Behind Iron Butt Mountain was what I was looking for, the Iron Butt Circle of Honour. The Iron Butt Association has claimed this tiny part of the desert for itself. Inside the Circle of Honour are painted stones commemorating those who have gone before. I was moved. I took my required bonus photo and then decided to stop a while. I spent the next 30 minutes just sitting there, absorbing the spirit and atmosphere of the Circle and the Playa.
Bonus 27: The Iron Butt Circle of Honour, Gerlach, Nevada.
Back on the clock and it was time to leave Guru Lane and get back into mile-muncher mode. On the way back out of Gerlach, I noticed a camper van that I had seen on the way in. On the way in, I had seen a guy get a step-ladder off the van. On the way back out, there he was sitting on the top of the step-ladder, cross-legged, looking towards the east and the rising sun over the mountains guarding the valley. The Black Rock Desert does strange and wonderful things to people. It is a special place.
Seventy miles back out, I hit Interstate 80 again and headed east. I am on the run back to St Louis at this stage, for sure. The temperature rises as the day reaches towards noon. It’s up over 100˚ again as I pass Battle Mountain, Twin Summit and Emigrant Pass at 6,100 feet. Cutting through the pass, I hit a broad plain. There was nothing particularly special about this plain but it reminded me of all the cowboy films I had ever seen. I was sitting at a steady 75 mph when my attention was suddenly drawn to the right. There was a little tornado swirling across the high plain towards the Interstate. The Americans call them ‘dust devils’ but this was a tornado, a twister, to me. The sky was clear and bright blue and here was this 70 to 100-foot-high thing spinning and moving towards me, right across my path. I watched in disbelief as it sauntered its way across the plain and carried along right across the Interstate. As it crossed to the other side of I-80, the lights of oncoming vehicles disappeared when they were blocked out by the dust in the twister and re-appeared only when it crossed onto the plains to the north of the Interstate. Five seconds later, I was riding through the sand and dust deposited by the twister.
Lunch-time, I hit another McDonald’s for a chicken burger. The temperature was 105˚ and this tiny oasis provided me with gas and food. I refilled my water jug and my Gatorade bottle, after drinking several litres of fluids inside the restaurant. They provided a free refill policy and had probably not expected to have too many thirsty bikers visit with them. Throughout the Rally, I had made a serious effort to keep myself hydrated and was working hard to get enough liquids into me. I managed this fairly well.
There were two further bonuses targeted for today, all along I-80 on my way back to St Louis. If I was being really competitive, I could have gathered significant additional bonuses on this return leg but my thoughts were more about finishing the Rally and getting back to St Louis than hunting for bonuses that might jeopardise my return. The first of these bonuses was in Wendover, the gateway to the Bonneville Salt Flats. Bonneville is well-known in the biking and car worlds as a place where many world land-speed records have been set over the years. I was still riding through mountains when, suddenly, I dropped through a gap in the mountains and caught my first view of the salt lakes. Wow. Huge expanses of flatness, stretching to the horizon and ringed with mountains, it is yet another strangely beautiful place in this huge country.
The bonus required the taking of a picture of Wendover Will, a 30-foot high cowboy located at the western end of town. The statue is located in an island in the middle of the road. There was nothing for it but to use the Irish parking system again. I hopped off the bike and snapped my photo as cars and trucks moved either side of me.
With Wendover Will in the bag and the evening approaching, it was time for a little break. I was close enough to Salt Lake City to make my next bonus before dark and I suppose that, on Day 10, I was beginning to get tired. So I stopped for nearly an hour, grabbing something to eat and a lot of liquids.
Bonus 28: Wendover Will, Wendover, Utah.
