco, where I exited the interstate system heading east towards Fairfield on a 60 mile stretch of mostly two-lane US-84. I had my reservations about this, because open highways with are inherently more hazardous than limited-access freeways. In fact … 90% of all motorcycle fatalities occur on undivided roads, where cagers can most easily violate the right-of-way of motorcyclists. And being on a BBG run, I certainly didn’t want to get stuck behind Billy Bob going 45 in his farm truck for 20 miles–as had happened to me on a ride through Georgia backroads just a few months before. Fortunately, my concerns proved unfounded. Perhaps because it was the day after Thanksgiving, I pretty well had the road to myself. There was some traffic on the main drag through Mexia (birthplace and childhood home of Vickie Lynn Hogan, a.k.a. Anna Nicole Smith). But other than that, what few cars I needed to pass kindly pulled right and made way, in true Texas tradition.

From Fairfield, I headed south on I-45 to Houston, where I merged onto I-10 heading east. The sun was setting, the air was chilling and my nose started running as I passed through Baton Rouge, so I stopped to don my hard weather jacket, Gore-Tex® leather gloves and outer pants, and popped another Chlor-Trimeton tablet. From there, it was a long COLD six hundred mile night ride to Jacksonville. Not so cold that I shivered, but plenty cold enough to keep my muscles flexed and my eyes open…

At least until I turned south on I-95 and got as far as Melbourne. By then, the worst of the cold was behind me, and the temperature was actually becoming quite comfortable. But the warmer and cozier I felt, the drowsier I got, and the Red Bull I tossed back in Melbourne did not have its usual energizing effect. From Jupiter to the end of the run in Miami Beach, keeping my eyes open was a challenge like I had experienced on no ride before. Even after daylight and with damp winds hitting me full in the face, I was literally dozing in the saddle. A couple of times, I actually caught myself coming out of a dream, and just in time to avoid leaving the road! That really bothered me, making me think perhaps age is catching up with me. But after a little belated research, I was relieved to learn that may not be the case (at least not yet):

The culprit was the Chlor-Trimeton, or more specifically its active ingredient chlorpheniramine. The warning says “Use caution when driving, operating machinery, or performing other hazardous activities. Chlorpheniramine may cause dizziness or drowsiness.”

Next time, I will read the small print more carefully. This time, I’m just thankful there would be a next time!

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

April 2007

A couple of months ago, in an article entitled “Murphy’s 13th Ride,” I told you about how anything involving the number 13 always seems to bring me bad luck. I ended that installment saying “I don’t know when I’ll go after my 13th Iron Butt certificate, but I sure hope and pray the gremlins stay home so I can live to tell you about it…”

They didn’t. Sure enough, my first attempt at certified ride #13 failed when my rear tire went flat 500 miles into the run. Determined to blow through my bad luck barrier, though, two days later I re-tired and tried again:

As I stepped out of my Tallahassee motel room on Monday morning, 20 November 2006, a bright sun was warming the crisp wintry air, slowly diminishing the prior night’s chill, and melting the frost crystals on my saddle. The weather forecast for my planned route west indicated daily highs in the low-60’s, with nightly lows in the mid-30’s. And according to the wind chill calculator at LdrLongDistanceRider.com, 35 degrees at 70 MPH yields a wind chill temperature of 16, so I dressed accordingly. Above the belt it was undershirt, long-sleeved shirt, leather vest and jacket, neck bandanna and H-D Gore-Tex gloves. Below, it was ColdGear leggings from UnderArmour.com, jeans, leather chaps and a new addition to my cold weather ensemble, a fifty-dollar pair of SealSkinz ChillBlocker “waterproof” socks I bought online from BassPro.com (and later returned for refund … once I learned the hard way that SEALSKINZ PRODUCTS ARE NOT WATERPROOF … but that’s another story). My H-D hard weather jacket, Bass-Pro Gore-Tex outer pants, and the thin leather dress gloves I used as glove liners were packed at the top of my bag. That way, I’d have quick and easy access to them when the temperature dropped after sunset.

By 9:54am ET that morning, my gear was packed, bike fueled and start-of-run witness signatures gathered, so I logged a c-store ATM slip and rolled out onto I-10 heading west. The roads were clear and I was making good time until I got to Mobile, Alabama. There, lunchtime traffic was clogging the I-10 artery, so I employed a little white-lining to weave my way through the blockage. A duly authorized representative of the Mobile County Sheriff’s Department–whose cruiser suddenly appeared out of nowhere in my rear view mirror–apparently took exception to my maneuvers, and gave me a blue-light invitation for a roadside chat.

