1995 IBR Experience by C.R. Elberfeld

1995 IRON BUTT EXPERIENCE by C.R. Elberfeld

August 27, 1995

It was Sunday mid-morning, in the Medicine Bow National Forest (Wyoming) when I saw Kevin's Goldwing parked at a scenic overlook area. I sped past the entrance and had to turn around to pull in and park beside his bike. The air was cool and clear and very thin. As I walked briskly to the stone overlook where Kevin was waving, I had to stop with my hands on my knees to catch my breath. At about 10,000 ft. elevation, my lungs weren't any more effective than my bike, a BMW K75 which seemed to have lost a cylinder and a half on the way up. The view was worth the exertion.

Two days earlier, Kevin and I had left the Cleveland, Ohio area headed to Salt Lake City to compete in our first Iron Butt Rally. We had stopped over in Des Moines, Iowa and Laramie, Wyoming, and expected to cruise into Salt Lake City some time after noon. This was my first time out west (driving) and I was totally seduced by the wide open spaces of western Nebraska and Wyoming. We arrived at the motel in Salt Lake City in the early afternoon and found that we were not the first ones there. There was a lot of friendliness and inquisitiveness between the other participants and myself as I became acquainted with other people who had the same consuming passion that I suffered with, long distance endurance motorcycling.

The Iron Butt Rally is a long distance endurance motorcycle competition held every other year. It lasts for 11 twenty-four hour periods, and roughly touches the four corners of the continental United States. In order to complete the rally, one must reach specified checkpoints within specified time limits. This year's schedule was as follows:

LEAVE              DATE / TIME    ARRIVE             DATE / TIME 
                         (local)                           (local)

Salt Lake, UT	   8/29   1700    Spokane, WA	     8/30   1500

Spokane, WA	   8/30   1700    San Diego, CA	     9/01   1000

San Diego, CA	   9/01   1200    Ft. Lauderdale, FL 9/01   1800

Ft. Lauderdale, FL 9/04   1900    Gorham, ME         9/06   1800

Gorham, ME	   9/06   2000    Salt Lake, UT	     9/09   1700

We were able to check in early with the rallymaster, and so, spent the rest of the day socializing and talking to the other participants about their bikes and strategies. This was like Christmas to me as I overdosed on looking at specially prepared touring machines and trying to absorb experiences and advice freely offered by the participants. Sleeping that night was a little tough because I was really getting pumped, but the mileage from Laramie to Salt Lake City earlier in the day had taken the edge off my nerves and I was able to conk out for a while.

Monday, August 28, I woke up early (my body was still adjusted for two time zones east) and went over all of my correspondence and rules from the Iron Butt Association to ensure I understood what I was getting myself into. Later was breakfast and more poking around at the bikes. Most of the motorcycle dealers in Salt Lake City were open to assist Iron Butt participants, and some people were taking advantage of the opportunity. I had done some pretty intensive service on my bike before leaving Cleveland and had concluded that my bike would either make it or suffer an unforeseen catastrophic failure, if the rider held up. Kevin and I went for a short spin to see some of the local motorcycle dealerships. However, I suffer from a lack of natural curiosity, and soon returned to the motel to wait for the rider's meeting and banquet later that day.

Meanwhile, many of the participants had their bikes in various stages of assembly/disassembly making changes or discovering "last minute" problems. Everybody seemed to be getting freaky so I had to get away from the bikes and my coolant level that looked low if your head was turned just so. Little did I know that this freakiness would turn into outright berserkness (if there is such a word) before the event would start at 1600 the next day.

The riders' meeting and banquet just threw gas on the fire, and when it was announced at the banquet that there would be special bonuses for high mileage and for visiting all 48 states, most of our simple nervous systems were put into overload. Soon all of the planning, dreaming, imagining, preparing, theorizing, and strategizing that had been done for the last year and eight months would be put to the test.

