Butt Seriously

by Richard Keegan

  The store was being tended by a beautiful young girl. I had paid for my T-shirt and card and asked for a stamp for Europe for the postcard. “Europe?”, she asked delightedly. She was from Slovenia and was working in the Mono Wilderness Resort for the summer. “It is the most wonderful place in the world”, she said. “OK, it’s nice”, I thought, “but the most wonderful?”. I wrote my card and settled down outside to sit down and drink my bottle of water. As I sat there, a fit-looking young guy walked over and entered the general store. I now understood why Mono might be the most wonderful place in the world – for some people!

  Bonus 15: Mono Hot Springs, California.

  As I settled in for my rest, two other Rally riders pulled in. Remember Mike Huttsal and the petrol transfer near the American / Canadian border on the way to Perce Rock? Mike and Tom Melchild were riding together at this point in the Rally. The guys had gone to the Ancient Bristlecone bonus location. I had decided not to go there when I read that the road included 12 miles of dirt road and was regarded as impassable after rain. Mike was riding a BMW grand tourer with a new modification he had developed himself – a piece of wood taped to the tank to hold his screen in place. The screen mechanism had given up the ghost on the road to Bristlecone. In fairness to BMW, the 1200 GT model is not designed for off-road extremes, but I can’t imagine either that BMW will be asking Mike for his design any time soon.

  By now, I had been in Mono Hot Springs for about 25 minutes. My body and psychological temperatures both had come back to near normal and it was about time to get out of town – well, village, actually a non-descript collection of huts to be accurate. It was 16:30 local time as I fired up the Gold Wing and headed back down the mountain.

  The way out was much shorter than the way in. The cliffs I had ridden down to get into Mono were just inclines on the way out. The miles of tortuous forest road were merely miles of tight and twisty forest roads. I found a short cut on the way out, at least it felt like that. In no time at all, I was back on the two-lane mountain road where I met Homer and off the accursed paved forest track. Only 50 or 60 miles of high mountain forest road before I got to the Valley and only a further 200 miles to San Jose. A nice spin to round off the day, then.

  Mike and Tom passed me on the way out of Mono. A couple of guys passed us on their way in. It was going to be a marginal call for the last guy going in if he was to be on time to get his ‘daylight only’ photo. He was obviously not worried about riding back out in the dark. By this stage, I had decided that Yosemite was not possible in daylight so it was time to head straight to San Jose through Fresno. So many of these places were names from childhood stories and movies. If I had looked carefully at the map, I would have known there was a mountain range between Fresno and San Jose – but I hadn’t. I rode on, blissfully unaware that another mountain range stood between me and my final objective for the day: San Jose and bed.

  Riding through the Valley again. Evening was closing in and it seemed as if most of the sensible people in the world were heading home for their tea. I was still on the bike and heading north-west. The ride reminded me of what I imagined Mexico would be like. As the sun hit the horizon, I pulled in for a break and a refill. The world off the edge of the Interstate is very different to the rest of the world. Interstate people are making miles, sitting at 70 mph. Off the Interstate, people are making lives. This petrol station had its own worldview. It was surrounded by head-high fields of corn. The Interstate floated overhead about 30 feet in the air. Down here, less than 100 feet away, life was different.

  As I filled up the bike, what looked like a 1960s estate car pulled into the next pump. A Latino guy got out and started to fill his car. When I looked properly at the car, it was clear that this was a special. It was lowered and had been lengthened with a number of understated bodywork modifications. Nice work. Before I had finished refuelling another, but very different, heavily modified car had pulled in. I was in the Heavily Modified Car Zone.

  Back on the Interstate and a BMW appeared in my mirrors. Homer, I thought. As it came closer, I was working out the distance to San Jose and a possible ETA. But it wasn’t Homer. It was another Rally participant, Rebecca Vaughan, who I had met the day before in Las Vegas, but not the pal I was looking for. We chatted at traffic lights in a small ‘Mexican’ town, surrounded by modified cars with guys seeming to hang out of every window. The lights turned green and it was ‘time to get out of Dodge’. I stayed behind Rebecca for a couple of miles but had to let her go ahead, a nice rider.