Even before he was fully out of his car–and right through my helmet and earplugs–I could hear the stocky, silver-haired Deputy giving me what-fer with a deep Southern drawl. His fire-and-brimstone safe driving sermon continued without pause as he walked up to me. I pulled out my wallet, and waited to hear that all too familiar query that ends with “license and registration.” But I never did! He came alongside me, looked me straight in the eye, and finally went silent for a moment. Then, without ever asking me for license, registration, insurance, or even an explanation, he turned around and marched right back to his cruiser, still preaching something about speeding and signaling as he got in and took off. I sat in my saddle for a moment, dumbfounded. But then, not wanting to tempt fate, I quickly stashed my wallet, hit the start button and made a beeline for Mississippi!

The ride across Mississippi and Louisiana was cool but uneventful. Then, soon after I crossed into Texas, the sun went down and so did the temperature. It was in the forties when I stopped on I-10 east of Houston in Hankamer to don the remainder of my cold weather gear. But by the time I exited I-45 north for gas in Huntsville, the temperature had fallen into the thirties, and I was really beginning to feel the chill in the wind. Anxious to cover the remaining 80 miles and make a planned turn west (and warm-up stop) on US-84 in Fairfield, I decided to open her up. That turned out to be a mistake, because somewhere along the road on that cold, pitch-black night, a Texas State Trooper sat waiting patiently to discourage that particular course of action. His distant blue lights grew rapidly in my frost-covered mirrors, and once again I pulled over for a meeting with the Man. Steam seemed to pour out of the cruiser as the trooper topped with ten-gallon hat stepped out and came up beside me. Unlike his Alabama compatriot, at first he said nothing. He just looked me up and down, shaking his head, and sort of smiling. Then, as my numb fingers fumbled for my wallet, the air between us became filled with frosty breath as he fired off one question after another, hardly giving me any opportunity to reply… “Do you know what the speed limit is?” “What are you doing riding a motorcycle on a night like this?” “Don’t you know that it’s COLD out here?!?” “Where are you headed?” “Why don’t you just pull over and get a room before you freeze to death?!?”

Too cold to retort, I just shrugged my shoulders and handed him my license and papers. He hurried back to the warmth of his car, while I waited and wondered what the fine would be. And just when I was beginning to think I might have more troubles than a traffic ticket, he got out of his cruiser, walked back up, and as I expected, asked for my signature. But not on a ticket … it was only a warning! Hallelujah and go figure. Pulled over twice in twelve hours, and given a walk each time. Alright! My bad luck barrier was busted at last!

It took four more hours of chilling but uninterrupted riding to make my way west on US-84 to Waco, then south on I-35 through Austin, and log the end of my ride in San Antonio at 2:22am CT Tuesday morning. I covered 1,081 miles in 17 hours 34 minutes, earning (when certified) another SaddleSore 1000, and finally overcoming my “13” curse.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

March 2007

Regardless of whether you’re riding cross-town or cross-country when it happens, having a flat tire sucks. There is no such thing as a good time to have a flat; there are only bad and worse times. One such time came for me during an attempt at a fifth IBA Bun Burner Gold ride on a Saturday of last November:

The air was cool and the skies gray as I headed off the Beach and north out of Miami on I-95. But by the time I reached Stuart, the clouds gave way to blue skies, warming sunshine, and what seemed certain to be a perfect day for distance riding. The wind was at my back, and the miles flew by. In what felt like no time at all, I was inside Jacksonville’s I-295 loop and looking to turn westbound on I-10. There, my troubles began. As I was nearing downtown, traffic slowed and then came to a halt. Ahead of me, the stretch of northbound I-95 that spans the St. Johns River was an all-lane, bumper-to-bumper parking lot for as far as I could see. Waiting for whatever to clear up might have cost me more time than an Iron Butt rider can spare, so I took the only avenue available that would get me over the river and onto I-10, i.e. the shoulder. And with a few minutes of creative shoulder expedition and aggressive lane sharing, I punched through the congestion, merged onto I-10 West, and opened her up.