It was at this point that my dreams of a first time victory were quickly dashed to the earth, and I readjusted my horizons for survival and taking "gimmee" bonus points. Listening to other participants introducing themselves at the banquet and saying that they were still trying for their first successful Iron Butt finish alerted me to a potential disaster that I hadn't considered. The hopes and dreams of getting into this exclusive event and the twenty-month wait were more than enough for anyone to put up with. The idea of waiting another two years to get that "monkey off my back" was not something I wanted to deal with. I could always attempt to come back and improve, but I wanted a "finish" under my belt. So I was out there to do my best and learn. I wasn't sure how to pace myself for doing my best for 11 days, so in a pinch, doing my best meant arriving at the checkpoints on time and trying to stay out of trouble. This, I believed, was within my limitations as a rider.

Tuesday, August 29, everyone was pumped. We had to check out of our motel room before noon, and so, had to wait around until 1600 to get the bonus destinations for the first leg, and 1700 to be off to Spokane, Washington. We were interviewed that morning by a crew making a documentary video, and everyone was going over his/her bike one last time. I packed my bike and then tried to stay away from it. Although Kevin and I had eaten breakfast, we weren't hungry for lunch. I was going to eat anyway, but got distracted and by the time I realized it, it was too close to 1600 to take a chance. The temperature was in the 90's, and with my all black outerwear, I decided to soak myself down just before I left. We would be leaving through Salt Lake City at rush hour, and stop and go traffic in the heat on a bike is a killer. I loaded up on fluids and alternated between the drinking fountain and the bathroom until 1600.

When the bonus destinations were handed out, I plotted the possible ones on my regional map and chose my route. I would take Interstate-15 to I-90 into Spokane. A local TV station was covering the start. At 1650, I put my maps and papers away and went to the bathroom to drench myself. A few others had the same idea. At 1700, we all started our engines and left the motel, heading east on I-80 to Salt Lake City. Traffic was heavy but, in general, the group split into two at I-215 either heading north or south. As I headed north, the traffic eventually thinned out. I was glad that I had drenched myself before leaving. By the time the sun started to set, I was completely dry. As I headed into Idaho, it started to get dark and the bugs were coming out.

I stopped near Pocatello for gas and before I left, I cleaned the bugs off my faceshield using a windshield scrubber/squeegee with my helmet on my head. I have always done this and lean forward so the water/cleaning fluid doesn't get on me. A local (male in his early to mid twenties) came up to me and said, "Gee mister, you sure look funny." I agreed with him and left. I guess things are slow in Pocatello. As soon as I got back up to speed on the interstate, bugs again covered my faceshield. I had to stop again about 10 miles down the road to devise a system to "mitigate the incoming". It soon became too cold for bugs to be a problem, but thrills were just down the road.

It was now dark and flat. I hadn't seen any other bikes for more than an hour when I reached an exit for a Federal Reservation for nuclear testing. My son had gone to school out there for navy nuclear training, so I imagined that that was the place. At the exit, a sign said "Road Construction" with an arrow pointing right. I slowed, considering I was by myself in the middle of nowhere, from 80 to about 45 mph. The next sign I saw said "Detour", and the pavement abruptly dropped and changed to gravel. I got a rush of adrenaline as the bike bucked and chattered and found its own path through the gravel. As I regained control of the bike, I saw two bikes parked on the side and the outlines of two figures standing beside them. I pulled in beside them and stopped. They were participants.

One had fallen down, but they had his bike back up and assessed only minor damage. They said they were okay. I started to leave but my bike was in third gear and I stalled momentarily. Fundamentals. Hadn't done that in about 20 years. My bike even has a lighted gear position indicator. Maybe I was shook.

Back on the road, it was really getting cold and my stomach was asking me why I hadn't fed it all day. Across the border into Montana and I found a motel. When I got to my room, I started dry heaving, but with some water and snacks, it soon subsided. Guess I had a busy day.

Wednesday, August 30, my alarm went off at 0330. By 0400 I had reviewed my map, dressed warmer, and was on the road. There were about four or five other familiar bikes in the motel lot when I left. I had underestimated how cold it was and how cold it was going to get and after about 100 miles, I stopped and put on my electric vest. My body had already lost too much heat, and I had to sit on the bike for a while with the vest plugged in to get some core temperature back. I then limped into Butte, where I got some gas and coffee. The rest of the trip to Spokane was relatively uneventful. I got my first bonus points by stopping in Lolo, Montana. I arrived at the first checkpoint a few hours early. Many participants were already there.

