Bonus 20: Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco, California.
It was lunchtime at this stage and it was hot and sticky. I found a spot and pulled the bike up on the pathway and had something to eat and drink. This short break also let me re-organise myself. I had been going around in circles in San Francisco and needed to clear my head. There were three other bonuses in San Francisco that I needed but I was tempted just to head for the Bay Bridge and get out of town because of my frustration with city traffic and trying to find locations in the city. The short break helped me get my head straight again and I quickly organised my thoughts for the Palace of Fine Arts, the Golden Gate Bridge and Telegraph Hill.
Bonus 21: Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, California.
The Palace was just a bonus shot but the Golden Gate Bridge was an experience. The bridge is huge. Huge. As I approached it, the traffic began to group up. The bridge has its own micro-climate. All around were crystal-blue skies, while a cloud clung to the uprights of the bridge. Strangely beautiful. The viewing point on the other side of the bridge was full of tourists when my bonus angel came to the rescue once again. As I pulled into the parking lot, a car pulled out, leaving me a perfect location for my photo of the bridge.
Photo captured, I headed out to get back to the mainland, only I took a wrong turn and ended up in the military base directly under the bridge. After much messing around and asking directions, I was back onto the bridge and, once again, bracing myself for the crosswinds. It is probably just a personal thing but I am not a great fan of high bridges with crosswinds.
Back on the mainland and heading for Telegraph Hill, it was clear how easy the San Francisco bonuses could have been if I had known the locale. I quickly passed the Palace on my way back into town. Ah well, I was not a local and it was my first time in San Francisco. I felt it was important to have spent some time there to soak up the atmosphere. That is my story and I intend sticking to it.
Telegraph Hill provides a fabulous view over San Francisco Bay. A statue of Christopher Columbus was the bonus and, after a quick look at Alcatraz prison and the Bay, I was back on Rally time. The sun was shining but the wind was blowing. How was I going to keep my flag while taking a photo of the statue? A European family were there, on holidays, German as it turned out. I asked them whether they would mind helping me by holding the flag. Immediately, the father offered to take my photo while I held the Rally flag myself. As I thanked him, he asked me whether I was one of those Iron Butt Rally guys? “Yes”, I said. Oh, he had read about us, we eat and sleep on our bikes. I assured him that that we certainly did eat on our bikes but that we equally tried not to sleep on them. With big smiles and a “Thank you”, I was gone. He had heard about the Iron Butt Rally on the Internet and here he was, on his holidays in San Francisco, meeting an Irish Rally participant. The world we live in is getting smaller by the day.
Bonus 22: Telegraph Hill, San Francisco, California.
This incident reminded me of a similar ‘small world’ incident I had experienced a couple of years before. I had to go to Milwaukee on business and took the opportunity of riding an Iron Butt Saddle Sore ride of 1,000 miles in 24 hours around Lake Superior to see whether I could manage long-distance riding in the USA. I was on a rental Harley-Davidson Road King and the trip was part of my long-term build-up for the Iron Butt Rally. Back in Chicago after the Saddle Sore, I was walking down Michigan Avenue, the main street in Chicago, when I saw some BMW GS bikes coming towards me. It was Charley Boorman and Ewan McGregor, with Claudio, their cameraman, as they were finishing their Long Way Round ride. They were gone in an instant but it just showed me how small the world is.
Small, until you are battling your way across the Bay Bridge in San Francisco in afternoon traffic, sandwiched in one of the bridge’s layers at what seemed to be hundreds of feet above the surface of the bay. What a structure. It was nice to exit from the bridge and be back on terra firma and into the city of Oakland.
Livermore was the next location for a bonus, to capture a photo of the world’s longest-burning electric light-bulb. This bulb has been burning for over 100 years and is housed in the local fire station. Once I left the coast, the temperatures rose to back over 100˚ in the Valley. I was sucking water at a serious rate from the gallon water jug. Entering Livermore, I was as intent on topping up my water supply as I was on finding the bonus. The GPS showed 800 yards to the bonus when, suddenly, I was shocked to hear a siren and see blue flashing lights in my mirrors. A quick check of my speed and it was clear that I was under the speed limit. What was I doing wrong? Why was I being pulled over? How long was this going to take? Tick, tock.