Once again it was smooth sailing. And despite the traffic delay in Jacksonville, I calculated I was on track for a good run, maybe even a personal best. About 50 miles down the road, though, that track ran out as “smooth sailing” gave way to wobbling and sliding. Warning signs that your rear tire is flat? You bet … but I didn’t want to believe it. After all, I’d just had new tires put on a few days earlier. I slowed to 70, the wobbling stopped and the sliding subsided. Maybe it was just a slick spot on the road, I told myself, for surely my new rear tire wasn’t flat! Having convinced myself it was just an anomaly, I sped up to pass an eighteen-wheeler. My handlebars started wobbling again, and the bike started sliding as if I were on ice. I nearly lost it, but as I let off the throttle the bike straightened and stabilized. I slowed to 50, eased off I-10 at I-75 North, and exited to a c-store near White Springs.

My brand new rear tire was flat. Not ripped to shreds, but my tire gauge registered only 15 pounds of pressure. I couldn’t find a puncture, though, and as the tire wasn’t completely flat, I figured optimistically that I just had a slow leak somewhere. I mean, hey, I’d made it over 400 miles on that tire, so maybe I could air it up and make 400 more, right? (“Hope springs eternal…”) I aired it back up to 40 pounds and heard no hissing, so back on the road I went.

For more than an hour, I continued my ride west without incident. But just when I was about to think the whole flat tire thing had been some kind of nasty daydream, the wobbling and sliding returned. Once more I eased off on the throttle, avoided using the brakes, and nursed her off at the next exit. This time the tire was flatter than before, and I finally got past my denial and accepted that I had a serious problem. But I had an ace in the hole (or so I thought), and decided to play it. I reached into my saddlebag and pulled out a canister of Threebond Seal-N-Air, the emergency tire sealant that had saved me from Flat Tire Purgatory twice before in Sturgis and Daytona. I shook it up and tried to screw the feeder tube onto the valve stem, but the threads wouldn’t grip. Exasperated after several unsuccessful attempts, I tried holding the tube in place and shooting in the gook, but that just made a mess. I folded that hand, but I still had one more chance to stay in the game.

The Harley dealership in Tallahassee was only 30 miles away, and I thought that if I could air the tire up one more time, I just might make it there before they closed. So with all my strength, I heaved and tugged and pulled my ass-dragging bike over to the air machine … only to find that the air hose was busted. But as I looked up ready to scream “Why Me?!?”, I saw someone airing their tires with the machine at the next gas station, about 50 yards away. There was no way I could push or drag the bike there, so I fired her up and did my damnedest to power it that 150 feet without further damaging tire or tube. And was I successful? Of course I was! I succeeded in spinning the rear tire almost completely off the rim, and tearing the tube to boot.

Tow truck time…

There are those that say this story would have a better ending if my bike had mag wheels and tubeless tires rather than spoked wheels that need tubes. James Russell says:

“3. Don’t buy a bike with spokes. Yes, they look fine, but if you get a flat tire away from home you have a big problem. Today, you just can’t pull out your old set of tire irons, peel back the tire to patch the tube because the rubber sidewalls are too stiff. Tires must usually be mounted using tire mounting machines in a shop environment or use many tire-irons, rim protectors and compressed air to get the job done. The problem is the tube in spoke wheels going flat there is no practical way to fix a flat tire on the side of the road. Get a bike with mag wheels. Now no tube is involved. If you get a flat tire? You can plug it yourself with a tubeless-tire plug kit and inflate the tire with a portable CO2 canister designed to inflate tires. Or, you can call a tow service and they can fix the flat right on the spot for you with a plug, just as to a car tire. Any service station can fix the flat tire. At least you are not waiting for a tow truck to get you to a dealer on Sunday with no dealer open. With the mag wheel and the plug repair you are on your way, but get a new tire as soon as you can. It’s not a good idea to ride with a plug in your tire for any distance. Drive at lower speed and with caution. Plugs do work, but if the plug fails the tire will go flat again, and flats on a motorcycle are always risky business.”

Source: http://www.whybike.com/motorcycle22.htm

Mr. Russell makes many good points, but I’m not ready to give up my chrome rims and spoked wheels just yet. I don’t often choose form over function, but here I make an exception. After all, on two of the three occasions when I have had flats on the road, a seven-dollar can of Threebond Seal-N-Air has had me rolling again in minutes.