The checkpoint at Spokane was wonderful. The people were friendly and they had a huge spread set out for us. Everyone ate, joked, told stories, and napped until 1700 when the bonuses for Leg 2 to San Diego were handed out. I processed the information onto my maps and charts and was on the road again by 1800. My planned route involved taking I-84 to I-5 and then I-5 to San Diego. I rode until after midnight, picking up bonuses at the Hood River Bridge and the Dalles, Oregon, and sleeping in a motel in Troutdale, Oregon.

Thursday, August 31, I was up again before sunrise in hopes of hitting a bonus destination in Eugene, OR at 0900. It was a motorcycle dealership and again I received a royal treatment. There was an assortment of "gifts" which were entirely appropriate for the endeavor; Gatorade, power bars, sausage sticks, and crackers; all that could be taken along and be easily consumed while riding. As I entered California, the temperature climbed into the high 90's. Time for more drenching and forcing fluids.

Riding past Mt. Shasta was a unique experience for me. Because it is so huge and so far away from the highway, it is easy to catch the illusion that the mountain is traveling along beside you (similar to watching the moon out of a car window when someone else is driving). Motorcyclists who survive are paranoid when they ride, always expecting the unexpected. Between this paranoia and my body operating out of its natural rhythm, the mountain made for an interesting travel companion. Occasionally I would catch something moving beside me out of my left eye, and when I would flinch to the left to see what it was, SURPRISE! It's the mountain. I never did go completely off the road when this happened.

It's amazing how small details and choices can have such a large impact on an eleven day 9,000 mile trip. Sometimes your mind and body try to tell you something and you should always, always listen. As I worked into a routine, I found that after about five to seven hours of riding, the connection between my consciousness and the awareness that I had a physical body became very fragile. I call this "losing my frame of reference". The cure is very simple, a ten to twenty minute catnap and I'm "rezeroed" for another interval. I would simply stop at a roadside rest area, find an appropriate picnic table or shade tree, lay down and close my eyes, and count backwards from 300. Usually by 260, I was in another place and time, and would wake up later refreshed. Not performing this ritual when needed would cause me great difficulty.

This difficulty would include sluggish reflexes, poor judgment, and total lack of focus on the task at hand. During these periods, God must have sent in lots of extra angels to look after this "idiot".

The first occurrence was in mid-afternoon while going through the mountains on I-5. I was in traffic cruising at about 75 to 80 mph when a sign came up saying lane closed, merge right. I was in the left lane getting ready to pass an 18-wheeler when I saw his hand coming out of the window, in a motion that appeared to be waving me on. However, as I accelerated to about 90 mph and approached just behind the driver's hand, he motioned for me to stay back. At this point, I was already committed to the pass. I squirted between the 18-wheeler and a concrete wall blocking the left lane with about a foot clearance on each side at about 95 mph. Time to hit a rest area and rezero.

The next interval was relatively uneventful until I met up with some participants after dark. We stopped for gas and discussed strategy. We unanimously concluded that being north of Los Angeles the next morning would prevent us from making the San Diego checkpoint on time and so agreed to find a motel south of LA. It was past my "nap time" but after riding by myself all day, loneliness got the best of me. Sheepishly, I followed them into LA, but by 2330, my frame of reference was disintegrating fast. Standing up on the pegs and slapping myself on the side of the helmet was no longer effective so I pulled off by myself to get gas and rest.

When I removed my helmet and removed my earplugs, I noticed that the place was really jumping. Music was blaring from the station speakers and at this late hour, people were everywhere. The vehicle of choice in the area seemed to be mid-seventies to early eighties economy cars. I was a minority. Although the attendant wasn't behind bulletproof glass, he seemed nervous at my presence, and I decided not to rest at that location. Back on I-5, it took only minutes for my frame of reference to start coming apart again.