Pulling over to the kerb, I dismounted and saw that it was not a police officer who had pulled me over but a fire officer. He had seen fluid spilling from the back of the bike and was unsure what type of fluid it was. It was water, from my drink tube that I had not replaced correctly after my last drink. Water being lost – this was serious, in this heat. With a thanks and a smile, I told him I was looking for his fire station, so I got a full light escort to the station.
As we pulled in, I could see five or six bikes. At least one of these belonged to one of the real Big Dogs of the long-distance community. “Hi guys, we had to deal with some business downtown”, I said to the assembled riders. The bonus mentioned getting access to the station to photograph the bulb. The fire officer had been up and down the road a couple of times in the previous hour and the assembled riders had taken it that he was seriously occupied with fire department business each time. So, I had brought him back. Happy days all round.
We all got our photos and made our way back out into the blistering heat. I took the time to re-charge my cooling jacket with fresh water. This simple luxury was great but the heat of the air into your lungs always let you know it was HOT.
Bonus 23: Millennium Bulb, Livermore, California.
Livermore to Sacramento was a hard slog up Interstate 5 in the heat of the late afternoon. Heavy traffic, moving fast, demanded full attention, especially in the heat. Sacramento came and brought with it a hunt for a giant Coke cup. My GPS location brought me to the right area but half a mile away from the bonus. Asking a young guy in a convertible, I headed down the road and there was a Coke factory with a huge Coke cup on one corner. Irish parking rules applied again and the bonus was captured quickly. A lady riding a Harley enquired whether I was OK when she saw the bike parked beside the road. It was a simple question, quickly answered with a “Yes” and a wave, but it got me thinking again, was I alright? “Yes” was still the answer.
Bonus 24: Giant Coke Cup, Sacramento, California.
This day was the closest day to my previous experience with Saddle Sore rallies. Lots of different bonus locations within a short space of time. The day was moving on and there were still two more high points bonuses to be captured if this, the longest day, was to be a success. For me, this was the make or break day of my Rally. Time to ‘get out of Dodge’.
Grass Valley was 80 miles away, up Interstate 80, and I was on the start of the return journey back to St Louis. Grass Valley, it sounded idyllic and, in many ways, it is. Nestled in the hills of California, it is a quiet rural community and therein lies the clue. Off Interstate 80 and on to local roads. Down to smaller and smaller roads and I was soon back on small Irish-level roads, which began to remind me of the gorge roads of Southern France. Distances would not be measured in miles here, but in time. Around and around and up and down. Closer and closer to the bonus and deeper and deeper fell the sun. How can the sun fall so quickly? Why are these day-light only bonuses? Will I make it? By now, it was a race against the clock, and it was no way certain who was going to win.
After what seemed like an age, I turned onto the final road to the bonus. I knew I was on the right road as two fellow Rally participants, riding BMW GSs, pulled out of the road as I turned into it. Narrow and winding, I quickly came upon the point I had entered to the GPS as the bonus location, but there was no sign of it. A mi
le further on and I was ready to ask for directions, except there was no one around to ask on this very narrow, very quiet country road. A mile further and I was choosing which house to call in to. Remember, it was fast approaching sunset and the local people either were sitting down to dinner or to watch their favourite TV shows. And I was about to pick on one of them to call on, in full bike gear. No, No, Yes! The house was set back from the road. Why this one? There were two jet skis in the front garden. I reckoned at least they were interested in outdoor pursuits. I pulled the bike into the mouth of the lane to their property, took off my helmet and walked towards their gate. Bark, bark. Thoughts of the movie Deliverance went through my head. Bark, Bark. Two big dogs came bounding to the boundary. After a quick look, it was clear these were nice dogs, not vicious, and they were only doing their job of protecting their boundary and alerting their owners of someone approaching their house. I called out. No response. Again. No response. It seemed clear that someone was home, so I persevered. After a minute or two, the man of the house appeared with his partner looking around the corner of the house. After a short explanation, along with an apology for disturbing their evening, I was on my way to the Kneebone cemetery. Down the road and down into the canyon, about three to five miles, he said. The sun was sinking fast as I made my way down to the canyon. Tight and twisty, with stones washed onto the road. Hitting the canyon floor, I opened the throttle. I could see the second bonus on my right, a covered bridge, and I knew the first bonus, the Kneebone family cemetery, was a half mile ahead. There it is. Off, grab the flag and camera, run to the cemetery and stop.