For more information on fixing flats with tubed and tubeless motorcycle tires, go online and google “fix flat tire motorcycle”.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

February 2007

I am one of the most un-superstitious guys you’ll ever meet, except when it comes to two things: Murphy’s Law, and the number 13.

If half a century of life on this planet has convinced me of nothing else, it’s that anything that can go wrong sooner or later will go wrong. And 13 may signify “the Mother Club” or “feeling lucky” to you, but for me 13 of anything almost always means trouble.

A prime example would be my fourth Bun Burner Gold ride (1,591 miles in 23 hours 9 minutes), completed at 8:06am on Sunday 15 October 2006. My original aim was to do the ride a day earlier, but that would have meant starting on Friday the 13th. Believing that to be an invitation for disaster, I decided to delay. With Freaky Friday’s perils passed, I awoke early Saturday morning and made ready to go after my 12th Iron Butt Association ride certificate. Having successfully completed eleven previous rides and aborted one, however, this would actually be my 13th attempted Iron Butt run … so I should not have been surprised by the chain of 13 misfortunes that awaited me:

I was about halfway through my morning pot of java when I started inspecting my ride gear. I remembered I hadn’t put Zooke Anti-Fog on my visor yet, and as I reached across the table and picked up my helmet with one hand, I knocked over my coffee cup (#1) with the other. Wanting to grab my IBA paperwork before the coffee soaked in, I then dropped my helmet and broke the left-side visor release lever (#2). It took me an unplanned 15 minutes of cussing and fiddling around to get the visor reattached, and in my rush to get out the door I forgot to pocket the beef jerky (#3) I use to forego meals and shorten c-store stops.

I made it to the ATM in time to clock the start of my run near 9:00am as intended. But as soon I pulled out of the bank parking lot, I had to make a time-wasting stop because in all the excitement I forgot to put in my ear plugs (#4). At this point, I realized I needed to consolidate my feces, forget about the gremlins, and focus on my ride. But that was apparently not in the cards. Instead, I zoned out and missed my first gas exit (#5) on the Turnpike, which forced me to slow down to 60 in order stretch my reserve far enough to make the next station.

A couple of hours later, the Turnpike merged into I-75 north. I stopped for gas in Ocala, recorded and stuffed the receipt in my log book, then headed back out on the interstate. That log book is very important, because it’s where I keep all the documentation required for my ride certifications. I usually keep it in the inside pocket of my vest, and periodically feel my chest to make sure it’s there. I felt … and it wasn’t. My heart went up in my throat, and I started to pull over, but I kept feeling around and finally found it. My vest pocket had ripped (#6), which allowed the log book to slip into my vest lining. But at least I caught it before I lost it, and transferred it to my jacket at the next stop.

I crossed into Georgia hoping I’d left my bad luck behind me, but halfway through Atlanta it caught up with me again. My original intent had been to take I-75 straight through to Chattanooga and then head back, but somewhere along the way I-75 and I-85 merged and split, and I took the wrong leg of the fork (#7). Oh what the Hell, I figured. For this run, any fast freeway’s okay so long as I grind the miles. So I just kept going, until I-85 became I-985, which ended and became US-23, which took me as far as Lula before I suspected I might be heading for nowhere. My salvation was a “To I-85” sign pointing east down a two-lane road, and I saw no choice but to take it. And yes, that winding narrow stretch of SR52/SR98 did ultimately get me to Commerce and back on I-85, but only after I was forced to ride 20 miles under 45mph (#8), because I couldn’t get around all the pickups full of slow-moving good ole boys.

My odometer told me it was too early to turn around at that point, so I ran north on I-85 to Anderson (Clemson) South Carolina before doing so. I think the gremlins must have gone to sleep about then, as I enjoyed smooth sailing under cool but clear night skies all the way south through Georgia on I-85 and I-75 into the Panhandle, where I headed east on I-10 to Jacksonville and raced south down I-95 towards home.

The Sunday morning sun was rising as I pulled out of the Shell in Jupiter, and I decided I would take advantage of the daylight to open her up over the miles remaining, and do what I could to improve my run time. But the gremlins were awake again, and not about to let that happen: As soon as I got on the freeway and started to twist my throttle, a state trooper came up behind me and stayed there (#9) for twenty miles or so, allowing no opportunity for acceleration.