The road into Salt Lake City could not prepare me for the city itself. I passed by mound after mound of salt. Yes, the hint was once again in the name, I suppose, but the scale of the salt recovery took me back. I had seen salt operations in Portugal and Spain but never on this scale. The city itself is amazing. I was stunned. The outer reaches are like any normal American town or city, with miles of low-rise malls and stores. The centre of the city is something else altogether. The main-church related buildings reminded me of Gothic structures but with a modern twist. It was like riding through a set from Gotham City with the scale, demeanour and decoration of the key buildings shouting out strength, and power and wealth. Tick, tock. I was not here to sight-see, I was looking for two painted buffalo, located opposite the State Capitol.
Bonus 29: Painted Buffalo, Salt lake City, Utah.
I should have known that this is American short-hand for the main administrative building, built with a dome and looking like the Capitol Building in Washington DC. But I couldn’t find it. I cruised for a few minutes and then resorted to my usually successful routine of asking for directions. Every woman knows that men find it hard to ask for direction and I usually say that you cannot be lost if you still have half a tank of petrol, so keep looking. But on the Rally, half a tank of petrol was 200 miles’ worth and I just did not have the time to keep looking. Within minutes, I had turned through 180 degrees and was facing the Capitol. Now where were those pesky painted buffalo? Right beside me, that’s where. Pulling over, I went through the usual ritual of flag, photo and details.
Before heading out of town, I took a few minutes to absorb Salt Lake City. I was still well over 1,000 miles from St Louis but Day 10 of the Rally was drawing to a close. I had gotten the bonus locations I had targeted for the day. There were some serious high-point bonuses on the route back. Could I capture them? Could I rack up the extra hundreds of miles required to bag them and still get back to St Louis in time? Truth be known, my thoughts had turned very definitely to home and finishing the Rally. I was heading for St Louis and wanted to get back safe and sound from my adventure. Taking my time to be fresh and rested was a key part of this stage of the Rally.
I saddled up and pointed the Gold Wing out of Salt Lake City. I was glad of the experience of being there but also happy to get out of town. I headed east on I-80 as night was falling. I wanted to make some miles before sleeping, to leave me within range for Day 11. Crossing into Wyoming at Evanston, it was pitch black. Even in the dark, it felt that I was in cowboy country, on the high plains. Road signs began to advertise rodeos and horse equipment. I began to see signs for Little America and what looked to be a lovely hotel. The further I rode in the dark of the night, the nicer each of these billboards made the hotel look. I was getting tired.
By the time I got to Green River, Wyoming, it was time to call it a day. I pulled into Green River and pulled up to a Super 8 motel. The guy in the motel said all he had left was an invalid room and asked whether it would be OK? Obviously, I had left it a little late to get a room but the invalid room certainly suited how I felt. I was walking like a cowboy, with a bow-legged rocking motion. My neck and spine was hurting after 10 days of holding my helmeted head up for 17 to 20 hours a day. And I was still on the wrong side of the Continental Divide. I had the Rockies to traverse tomorrow and nearly 1,200 miles still to go to get back to St Louis, and Geraldine, my wife, who was flying in on Thursday night from Ireland to meet me in St Louis. I already knew that I had made up my mind about the ‘off-route’ bonuses. I was going to go straight to St Louis and not add any extra burden to what would already be, for me, a big ride. It was going to be a straight ride to St Louis and the finish-line. I was asleep.
RALLY DAY 11: THURSDAY, 30 AUGUST: GREEN RIVER, WYOMING TO ST LOUIS, MISSOURI: 1,143 MILES – 555 POINTS
Another Super 8 motel, another day. Thursday. Geraldine is flying in from Ireland today, getting to the DoubleTree hotel in Chesterfield, Rally HQ, about 20:00 local time. I have my objective. It will be a long day and I am ac
tually feeling fine with no major aches or pains. Except for the joint on my spine where my neck and spine meet.
Wow, what a pain. It’s not there all the time but if I move my head to the right or left, it hits – hard. I know, don’t move my head to the right or left and I will be fine, and it won’t hurt. Knowing this doesn’t really help when you have over 1,100 miles to get back to finish the Rally and hug your wife. Thank God for Oruvail. I rubbed in a good dollop and the pain eased.