  Darkness was here and the road I was on had left the Interstate and was now tracking over some low hills and mountains. I like to see where I am riding and these night-time mountain crossings on small roads were proving to be a severe challenge. Of course, the evening winds picked up again to add to the fun. The more the winds blew, the tighter my grip on the bars. Any biker knows this is not the right technique for these conditions; it would have been better to hold the grips with soft hands and not with this dead man’s grip. But this was Day 8 and I was still in the game. Not pretty riding, but still in the game.

  Coming down out of the mountains, I hit the road into San Jose. San Jose is known to most people as the centre of Silicon Valley and, even at 23:00 at night, traffic flows on the roads were heavy, fast and furious. The road seemed to be six to eight lanes wide and packed with cars and trucks involved in a group land-speed record attempt. I stuck to my speed and let them get on with their record attempt. Pulling off the Interstate, I started the hunt for a motel. The GPS was called on but the first three motels were full or else they were not keen on having a Day 8, Irish, Iron Butt rider stay with them. It was getting serious at this point. Tiredness from the day’s efforts was hitting and I needed to sleep. I moved my efforts up a notch from normal hotels to a good hotel. Leaving my helmet and gloves on the bike, I strode into the lobby and, in my most cultured tones, asked, with authority, whether they had a room available. Ten minutes later, I was unloading the bike into my expensive, but very much appreciated, room.

  Once I was installed, I got out the BlackBerry to check for messages from Homer and to tell him where I was. I got a shock to get a message from him, telling me he had hit gravel coming out of Sequoia and was out of the Rally. He was bruised and sore but with nothing broken other than the bike. Stunned silence. I spent about 30 minutes thinking about riding south 300 miles that night to meet up with him but it was clear that the ride would be beyond me in my tired state without some sleep. We discussed the situation and agreed to talk in the morning. I was asleep within minutes.

  RALLY DAY 9: TUESDAY, 28 AUGUST: SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA TO RENO, NEVADA: 529 MILES – 50,614 POINTS

  At dawn, Homer assured me that he was OK, that his brother-in-law was flying out to support him and that the best thing I could do for him was to finish the Rally myself. It was a very distressing call and a tough decision to make. It was clear that he was not seriously hurt and also that I could do little to help him other than helping load his bike onto a trailer. I turned my head back to the Rally.

  Once Homer and I had spoken, it was clear what I had to do. I went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast and was on the bike, pulling out of San Jose, by 07:45. The Lick Observatory on Mount Hamilton was a high points bonus and clearly somewhere the Rally organisers wanted us to be. The checkpoint opened at 09:00, so it was time to make tracks. The word ‘track’ is very appropriate. The hint was included again in the name for the bonus, Mount Hamilton, Lick Observatory. It was an astronomical observatory located on the top of a mountain in the heart of rural California. The road in to the Observatory can only be described as ‘very technical’.

  Very technical is an extreme understatement. It twisted and turned, climbed and dropped like a bucking bronco. Many of the hairpin turns carried sand and stones washed down from the hillside. It was very interesting and was travelled mainly in second and third gear. The ‘mountain goat’ Gold Wing was back in action. I got to Lick Observatory at about 08:30 to find a co
llection of about 10 other riders there before me. Chris McGaffin from Northern Ireland was there, looking in good condition after a spectacular ride to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.

  The scenery from the Observatory was spectacular, with a view for miles over the Californian hills. By the time 09:00 came around, there were about 20 riders and friends at the top of the mountain. I met a couple of locals from California who I had spoken to in the parking lot in St Louis before the start of the event. Before the start; this was Day 9. It hit me that, here I was, at the top of a mountain in California on Day 9 of the Iron Butt Rally. I realised that I was no longer doubting whether I could do this, whether I could ride in the Rally. I was feeling good. I had ridden to the top of what I would have considered to be an impossible road and I was still in the game.

  Then my thoughts turned back to that road and the thoughts of riding back down. I shivered. Time enough for the ride down after the checkpoint opened and the paperwork was done.