Not that it would have made much difference … because when I turned east on I-195 towards the Beach, I saw the causeway was closed down to one lane (#10). And when I finally got across it, Alton Road was blocked off (#11). I had to take a detour to reach the bank where I usually pull an ATM receipt to mark the end of my rides. I did finally make it to WAMU, only to discover that the ATM I normally use was not working (#12), forcing me to scramble my exhausted butt to find one that did. My “Run of Bad Luck” was finally over, or so I thought. But just as I brought down the sidestand to park my bike, the heel of my left boot fell off (#13)!

I don’t know when I’ll go after my 13th Iron Butt ride certificate. But I sure hope and pray the gremlins stay home so I can live to tell you about it…

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

January 2007

At 7:34am Saturday, 7 October 2006, I pulled an ATM slip at WAMU South Beach to mark the end of a round-trip ride from Miami Beach FL to Raleigh NC and back, logging 1,555 miles in 22 hours 36 minutes. My route was I-95 north through Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina, then I-40 west to the Raleigh suburb of Garner, and back the same way.

Upon certification by the Iron Butt Association, this should be my third Bun Burner Gold. Of the 24,000+ members of the IBA, less than 50 had completed three or more BBG 1500’s as of 31 March 2006. I’d like to say my performance–as measured in miles traveled per hour (MTH)–as improved with each successive run, but that has not been the case: On my first BBG, I covered 1,529 miles in 22 hours 7 minutes, yielding MTH of 69.13. On my second, I covered 1,546 miles in 22 hours 28 minutes, for a lesser MTH of 68.81. And for this run, my MTH was 68.80, the lowest of the three.

Some IBA sport-touring crotch-rocketeers have covered 2,000 miles in 24 hours, and unless I change horses or add a five-gallon fuel cell, I have no chance of challenging their MTH of 83.33+. There is nothing wrong with trying to up your personal best, however, and comparative analysis of previous rides can be as beneficial to distance riders as watching game films is to football players. My first run was my best, so an MTH of 69.13 becomes my baseline:

BBG-1 vs. BBG-2: My second MTH of 68.81 was off by 0.32, which translates into a performance detriment of 6.25 minutes. In other words, if I had completed my second BBG in 22 hours 21.75 minutes instead of 22 hours 28 minutes, that would have been just enough to match my personal best of 69.13 MTH. The performance decrement was small, and I am satisfied that it was easily attributable to traffic congestion and rainstorms on the second run that I did not have to contend with on the first.

BBG-1 vs. BBG-3: My third MTH of 68.80 was off by 0.33, which translates into a performance detriment of 6.43 minutes. In other words, if I had completed my second BBG in 22 hours 29.57 minutes instead of 22 hours 36 minutes, that would have been just enough to match my personal best of 69.13 MTH.

The difference between my performance detriments on BBG-2 and BBG-3 was only 0.18 minutes, but the trend was negative and cause for further evaluation. What was the problem? Was it my ride? Nope. My Harley-Davidson FXDS has never let me down on an Iron Butt run. Was it the roads? Nope. All of my BBGs have been on mostly well-maintained interstate highways. Was it traffic congestion? Nope. I had normal traffic conditions for all of BBG-3. Was it the weather? Not really. I did ride through 30 miles of rain approaching and leaving Raleigh, but nothing that compared to the 300+ miles of blowing rain and mist I encountered on BBG-2. Then what was the problem?

Actually, there was no problem … other than a slip in discipline. In my first two BBG runs, I had avoided all unnecessary stops. But on my round trip to Raleigh, I made six stops for photo opps. I estimate that for each such stop, I lost at least one minute slowing down and pulling over, one minute retrieving/aiming/shooting/pocketing my camera, and one more getting back on the road and up to my targeted speed. That would yield 18 minutes lost altogether. Had I avoided those stops, I would’ve covered those 1,555 miles in 22 hours 18 minutes, and achieved a new personal best MTH of 69.73.

Many people consider motorcycle distance riding and endurance riding to be one and the same, but this exercise illustrates a difference: Using IBA lexicon, I consider the 1,000 mile-per-day pace of the SaddleSore 1000 to be distance riding, and the 1,500 mile-per-day pace of the Bun Burner Gold to be endurance riding. To me, the former is relatively fun and gives you some leeway for sightseeing and other stops. The latter is more like work, with little margin for errors or diversion. They can both be sources of great pleasure and pride. But like so many things in life, it’s hard to get more of one without sacrificing some of the other.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!

