Butt Seriously

by Richard Keegan

  Crossing into Nevada, it was clear that Las Vegas was located in a desert. The land became flat, very flat, rimmed with mountains. The soil or sand took on a greyish tone and looked very poor. The crosswinds hit, strong enough to rock the bike. Strong enough to require a good lean-in to stop being blown off the road. The traffic flow increased, too. I was now moving in 70 mph traffic, in strong sidewinds, riding through a desert. It was a good experience for a guy who lives in a green and temperate island.

  The Mojave desert. I had been worrying about riding in the desert since the first thought of riding in the Iron Butt Rally came into my mind. Desert. What does it mean? How hot can it be? Will I be able to ride through a desert? These may seem silly questions, now, but back then the desert still was the great unknown for me. So, what is a desert like? The ground has no plants covering it, the sand or soil looks grey with lots of individual shrubs or plants dotted around. What I saw of the Mojave was difficult to differentiate from lots of Utah and California. Yes, it was hot, well over 100˚, but so were lots of other parts of the USA that summer.

  The Mojave probably is not the world’s greatest example of a desert. Las Vegas, or Paradise Nevada to give it its official name, is located in the middle of the Mojave desert. One minute you are riding along with grey sand and gravel on the side of the road; the next minute you are riding down the world-famous Las Vegas strip and in a completely surreal world.

  I rode along the Interstate looking for exit 37. Las Vegas is a city and I was back in city traffic – too much, too fast, too close. Oh, and it was hot, too. Exit 37 came up and it was hard to believe that here I was, dropping down from the Interstate onto the streets of Las Vegas. Lots of people. Lots of traffic. Lots of buzz and noise. I didn’t like it. Dropping from Rally mode, where the loudest noise is the voice in your head, to the ‘normal’ of Las Vegas, where people came for holidays and relaxation was a big jump. There was the New York New York casino, and the Statue of Liberty bonus location, but where to park? Round the corner and into the high-rise parking at the back of the hotel. Cars raced into the parking lot and up its steep ramps. You would think they were giving out free money in the casino! As I pulled into the parking spot, I met Rebecca Vaughan. She was about to head out. We said hello and Rebecca asked how I was. “Fine”. “Keep at it” was her reply. I wondered about this reply until I caught sight of my bright red and sweat-dampened face in my mirror. The desert ride had been rough and taken its toll.

  Grab the camera and Rally flag and out into the heat. Crowds of normal people. All well-dressed and obviously on holidays. The crowds parted as I approached. I expect it was a sight to see a guy in black riding boots, trousers and jacket striding through the streets of Las Vegas. The hotel even had installed water mist sprays outside the entrances. These fine sprays had the effect of providing localised ‘cool spots’, acting as simple air conditioners; they were a nice touch.

  The problem now was to find a way of getting the Rally flag and the bonus location into the same photo. After a couple of unsatisfactory attempts, I asked a young couple to help by holding the flag. Job done and it was time to take in some of the atmosphere of Las Vegas. OK, I needed to use the gentlemen’s facilities, so I headed into the casino. People everywhere. Slot machines, flashing lights and loads of noise. It was Las Vegas. I didn’t stay long.

  Bonus 12: The Statue of Liberty, New York New York Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada.

  This was Sunday afternoon and, as I headed out of Vegas towards Baker, California, I quickly realised that lots of Californians must see Las Vegas as a weekend get-away. The Interstate was jammed. Jammed with every type of vehicle, from top-of-the range Cadillacs, Mercs and Lexuses to old junk cars. Jammed and going nowhere fast. This was still Nevada, so lane-splitting was definitely not acceptable. Nothing to do but wait in line and inch forward. I still had water on board, so it was bearable. The traffic jam spread on to the horizon. We inched forward. “There’s the Whiskey Pete casino”. It had been a bonus location on a previous Rally. I had read about it when preparing for this Rally: “on the California / Nevada border”, the bonus location had said. On the border! Hey, I was in California now and lane-splitting was legal. Time to move.