Breakfast again was two glasses of orange juice and a couple of Super 8’s fabulous Danish pastries. The bike is uncovered and packed and ready to go as the sun rises over Green River. Up and out of the town and back onto the Interstate and I could now see the scenery in the early light of dawn. I was riding through real cowboy range land. The Virginian had been a very popular cowboy programme on TV when I was growing up. I was on the set. I expected to see the Virginian or Trampas to come riding across the plain at any time. In my own way, I was riding my own ‘horse’ across the same plains. On my own hand-made leather saddle.
I had bought a Corbin Master Saddle in 2004 when I was in the USA on business and had fitted it to the Gold Wing. This is a hand-made leather saddle, built specifically for the Gold Wing. I had opted for the luxury of electrical heating in the seat area and I had been very glad of the heat on the first day of the Rally out from St Louis, in the rain. That first day of the Rally seemed so long ago and so far away as I headed onto the high plains. The best thing to be said about my Corbin saddle was that it still felt comfortable even after so many miles in such a short period of time. It was so comfortable that I never thought about it or suffered while sitting on it.
The day settled into its own rhythm. My focus had shifted completely away from trying to maximise my bonus point-collecting to getting back to St Louis as soon as was possible and safe as close to 20:00. I didn’t want to have Geraldine sitting in a hotel room in St Louis by herself wondering where I was and waiting and worrying about me. But there was at least one bonus right on my route.
The Lincoln Memorial in Wyoming marks the building of the first trans-continental road. In a way, I had always thought of the trans-continental roads as just being there. The Memorial stone told the story that, until Interstate 80 was built, there had been a network of state and local roads that sort of linked up. This all changed when I-80 was built and the volume of traffic showed that it is still needed today.
Even though this was late in the Rally and not a very big bonus location, full care had to be taken to meet the requirements of the Rally bonus sheet. First among these was to get a good photo of the location. Second was to have your flag clearly visible in the shot. Just how do you secure a foot square of material to a granite monument at the top of a pass in high plains country? Inventively. But I wasn’t really happy with the shots taken, as the flag was flapping a bit and my number was a little obscured. Then, an unsuspecting traveller came by with his wife. After a simple explanation and a request for help, I had another smiling volunteer. Every time I asked for help or directions, I was met with politeness and assistance. America was smiling.
Bonus 30: The Lincoln Memorial, Laramie, Wyoming.
Bonus 30 again: My volunteer helper at the Lincoln Memorial, Laramie, Wyoming.
You know the drill by now. Load up, check details on the bonus sheet. Get out of Dodge. I was back on the road and making miles. My thoughts were on Ger and the finish-line. The sun was out, the road surface was good and the bike was running perfectly. Oh no, the ‘gas low’ light was on and had been on for some time. I just had not noticed it, or absorbed what it was trying to tell me. No problem, a quick calculation showed I had about 50 miles of gas until ‘push the bike’ time. Checking the GPS looking for Services, Automotive, Gas showed the next station was 72 miles away across the rolling plains. I checked my calculations. Check the GPS. The answers still came out at 50 and 72. Lovely. I have driven all these miles, all these days and I am about to run out of gas on the high plains of Wyoming. Lovely.
I rode 20 miles, watching the miles to gas drop almost as quickly as the gas level itself – 20 tough miles. It was still showing over 50 miles to the next gas station and about 30 left in the bike. How stupid could I get? I had passed a gas station soon after the light first had come on but thought there would be another one not too far ahead. I hadn’t bothered to check the GPS. I was right, of course, there was gas ahead, just 20 miles further than I had gas to reach. I kicked myself.
I crested a hill and got lucky. A tiny junction came into view with a minor gas station and a restaurant building. There were no other buildings in sight as far as the eye could see, just a road to the north and a road to the south at right angles to the Interstate. Thank you, God! The gas angels had taken pity on me. I pulled into the station and I was immediately in another world. It was like something from the Twilight Zone. It reminded me of a 1950s or 1960s-style convenience store. You had to ask for the key to the toilet, even though the facilities were inside the building. Toilet, water, Powerade, bars and I was back out into 105˚ heat, with my cooling jacket doused in water again. Walking back to the bike, I looked around, there was really nothing else around except this filling station and restaurant.