For some reason, that only sleep deprived people know, I thought I had missed a turn off to stay on I-5 and tried to cheat by crossing the white lines demarking the lane separations as my imagined true course was disappearing to my right. What I hit I don't know, but I went airborne and came down heading westbound on I-10. The short flight and realization that I was luckier than smart, forced me to wake up enough to understand that I was now headed in the wrong direction. I got off on the next exit which said Alameda. Fortunately I was only attempting to go back to where I had come from.

At the bottom of the exit it looked like a war zone, abandoned buildings and "refugees" with no place to go. Even the pavement appeared to have been shelled. At the intersection, a car was parked about four feet from the curb with its lights off. As I coasted past the car, the driver gave me "one of those looks" that unequivocally convinced me that I did not belong there. Traffic laws no longer applied and I was soon back on I-5 headed south. Although the shots of adrenaline helped me through the period, it did not alleviate the fact that my brain was temporarily running past empty. I no longer had anything that resembled judgment, and the bike was running on auto-pilot.

Although I didn't need gas, I pulled into another gas station, where I could see the attendant behind a window from where he did business. I pulled under a light away from the pumps where I could assess how much damage my "flying" had caused. I had been hearing voices for some time but now they seemed to be speaking Spanish. I looked up to see some young males running towards me from about a half block away. I no longer have adrenal glands. I got on the bike and didn't look back. To say my paranoia was off-scale is an understatement. I got off the interstate briefly in San Clemente, but found nowhere that appeared suitable to rest.

Friday, September 1, at about 0300, I found a roadside rest area about 35 miles north of San Diego which I pulled into. Although there was a lot of activity, no one had a gun pointed directly at me so here I would "crash and burn". I found a clear spot on the ground beside a picnic table where I could still see my bike, and went to use the bathroom. As I came out I noticed a rat (about the size of my fist) jumping out of a trash can. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw he had company to the tune of at least another ten. None of them appeared to be bashful. So much for my spot. I set my bike up on the center stand and such was my first night in the "Iron Butt Motel". I slept in spurts of about ten minutes with my face on my arms and tank bag. I woke up once with my left eye burning. My face had slid on my left arm to the point where my eyeball was partially open and in direct contact with my jacket sleeve. I was uncertain of two things, how long my eye had been in direct contact with my jacket sleeve, and how many bug carcasses had been washed away from the spot on my sleeve. I didn't want to speculate on the health effects of that stunt. By about 0430, I was refreshed enough to devise my next hair-brained scheme. I would go to the BMW dealership in San Diego, the next checkpoint, park my bike in the parking lot, and sleep beside the building until they opened for business.

Around 0500, I entered San Diego and took the exit to get to the dealership. I stopped to buy gas a few blocks from my destination and slid my credit card under the protective window. This neighborhood was also not too friendly. It was a metropolitan area with people standing around on the sidewalks with apparently nothing better to do. Parking at the dealership was curbside and the lighting was not very good. So much for that scheme. I cruised down about five or six blocks where I found a MacDonald's. Although it wasn't open yet, the lot was well lit, so I parked the bike by a light post and leaned against it to catch some Z's. There was still too much activity to get any real rest, and at 0600, when the MacDonalds opened, I went inside and had breakfast.

I was soon joined by another participant who said the group was starting to arrive. When we finished breakfast, we went to the dealer's and checked in. I then slept for about a half hour by the side of the building, and about an hour and a half on the floor inside the building. The folks at the dealership again treated us royally, and at 1200, we received our rally packs for Leg 3 to Ft. Lauderdale. I decided that with this being the longest leg through the hottest part of the country, I would take the most direct route and ignore any bonuses. I had not taken very good care of my mind or body and I felt that I was behind on the power curve. This was the leg where I would try to recover and get my strength back. I logged my route on my charts and map and was on my way shortly before 1300.

Again, I drenched myself to counter the heat, but shortly out of San Diego on I-8, I encountered rain. It actually felt good and the sky remained overcast as I made my way through the mountains. I started to cheer up and was, for a short period, under the illusion that I was going to make it through the southwest in bearable fashion. However; as I came out of the mountains, all clouds disappeared as I crashed through a wall of heat on the floor of the desert.