Bonus 25: The Kneebone Family Cemetery, Grass Valley, California.
The light was fading but not gone. With due reverence to the family members buried in the graveyard, I placed my flag at the foot of the grave, not on the headstone and took my photo. Mike Kneebone heads up the Iron Butt Association and this was his family’s cemetery. Turning around, I got a photo of another headstone with some blue sky in the shot to show it was still daylight, just. Back to the bike and back to the covered bridge with the clock showing 19:36, with sunset at 20:00. I was fine. The day’s work was done. All the bonuses I had set out to capture that day were in the bag. And to cap it all, Curt Gran was there capturing the bridge bonus, too. We spent a few minutes chatting. I was regaled by Curt’s story of heading into Mono Hot Springs with a flat tyre on his ST 1300 for the last miles into and out of the bonus. What a ride.
Bonus 26: Bridgeport Covered Bridge, Grass Valley, California.
We left and made our way out of Grass Valley. Only the Cascade Range stood between me now and my target of Reno, Nevada for an overnight sleep. Running from Grass Valley to Interstate 80, I chose California Route 20. This would have been a beautiful ride in daylight. At night, it was still a beautiful ride but interesting as well. The road twists and turns, rises and falls through spectacular pine forests. Huge trees line the road for mile after mile to within 10 feet of the roadside. The road is a simple one, an up-one-down-two-lane road but still there were huge semi trucks blasting along. In the dark, there was the added concern of deer. This road took lots of concentration and it was well over an hour before I broke back out onto Interstate 80.
I had been praying for Interstate 80 almost since I left Grass Valley. The old saying, “Be careful what you pray for!”, came home with a vengeance. I-80 was in terrible condition. It is relatively narrow and twisty for an Interstate route and is a main east / west artery for trade. The road surface seemed to be heavily deformed by the heavy traffic or maybe it was just that I was at the end of a long day in the saddle.
Donner Summit came and went at 7,200 feet and I was on the downhill run into Reno. Lake Tahoe was on my right but I was focused on Reno and Day 10’s work. The big trucks were playing games with me. On the uphill sections, I could pull ahead of them and maybe get a half-mile lead. On the downhill grades, they just came storming past me. Not a problem to them, with sublime ease. And I was sitting at 70 mph. This game went on for a couple of hours in the pitch black of the Cascade Range.
By the time Truckee came, it was time for a break. Stop, helmet off. Refuel the auxiliary tank, refill the main tank. Record the numbers in the fuel log. Check the receipt for accuracy. All set. But I needed a break. The road surfaces and the ‘game’ with the trucks pulling three trailers had tired me out. Even though there were only about 40 miles to go to my rest point, I knew I needed a break. So I took it and watched the night-time world of America pass me by for half an hour. All sorts of people were travelling, long and short distances, in all sorts of vehicles. Rolling out of Truckee, I made my way down to Reno. I was heading for the Black Rock Desert the next day, so I cruised into Reno on I-80 and out to the eastern side of town before targeting a Super 8 Motel for my night’s rest.
The young lady in the hotel reception seemed amazed that I was not interested in free goods in the adjoining casino but only in a shower and a bed. The security guard assured me that he and his colleague would keep an eye on my bike, so I covered her and headed for a well-earned bed and shower. I called home to check in. The GPS tracking system was working and my wife was amused to hear I was in Reno. I hit the bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Day 9 was over.