December 2006

At 11:58pm Saturday, 10 September 2006, I pulled an ATM receipt at WAMU South Beach to mark the end of a long day’s ride around the Sunshine State. I logged 1,095 miles in 16 hours and 7 minutes, earning upon certification another Iron Butt SaddleSore 1000 certificate. The entire route was within Florida borders and never intersected or crossed over itself, so it should qualify for the in-state FL-1000 designation. Here’s the route, leg by leg:

Beginning in Miami Beach, I rode west on IH-395 to SR-836 to SR-826, then north to IH-75 and west across Alligator Alley to Naples. From there, I headed north to Alachua to US-441 northwest to US-41, back to IH-75 north and then west on SR-47 to Fort White. There, I took US-27 to Perry to US-98 west to US-319 north to Crawfordsville, continuing on to Tallahassee to US-90 and IH-10 east to Jacksonville to IH-95 south to Miami to IH-195 and finally east back to Miami Beach.

Thanks to a couple of careless cagers, my ride got off to a very slow start. An accident on SR836 had traffic backed up forever, and by the time I weaved through the cars and down side street detours to SR826, IH-75 and finally the Alligator Alley toll booth, the first 47 miles of my ride had eaten almost an hour of time. Fortunately, for the next 109 miles across the Alley then north to Fort Myers, I had clear roads and a good opportunity to twist the throttle and make up lost time.

From Fort Myers north to Alachua, I rode through 259 miles of IH-75 freeway congested by eighteen wheelers, Gator fans and other cagers, many of whom were apparently too busy or too distracted to pay attention to their driving. I tried to stay in the left-hand lane, so I could make time while only having to defend on the right. Even so, on several occasions I had to hit my horn or otherwise awaken inattentive weavers. And three different times, cagers with cell phones glued to their ears–wheeling and dealing, or simply running their mouths–came right on over into my lane. It was as if I didn’t exist, or more likely, as if they didn’t care. I swerved out of harm’s way each time, but only barely so.

From Alachua to Fort White, then westbound on US-27 to Perry and US-98 to Medart, I left the frantic freeways for awhile to enjoy a scenic ride down two-lane byways built for simpler times. The motorists along these roads seemed to be from a totally different tribe than the communication-crazed cell phone addicts whose indifference had nearly done me in. Yes, these country folks were courteous and considerate cagers indeed! Or so I thought, until…

I was riding north on US-319 through Crawfordville, making only about 45 mph due to slow traffic and a wet road. Suddenly the black-trimmed, bright yellow Asian Hummer knock-off in front of me braked hard and made a quick right turn. He gave no signal to warn me, but I was able to avoid ramming his rear end by veering right to the shoulder and stopping just short of his turning point.

I felt an urge to express my dissatisfaction with this cager’s negligence, so I rolled into the strip center behind him. He must have suspected the purpose of my proximity, because rather than continuing left into a parking space, he quickly wheeled right, jumped a concrete curb, and then plowed through a ditch to get away! He didn’t go far, though, because the small lot he escaped to had no exit. I came up on his left and stopped with my front wheel perpendicular to the driver’s door, close enough to ram, but far enough away to maneuver. I stood up from my saddle, crossed my arms, and waited for the creep to get out of his cage. He didn’t. I motioned for him to exit his vehicle. He declined. So I gestured for him to roll down his window. He did.

What peeked out over the tinted glass was the pale face of a kid half my age, maybe half my size, and so wide-eyed that he must have been stoned, scared, terminally stupid, or all of the above. Realizing there could be no honor in carving this punk a new asshole, my anger morphed into disgust. I asked him if his turn signals worked, and he replied with a slobbering blah-blah-blah. I then conveyed in no uncertain terms the importance of respectfully sharing the road with bikers, gunned my engine for emphasis, and headed back to the highway.

A few minutes more and I hit the Capitol Circle in Tallahassee, which took me to US-90 and IH-10 eastward to link with IH-95 near downtown Jacksonville. From there it was a straight shot south to Miami and the Beach. With luck, I had survived another long day in the saddle … and avoided becoming another human sacrifice to the cellular gods.

Until Next Time … Ride Long, Ride Free!