The small thermometer on my bike registered over 110 degrees F, and my drenched, rainsoaked clothes were dried in short order. I stopped at the first rest area and along with other participants, sat under a spicket and totally drenched myself. The water was warm but I forced fluids, relieved myself, filled my helmet with water, donned it, and left. The evaporating water cooled me surprisingly well, but I could tell that I was not going to last long. My helmet was extremely hot to the touch, and so were my brake and clutch levers. I knew that I had to get out of the heat soon or my rally was going to be over.

I stopped in Yuma AZ, at a Motel 6 that advertised rooms for under $40. When I pulled in, I noticed that the NO VACANCY sign was activated. Slowing down in the heat was causing me potential loss-of-consciousness problems and I knew that I soon would be in distress. They had a "special" of $114 a night. I took it, showered, slept until 1930, and was back on the road by 2000 hours. It was still over 100 degrees F, but at least the sun was no longer a factor.

I rode through the night on I-8 and then I-10 through Arizona. At some time in the early morning of Saturday, September 2, I stopped at a rest area to get "rezeroed". I had pulled in in the dark and parked close to a picnic table. I locked my helmet on the bike and laid down on the picnic table. I was soon deeply immersed in the rezeroing process and woke up about 20 minutes later. Upon awakening, I went to the restroom, and upon my return, I noticed that I had been sleeping near some boulders that were stacked upon each other in an awesome display. It made me wonder what I had missed by traversing Arizona in the darkness. As I entered "the land of enchantment", New Mexico, it was still dark. Shortly after sun up, I rezeroed again at a roadside rest just west of El Paso, Texas. I remember seeing a number of hot air balloons hovering above the rugged but beautiful terrain of New Mexico, just before entering Texas.

Motorcycling through west Texas was a unique experience for this Ohioan. There were stretches of land where the only thing I could think of was, "Come on bike, don't fail me now," I guess I just wasn't used to that much desolation. I saw two dust devils which broke up the monotony. The first one was to my left, across the westbound lanes. Because of the wide open spaces, I couldn't judge the size or strength of the twister, but it appeared to be no threat. The second one was to my right and was heading for the road ahead of me. I wasn't sure what to do. If I stopped, the thing might just throw me and my bike around like the other debris that made the devil visible. I took my chances with momentum, the gyroscopic forces of my wheels spinning 75 to 80 mph, and tried to make myself as aerodynamic as possible by ducking below the windscreen. As the road, my bike, and the edge of the dust devil intersected, I didn't feel much turbulence as the bike slipped by. I spent the night around comfort, north west of San Antonio, in a real motel.

Sunday, September 3, I was up before sunrise, ready for a hot but more humid day, as I would go through the gulf coast states on my way to Florida. I passed through San Antonio before traffic got really heavy, and tried my best to "hang in there" as the temperature started increasing. Travel along I-10/I-12 was congested with Labor Day traffic, but this mix made it easier for me to stay alert and keep a moderately fast pace, by choosing my spots to pass, and in general, riding just faster than the flow of traffic. During the day, a couple of participants passed me, which helped remind me that this trip was not just one big hallucination. In the afternoon, I took off my jacket and chaps, and felt as if I were entering a "zone". My body and neck felt relaxed, as after consecutive days in the saddle, my body started to repair itself and be in condition. As the temperature started to decrease with the sunlight, riding felt like a natural state of being.

At dusk, after entering Alabama, Kevin passed me and waved. After paying some heavy motel bills, I thought it would be nice to split a bill if possible. I also hadn't talked to anyone I knew since a rest area in western Arizona, days ago. I followed Kevin down I-10, but lost sight of him as we went through some construction areas. I had just bought gas, so I knew he would have to stop before I did because my bike had more range. As I caught sight again, of some Goldwing tail lights, they were exiting the highway. I followed but the bike was not stopping for gas and was heading north on I-65. I accelerated to catch up with the Goldwing, and guess who it wasn't. That was an extra 10 to 15 miles out of my way but I learned an important lesson. Don't intentionally get involved with other riders. Ride your own rally.

The sun went down, the temperature decreased, and I put my jacket and chaps back on. I spent the night in a motel in Bonifay, Florida for under $30, so I felt that things were looking up some. I felt more rested and that I would make it to Ft. Lauderdale on time. Tomorrow I would take I-75 south to the Florida Turnpike, to I-95 to Ft. Lauderdale and the next checkpoint.