RALLY DAY 10: WEDNESDAY, 29 AUGUST: RENO, NEVADA TO GREEN RIVER, WYOMING: 804 MILES – 10,220 POINTS
Day 10 dawned with me getting up to pack and leave. I grabbed a couple of cups of orange juice and some pre-packed Danish pastries in the hotel lobby, uncovered the bike and was gone as the sun began to rise in the East. I was in desert country and squarely in cowboy land. The first bonus target today was over 100 miles away in the Black Rock Desert at Gerlach, Nevada. As I climbed back onto Interstate 80, it looked as if I had stopped at the last of the motels in Reno. The desert scrubland stretched out on both sides of me and in front. The air was crisp and clear and the bike sang below me.
Gerlach, Nevada is one of those semi-mythical places in the long-distance community. It has gathered a certain mystique over the years and is seen as a key place for LD riders to visit. The bonus was located at the Iron Butt Circle of Fame, out on the Playa, a few miles beyond Gerlach itself. Gerlach is located 70 miles north of I-80, at the end of Nevada 447. Gerlach is better known as the place where the Burning Man music festival is held each year out on the Playa. This festival appears to be well-known among those interested in music and fun. The word was that the festival-goers would be thick on the road and that the police would be thick beside the road gathering the annual transit tax – sorry, speeding fines.
As I turned off I-80 onto Nevada 447, the land took on an even more austere beauty. The road rolled up and down gently across the undulations of the valley. Each side of the valley, mountains rose. Every few miles, a cattle grid crossed the road. There were lots of camper vans, SUVs and cars – all heading into Gerlach. The radar detector sounded off once or twice but it didn’t cause me any worry as I was sitting at the speed limit, enjoying the ride. There were a number of cars stopped by the police, though, usually full of four or five young guys, obviously heading for the festival and in a hurry to get there. The call of the wild can be strong, and often expensive.
I had left Reno early but, even so, as I made my 70-mile journey into Gerlach, I saw three LD bikes coming back out. They must have been up before dawn or stopped overnight closer to Gerlach. I passed through the town of Nowhere, Nevada, very aptly named, and carried on to Gerlach itself. The village was a motley collection of 10 to 20 dwellings, but its population was beginning to swell. Camper vans with hawkers selling artefacts, jewellery, food and personal services lined the road. The village was coming alive.
Gerlach, Nevada.
And there it was, in front of me to the right, Bruno’s Motel or, more accurately, Bruno’s Country Club, Café, Casino and Saloon. I had read about Bruno’s for nearly seven years and here I was now, outside, on my bike. This was not a bonus location but I had to stop and take a Rally photo. Out of town, turn right
at the Y-junction and then the question, “Am I on the right road?”. A mistake at this point in the wilderness of Nevada would add a lot of time to the trip. Rolling along at 40 mph as I checked bonus details and the GPS, I saw a Rally bike approaching. He was moving well so I knew I was on the right road. I signalled a question to him and got a definite “Keep going” as reply, all this at 70 mph or a closing speed of 140 mph. It was Ken Morton on his Gold Wing and we exchanged happy smiles.
About a mile up the road, there was a small turn off to the left. There was nothing to indicate that this was what I was looking for, a place called Guru Lane. On I went for another mile. Nothing else presented itself so I turned back and took the track to the left. I was now riding on a dirt track, full of sand and rocks and gravel. I keyed in the commands to the bike’s stereo to initiate the ‘mountain goat’ / off-road mode and rode in. I was glad of the short, but demanding, practice I had taken with the Gold Wing back in Ireland, going off-road up forest paths to visit a number of wind turbine sites.
Guru Lane is festooned with flat rocks on the side of the track, with words of wisdom painted on them. I was focusing on the track, threading my way along but was still very much aware of the place, and its heart. I came to a spot with a US flag flying and a rock proclaiming Iron Butt Mountain. The bonus instructions said to go to the end of the lane, so I carried on past Iron Butt Mountain. I can say in my defence only that this was Day 10 of the Rally and I was probably not as mentally sharp as normal. A half mile further on, I decided that I had overshot the bonus and turned back.
Butt Seriously Page 7