  In Ireland, it is legal to split lanes – at least, Irish bikers believe it is. On this Sunday afternoon, heading into the western setting sun with a target of getting to Bakersfield that night, it was legal. Gingerly at first, to see whether the car drivers had realised we were in California. Then, as the cars consistently made room for me, I was away. It is very demanding trying to lane-split at the best of times and, in this strange environment, it was even more demanding, but at least I was moving again at more than five miles per hour. The jam continued to stretch out before me. We climbed out of a bowl, up a steep mountainside. Cresting the top of the rise, known as Mountain Pass, showed a long drop through more desert and a long, black cloud. I was in the Mojave desert and was about to be hit by yet another thunderstorm. Just before the storm hit, traffic speed had risen to 70 mph. The storm hit and we were all back down to 20 or 30 mph. It was very difficult to see where I was going and to ride the bike. I was on full alert. No sooner had the storm hit than it was gone. The inch of water on the road was gone and we were back on a bone-dry road in searing heat. Just like that.

  My next target was Baker and a photo of the giant thermometer. Baker is known as the gateway to Death Valley, probably one of the hottest places on the planet. Yes, you guessed it, there were a bunch of bonus points located in Death Valley. Late on Sunday afternoon when I got to Baker, the giant thermometer was showing 108˚F.And this was the gateway to Death Valley.

  Bonus 13: The Giant Thermometer, Baker, California.

  As I filled the bike with petrol and myself with water and fluids, I thought about the Death Valley bonus points. I decided that the hint was in the name, that I was hot and tired and that I was on time and target for my scheduled ride. The Valley was an option, but one I chose not to take. It was 18:21 local time and I still had another 200 miles before bed. A few miles outside of town and I found out why the traffic jam existed. There was a road block / checkpoint-type arrangement for the California Food Agency, checking that no contraband food was being brought into California. Some traffic jam!

  Night fell soon after leaving Baker. I passed Edwards, home to Edwards Air Force Base, and Mojave in the dark. I saw nothing except the road stretching out in front of me. I would have loved to spend some time around the base but, hey, there was a Rally to ride and I was not there as an engineer or a tourist. With the dark came the wind. And a mountain range. This section of the ride was off the Interstate on simple roads. The crosswinds hit and the road became twisty.

  Outside Mojave, I cleared the Tehachapi Summit. It was a difficult ride and I was glad to get to Bakersfield. I rang home to let them know where I was and that all was well. Then I hunted for a motel. The Super 8 in Bakersfield had a room and, within minutes, the bike was unloaded and covered. A few minutes later, I had showered and scanned the map and route for the following morning. I was in a good position for the next couple of day’s efforts and on schedule according to the ‘Plan’. Time for sleep.

  RALLY DAY 8: MONDAY, 27 AUGUST: BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA TO SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA: 519 MILES – 21,371 POINTS

  Dawn broke and I was awake. My clock awareness was all mixed up by now. I couldn’t figure out Central, Mountain, Western time differences so I just figured on waking when I woke and getting on with it. My wife had told me the previous night that the bike tracking system had been working intermittently. Sometimes sending a signal, sometimes not. Although I knew nothing about the system, before loading the bike, I whipped out the tool kit and got into the system to take a look at it. It was simply an antenna connection that had come loose. A couple of seconds with a spanner and all was well again. Within 15 minutes, I was on the road.

  My objective was to be in San Jose by night. This was to ensure that I would be in position to be at Mount Hamilton Observatory earl
y the next morning. But that was tonight and for tomorrow. Today, my first objective was the Giant Sequoia forest and an appointment with General Grant. This is the name given to the largest growing object on the planet, a giant sequoia high up in the mountains. The road into the National Park was amazing. It was like a Disney roller-coaster ride, with perfect surfaces and twists, turns, dives and rises enough to thrill any biker. The curvature and banking of the turns always made you feel tucked in to the bike; the road designers had done a marvellous job. I was on a mission and was deliberately holding myself back at about 80%. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. As the road rose, the area took on a type of Alpine feel to it and the roads became narrower and very non-American in nature.