Monday, September 4, I was again up before the sun and I stopped around Madison, Florida for gas and breakfast. After breakfast, just before dawn, I saw a participant's bike outside of a gas station near where I had eaten. I walked over. He suggested that we could ride to Ft. Lauderdale together. I pointed to where my bike was parked and said that I still needed to buy gas. He nodded and I went to get my bike. I saw him later in Ft. Lauderdale.

Contrary to popular belief, rest areas in Florida are great. Due to the bad publicity, they are staffed with security. This makes rezeroing much easier. The trip through the middle of Florida was sunny, warm, and uneventful. Drenching and forcing fluids was the ticket of the day and it was getting old. I arrived at the "Burger King" checkpoint a few hours early, and was happy to see some now familiar faces. Although this checkpoint was not set up at a dealer's like the others, the support of the spectators was much appreciated, and you could tell by the attendance that motorcycling in southern Florida is alive and well.

When we received our rally packs from the Ft. Lauderdale checkpoint with the bonus destinations for Leg 4, there were some bonus destinations that would lead up I-77 through West Virginia on the way to Gorham, Maine, our next checkpoint. I checked with my maps and logs and it appeared to be doable, but very tight timewise. I felt rested and thought I would go for it when mother nature changed my mind. Less than one hour from Ft. Lauderdale, up I-95, the bottom fell out of the sky. I don't mind riding in driving rain, but this was so heavy that there were inches of standing water and I could not see any lane or shoulder markers in the darkness. I spent the next hour and a half under a bridge with 3 motorcycles and 5 cars waiting for the rain to slow down. During that time, even under the bridge, the water was so deep that there was no place to sit down. When it finally slacked off, I donned my rainsuit and headed north up I-95. I knew I needed to hit the I-26 cutoff in South Carolina within a certain period or it was no deal. By 0200 on Tuesday, September 5, I made it as far as St. Augustine, Florida, where driving rain and a near empty gas tank made it worthwhile to stop for the night.

Again, I was up before sunup, and I remember the entertainment I provided the gas station attendants as I filled up my tank in rain driving so hard that I was still being hit while under the protective roof built over the pumps. Bypass I-295 was effective in getting around Jacksonville at sunrise. After breakfast in Georgia, the rainsuit would come off. I would not make the I-26 cutoff on time, so my new plan was to take I-95 through North Carolina, Virginia, and Washington, DC, catch I-270 to I-70 through Maryland and Pennsylvania, and catch I-81 to I-84 to I-90 to I-495 to I 95 to Gorham, Maine, by way of New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. After some navigational difficulties around the beltway in Washington DC, I spent the night in a motel in Hagerstown, Maryland.

Wednesday, September 6, I was on the road before sunrise. That got me past Harrisburg and much road construction with minimal problems. It was a day characterized by cooler weather, heavy traffic, and many tolls. The northeast is really constipated traffic wise. I rolled into the checkpoint at Gorham a few hours early and tried to get some rest. I'm sure I looked like the rest of the participants, high mileage. The facilities and people were again very supportive. When talking to the locals I felt very lucky to be doing this. You could see the wheels turning in their heads trying to figure out how to justify their own involvement in a future chapter of this "insanity". I already knew that there is no justification; I just got off my ass and did it. Although I enjoyed my time there, it wasn't very restful. Just after sundown, we were given our final rally packs for Leg 5. I decided to take I-95 to I-495 to I-90 to Cleveland and I-80 the rest of the way to Salt Lake City. Traveling was cold that night and I soon pulled off the highway to spend the night at a motel around I-495. As I pulled up to the motel, a participant offered to share his room. We split the cost and slept away the next few hours.