  Being interviewed by Dean Tanji, Lick Observatory, Mount Hamilton, California.

  Dean Tanji was at the observatory with a film crew to record the event. It was clear that this remote, but extremely beautiful, location had been chosen for a reason. Dean was doing mini-interviews with the riders. Once again, it was strange to see us, the riders, move in for the interview, assume normal people’s appearance and then move back out into Rally mode. In front of the camera, we all seemed to talk and act like normal people. Away from the camera and we were all focused on maps, bonus locations and time. For the moment, time was not important to us. Not until the clock struck 09:00.

  Bonus 16: The Lick Observatory, Mount Hamilton, California.

  Two minutes to 09:00 and a queue had formed. Get the paperwork signed. Take the photo. Pack the flag and the camera. Check the photo quality. Is the name of the Observatory and its dome visible? Add the details of bonus code, odometer reading, time and name to the photo. Put the photo away carefully.

  By the time I had completed my ritual, the car park was nearly empty. I still wasn’t quite ready for the descent. My self-doubt came back like a flood. Then I noticed something. Some people, actually. A Gold Wing was parked beside mine, ridden by Terry and Lynda Lahman. Lynda was holding Terry and telling him that he could ride back down the mountain, that he could do this. Terry took the encouragement and support from Lynda and they headed back down. I looked around to see about five other guys watching. We geared up and headed down. “Wow!”, I said to Lynda later, back in St Louis. She probably did not realise just how many guys she personally got down off that mountain that morning.

  As I started down, a people-carrier pulled out of a lay-by. It was Dean’s camera crew, wanting to video my descent from Mount Hamilton. I don’t know about you but I do try to look my best when on camera. Sit up straight and try to keep the look of terror from your eyes, Richard. Down we went. I began to get the swing of the road and actually enjoyed the ride down. After what seemed like an age, four minutes actually, the guys pulled over with a wave. I was off again and on my own. Once again, I seemed to find a short cut. Before I knew it, I was on the Interstate again at Californian speeds and heading for San Francisco.

  I had found the way to San Jose and now I was bearing down hard on San Francisco. I couldn’t believe it. Day 9 and all was well. Homer was OK, my bike was working like a dream and San Francisco was just over that hill. Over the hill and I moved from beautiful sunlight into a shadowy, misty, foggy world. Just like that. Fog. I was looking for a place called Sutro Baths along the coast to the west of downtown. On my left was the pounding Pacific Ocean. Breakers coming in one after the other. Long, six-foot high waves. And people out riding the waves. Boy, did I want to stop. My eldest daughter surfs in Ireland and I just wanted to take in the whole experience. Tick, tock.

  I didn’t mind too much the slow traffic and traffic lights because it let me take in some of the experience but tick, tock, the Rally clock drummed in my head. It was time to put the Rally face back on and get back on the hunt for Sutro Baths. I found Sutro Park quite easily but not the Baths. Americans give directions quite clearly, for Americans, so I was having a little difficulty locating exact locations. This sounds a bit funny, saying that finding exact locations somewhere in North America was a little difficult. Nearer to impossible might have been a better way of describing things but the GPS was a godsend. I pulled into the gateway to Sutro Park and ignored the No Parking sign – well, not ignored exactly, I just did not pay too much attention to it.

  A local tour guide was there with a group of young people. Excusing myself, I asked for directions to the Baths. Across the street and down a bit. Leaving my thanks, I legged it and was away before I met some more park rangers.

  Bonus 17: Sutro Baths, San Francisco, California.

  Sutro Baths is a derelict concrete sea water baths at the foot of a long stairway. The fog had lifted enough to see the baths from the roadway. Now the only problem was how to get the Rally flag into the picture? A smooth concrete wall stood beside the pathway, with no way of attaching the flag, especially with a light wind blowing. Then my Rally flag angel struck again. Two old ladies, out for their morning stroll, came down the hill. The two ladies kindly helped me in my predicament and I got my photo of Sutro Baths. The ladies left for their stroll with a Polaroid memento of their unexpected encounter with an Irishman on the Iron Butt Rally. Once again, American people had proven to be most helpful, friendly and polite.