  The park ranger at the gate inspected my Golden Eagle Pass, gave me a map of the park and told me there was some construction on the way to the trees. Right. Up to an hour’s delay. Right. I started the climb. The road narrowed further and the views became ever more beautiful. I passed the tourist lodge and fought the desire to stop and buy a pin as a souvenir. Up the mountain, until I came to the back of the traffic queue stopped for the construction. I edged forward until I came to a Californian couple on a Buell. We waited. Within 10 minutes, the traffic started to move.

  Two minutes later, we hit the construction. I know that America only recently has come to use English, but there was no excuse for calling this ‘construction’. Destruction would have been closer to the truth. We were well and truly in the mountains and the road was gone. In its place was a spread of two-inch-deep mud that wound its way up the mountain where the road had been. It was mud, because the road workers had wet the surface to keep the dust down. I nearly lost the back end four or five times on this stretch of destruction and the front end twice. It was nice when we got back to tarmac. An experience, for sure. Driving carefully to clear the mud from the tyres, the road rose ever higher. Now, where was the General? The higher we went, the bigger the trees became. I was back riding through the shade of a giant forest. I pulled into an observation area and started to hunt for the General. No joy. I asked a fellow biker and he sent me in the General’s direction. A couple of more efforts and a couple of more enquiries and I was there.

  Two Gold Wings were parked and I pulled in beside them in an empty parking area. I should have known something was wrong. It’s not normal to find completely empty parking areas in the USA. But I was in Rally mode. I grabbed my Polaroid and flag and headed for the tree. It’s a big tree and it took two shots to capture it. Well, I took one shot, ran out of film, back to the bike for another pack of film and back for the second shot. I was taking no chances about the photo not being acceptable. Homer had put the fear of God in me about meeting the details of the bonus sheet. The scoring table in St Louis on the previous Friday evening had reinforced the message. If it took two photos to capture the General, then two photos it would be.

  You walk through the trunk of a fallen sequoia to get to the General. Yes, through a tree. These are big trees. The map of the park spoke of a tree where you could drive through the trunk. It was nearby and I was very tempted but I could hear the Rally clock ticking away and the General was only the first of my several objectives for the day. It was hot, though, and I needed to re-hydrate and relax after the hunt for the bonus. Sitting at a small rest area where the park tour bus drops and collects tourists, I listened in on some other visitors. It was nice just to listen to normal people who couldn’t hear the Rally clock ticking away. I was sucking on my water bottle, they were sharing stories of places they had been and things they had seen. Once again, I felt I was living in a parallel universe. “Tick, tock”, the Rally clock called.

  Bonus 14: “General Grant”, Sequoia Forest, California.

  Up and away, or so I thought. As I walked towards the bike, a park ranger’s SUV pulled into the parking lot. The Gold Wings had gone and only my bike was there. I realised I was parked illegally. Oh boy! Tick, tock. “Good morning, sir. Do you realise you are parked illegally?”. Despite the 100˚ heat, I was in a cold sweat. It’s never a good sign when they are polite to you and call you “Sir”. You know they don’t really mean it. I apologised and hoped for the best. Five minutes later, I had explained what I was doing, why I had an Irish plate on the bike and where I was going. Five minutes later again and I was away. My story had been too ridiculous to have been made up. The officer took pity on me. I was obviously physically and mentally below par so maybe I qualified for parking where I had anyway. I left feeling chastened but thankful. I had been really worried that they would ‘take me in’ and that I would lose half a day.

  Coming down out of the Sequoia National Park was an absolute delight. Steep road, huge forests and perfect road surfaces. Brilliant. Another spectacular road. I got out of the hills eventually and hit the heat of the ‘Valley’ again. The road was lined by farms producing fruit and vegetables. The road surface deteriorated and the traffic increased. I was back in an industrialised agricultural area, where lots of business traffic was the norm. It was well over 100˚F and I was approaching the foothills again, with the prospect of several more hours’ riding on the twisty roads of California’s mountains. It was about 12:30 and I decided to take a break and pulled into a real restaurant. Real tables, real people, real knives and forks, real food. I had been surviving on quick food and power bars for the past six days and this real food break was my first real meal of the Rally. Lunch consisted of about a gallon of iced water and the most beautiful chicken Caesar salad with ranch dressing. I wanted to award them three Michelin stars – it was a lovely meal, probably made even more so by the lack of decent food in the previous week. I called home and checked that the tracker was working OK now and that all was well.