Thursday, September 7, I was out before sunrise, but not before the other participant. The weather was cool and overcast and I was soon paying tolls to get across New York state. I would pass by the Cleveland area, my current home, during rush hour. The interstates were under construction there so I decided to take a chance and stop at home for a few hours. I arrived home at 1500, much to the surprise of my wife and youngest son. I ate, took a bath, napped, went over my bike in my garage, and was on the road again by 1800. It did my heart good to see the family again, and I felt recharged. It was getting dark on the Ohio Turnpike when I pulled into a service area to make some clothing adjustments. A couple of participants were also making adjustments, and one said that he had called ahead and reserved a motel room near the Indiana border. He gave me a detailed description of the motel's whereabouts and said I was welcome to share the room when I got there. I agreed and promptly headed that direction. Shortly after I re-entered the turnpike, I found why he gave me the details. I followed the participant from about 1/2 to 3/4 of a mile back, and never got much below 85 mph for the next 90 miles. About the last 8 miles were in driving rain. I caught up while he was still in the parking lot, and he seemed surprised to see me. A few hours sleep and I would be on the road again.

Friday, September 8, pre-dawn was filled with rain. It dried out by mid morning, and the rest of the day could be characterized as uneventful. I passed, was passed by, and talked to a few participants. We were all having the times of our lives but were ready to wrap things up. I spent the night in North Platte, Nebraska, and was thankful for the moderate weather. I was filled with anticipation of what the final day would hold and with determination to finish.

Saturday, September 9, pre-dawn was cold as elevation was increasing. I found myself extremely fatigued and had to rezero at a roadside rest just before dawn. This was unusual for me but I had learned the hard way to pay attention to what my body and mind were telling me. A vacant picnic table was my choice for a bed and it was cold enough that I kept my helmet on while I recharged. When I "woke up" I felt sort of sluggish as I stumbled toward my bike. Suddenly my eyes opened and I was staring at the morning sky, still lying on the picnic table. This could be trouble. I did the same trick two more times before really getting up. Good thing this was my last day. I refueled the bike and myself in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

There was an easy bonus destination right on I-80 between Cheyenne and Laramie that Kevin and I had passed on the way out. Not realizing what an impaired state of mind I was in, I didn't pull out the instructions for obtaining the bonus. Instead, I took a picture of the Point of Interest sign with my special identifier (pink towel with No. 22 on it) at exit 333, and continued on toward Salt Lake City. About 120 miles later, I realized that I had not logged my odometer reading at exit 333. Not to worry, back calculation from my present mile marker would get it back. Wrong. When I stopped for gas, I whipped out my instructions and realized that I had taken a picture of the wrong sign. I was supposed to take a picture of the Sherman Mountains sign at the point of interest. No back calculations needed. I threw the documented proof of my stupidity in the trash can at the gas station and felt totally humiliated. I was not going back to do it right. Let me see if I could just follow this one interstate into Salt Lake City without screwing anything else up.

I made my last gas stop in Rawlins, Wyoming, which would give me enough gas to make it to the final checkpoint. Kevin pulled in just as I was about to leave. We exchanged greetings and I left. I was getting too close to the finish to get distracted. The rest of the way into Salt Lake City was like a dream. I rode slightly faster than traffic and was extremely cautious. The feeling of accomplishment that I had pulling into the checkpoint is shared with only a select group of people. Although I arrived a couple of hours early, it seemed that most participants already checked in. I had survived.

Final Results. Out of 54 entries, 37 successfully completed the rally. I finished 29th and had ridden my motorcycle approximately 9300 miles through 30 states in eleven days.

Meeting everyone again and the banquet really capped off the day. On Sunday, September 10, we said our final thank you's and good bye's, and Kevin and I were on the road back to Cleveland by 1000. The day was fairly uneventful, although I did "flip off" the point of interest at exit 333 between Laramie and Cheyenne, and the laughed at myself. The scenery is tremendous out there. We spent the night in North Platte, Nebraska, and were on the road again on Monday, September 11, right at sunup.

I was tired of public toilets, motels, and restaurant food. The last 1100 plus miles back home were going to be digested in one gulp. In western Illinois, we passed a Cadillac, made into a pickup truck with a Kawasaki ZX11 in the back and two participants in the front. We all honked and waved. Shortly thereafter we stopped for gas and the Cadillac pulled in behind us. One of the participants told me, "I'm the rallymaster for the '97 Iron Butt and wait 'til you see what I have in store for you guys." End of story?