  What’s next? Lombard Street. In a perfect mapping and routing world, it would have been the Golden Gate bridge followed by the Palace of Fine Arts, Lombard Street, Signal Hill and Cupid’s Arrow, but I am not a perfect router. I went to Lombard Street, Cupid’s Arrow, Palace of Fine Arts, Golden Gate and Signal Hill – in that order. I spent a lot of time in San Francisco and probably could have given guided tours of the city by the time I left. By now, the fog was completely gone and the temperature was again high.

  Lombard Street is the zig-zag street you often see in the movies. The way there from the Sutro Baths was through the real San Francisco. It felt like being on the set of Bullitt. Actually I was riding through the set of Bullitt and it gave me a great buzz. Lombard Street is a small cliff with a paved block surface, zigging and zagging its way to the bottom. I pulled in at the top of the hill to find loads of tourists taking pictures. A trolley-car passed by and I had to pinch myself again to believe I was really there. Flag, photo, details – you know the drill by now. And then I saw my problem. The Rally instructions said clearly to take a photo from the bottom of Lombard Street and I was at the top. All those minutes wasted. A young Dutch guy was at the top of the hill taking photos of people before they went over the edge onto Lombard Street. He was capturing the reflection of the bay in their windscreens as they went over the top. He asked me whether I was going to ride down? “No way”, I said, after looking over the edge. “No problem” was his reply. “Could he take my picture anyway?” Sure, but no way was I going to ride down that road.

  Helmet on and bike turned, I rode close to the edge. I looked down and thought that the first few feet didn’t look too bad. What the heck! I had been into Mono Hot Springs yesterday and up to Mount Hamilton this morning, why not Lombard Street? I was off. What a laugh. The street is so steep and narrow that it is taken at walking-pace. Each side of the street, there are steps leading from the top to the bottom. On the way down, I was chatting with tourists walking up the steps. It was a really fun ride. When I got to the bottom, it was time for the flag, photo, details ritual again and then I was off looking for Cupid’s Arrow.

  Bonus 18: Lombard Street, San Francisco, California – the wrong shot, at the top.

  Bonus 18 again: Lombard Street, San Francisco, California – the right shot, from the bottom!

  Downtown San Francisco is a very non-American place. It has the feel of a French or Italian town, with cafés and restaurants with tables set outside on the pathways. It is a city, all the same, and city riding applied – watch f
or everything, from every direction. It was while in downtown San Francisco that I had another of those ‘only on the Iron Butt Rally’ moments. As I made my way through the Bullitt set, I would see another long-distance bike cross my path at 90 degrees. Or come towards me going the opposite direction. Or pass me as I looked for the next bonus. Here were all these ‘Open Road’ bikes, caged and criss-crossing in the heart of one of America’s major cities. It looked like a scene from The Keystone Cops.

  As I zeroed in on Cupid’s Arrow, I entered the main business centre of San Francisco. I was buried in a skyscraper zone. Caught in a canyon of buildings, narrow streets and congested traffic, I lost GPS contact. No problem, I was close to the bonus. “I can ask the locals”, I thought. But, in a major city, it is often difficult to find anyone who knows where things are. I asked six people and none of them knew where Cupid’s Arrow was. I moved towards a construction site to give the GPS a clear view of the sky. Yes, I was at the ‘correct’ location, or at least at the location we had inputted for the Arrow. Reading the instructions, it said to have a view of the Bay Bridge in the background. Of course, I wouldn’t recognise the Bay Bridge if it fell on me, a poor pun in San Francisco, I know, but I had seen a huge bridge just before I turned into the canyon. I suppose I was tired but it had taken my brain some time to compute this simple fact.

  Bonus 19: Cupid’s Arrow, San Francisco, California.

  Back on the bike, turn left and there it was. A huge arrow and bow with the bridge in the background. But where to park? Using the recently perfected ‘Irish parking system’, I was stopped on a double yellow line, flag out and photo taken in about a minute.