  Saddle up and ride. Off to Mono Hot Springs, which had been a bonus in previous years’ rallies too. The stories told about the ride into Mono are the things of legend among the longdistance community. It’s impossible to explain why, but I wanted to go there. Climbing through the foothills, I got to the mountains. Climb. Climb. Climb. The road reverted to Alpine style. Lots of twists and turns. It is very hard to make time on roads like this, but it is very easy to have a good time. The slopes increased. A Rally bike appeared ahead, coming down the mountain from Mono. It’s always a good experience to meet other bikers on the road. Maybe it’s the shared experiences that bikers have and the joy of the road. It’s even better to meet an Iron Butt Rally participant when you are in the heart of the Rally and have been alone for a day. This was a Rally bike. We all had lots of extra lights fitted. A wave, followed by a moment of recognition. It was Homer. We both slammed on and circled into a small turn-off for a logging road. “Where were you?”. “Where are you going?”. “How are you?”. We were both delighted to see each other, in this most remote of places. What are the chances of that? We were both relieved to see that the other was OK and going well. We decided to meet that night in San Jose, 220 miles away. Tick, tock.

  Homer had been in Yosemite National Park and Mono Hot Springs and was on his way now to Sequoia. I had been in Sequoia and was on my way into Mono and, hopefully, on to Yosemite. Homer reckoned that Yosemite was possible but not probable. He had just ridden in and out of Mono. I warned Homer about the ‘destruction’ in Sequoia. I was heading north towards San Jose, he was heading south to Sequoia away from San Jose. Having made our plans, we headed off, one up the mountain and one down the mountain.

  It seemed to take a long time to get to the junction to head into Mono Hot Springs. It did take a long time as the road climbed higher and higher into the California heartland. And then the fun started. The road was a forest track covered in tarmac, in most places. The road twisted and turned like a snake on speed. Up and down the mountain. Up stiff climbs and down into deep gullies. I felt like a mountain goat. By carefully choosing the sequence of buttons on the Gold Wing’s radio console, I located the undocumented ‘mountain goat’ feature in the bike. The Gold Wing is a large tourer, equipped for luxury; it was now handling
like a mountain goat, tackling blind corners with sheer drops to the valley floor, rocks growing through the tarmac and gravel strewn on the road from small rock slides. The stories of the ride into Mono lived up to their reputation. Spectacular. Much of the ride was taken at walking pace. Twice, I was passed by guys heading out of Mono on BMW GS1200s, at pace. They were moving briskly – a bit too briskly for my nerves, as I rode in at near walking-pace.

  After an age, I saw a sign for Mono Hot Springs massage. My GPS showed Mono about a mile further on, so on I went. When I got to the spot marked on my GPS, after a 12% climb there was nothing. Nothing in front except another steep climb. Nothing. No clues. I had to turn around on this 12% road. Slowly. God bless Honda for fitting a reverse gear to the Gold Wing. I made my way gingerly back down the track for half-a-mile and stopped again. I took off my helmet and climbed to the top of a huge granite boulder. Silence. No engines, no people, silence. Then I heard something move below me. Two white-tailed deer bounded off into the forest. Back to absolute silence.

  Down the road and I took the turn to the massage. It was Mono Hot Springs and I was there. It was definitely time to take a break. Two riders were pulling out as I pulled in. Quick wave. I pulled off my helmet and jacket and took my photos. I was really pleased to have made it in to Mono. All I had to do now was to get back out and on to San Jose to meet Homer that night. That’s all.

  I don’t regard myself as a good motorcyclist. I am not naturally gifted and have never described myself as a good rider. But here I was in Mono Hot Springs, on my bike. I was a happy guy. I needed to cool down, physically and mentally, after the ride in so I decided to go into the general store to buy a T-shirt, a bottle of water and to send a card to my pal, Mike.