As I filled up, I began to come down off Rally mind and started to look around. A Yukon SUV pulled in and a lady got out. Actually, a huge ass got out with a lady attached to it. How the ass fitted into the Yukon I do not know. Back to filling my reserve tank and another big car pulled in. Out came another huge ass with another little lady attached to it. Yes, it was the Twilight Zone for sure. A gas station that didn’t exist on my GPS, a road north to nowhere and a colony of huge asses. In my tired state, this tiny place will always be immortalised as ‘Huge Ass, Nebraska’. It was time to get out before I was abducted by rock ‘n’ roll-loving aliens.
Wyoming and Nebraska are big states. The road just stretches out in front. The miles piled up and lunch time came, so I pulled in for gas and a Keegan refill at McDonald’s with my usual chicken burger meal. Only this one was different. The restaurant was undergoing an audit from McDonald’s HQ staff and you could feel the tension in the air. I sat down to eat my chicken burger, except there was a problem. No chicken. I had been riding for several hours at this stage and probably was still in Interstate mode. Look carefully, Richard, maybe it is in there and you just can’t see it? Those voices in your head can be helpful at times and can often stop you from making a fool of yourself, if you listen to them. But, no, there was no chicken in my chicken burger.
Up I went to the counter and explained the case of the missing chicken. You can tell that I am a fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories? The auditor’s ears pricked up. The manager’s ears pricked up. Within seconds, I had a replacement chicken burger, with chicken in it this time. It was really tasty, actually the best chicken burger of the trip. On my way out, the auditors were checking out the parking lot so I told them the food had been really good. It’s hard to know whether the staff lost points for losing the chicken or gained points for their recovery of the situation.
Cooling jacket recharged, it was time to head out into the oven again. It was well over 100˚ again and the air-conditioning of McDonald’s had been like an oasis of cool. It was fantastic to go in but maybe it made it even harder to come back out into the oven heat and the sun that was still blinding behind sunglasses. The cooling jacket was very welcome.
Nebraska became Kansas. The miles still clocked up and everything was going well. I couldn’t believe I was approaching the finish of the Iron Butt Rally. I was riding on Day 10 or 11 and all systems on the bike were functioning as planned. I was in the zone and riding well and comfortably. Kansas, turn right, turn left. It’s a very simple state from a driving perspective. The right turn came up and the junction on the Interstate was marked as being closed ahead. Detour. Traffic was diverted off the Interstate onto surface roads. I was now riding among people who were going to the shops, the restaurant or home from work. I was among people goin
g about their daily business. I was back in the real world, if only for a brief time.
The real world moves at a different pace to the Interstate and Iron Butt Rally worlds. Everybody seemed to be rushing, trying to get somewhere else, fast. Cars began to dive for spaces. Bikes were skipping between lanes. Trucks were pushing to make time. All I wanted to do was get back to St Louis in one piece. The detour continued. It sounds funny to say that the world of the Interstate and in the Rally was slower than the real world but it certainly felt like that. The Rally for me was not rushed or frantic, but organised and focused. The real world was marching at a much quicker pace for short-term goals.
By now, it was dusk, that time of day when the deer come out to play. The detour had me on a two-lane road: one up, one down. I was riding through corn fields ‘as high as an elephant’s eye’. I was watching the roadside for deer, the road for trucks and my mirrors for anyone who wanted to overtake. It was a lot of concentration. As night fell, I finally got back off the detour and on to the Interstate again. It was now a straight run down the Missouri south to Kansas and that left turn that I was looking for.
Through the early night I rode. It was clear that 20:00 in St Louis was not going to happen. The GPS was showing an ETA closer to 24:00. On I rode through the night. Up and down hills that would have been interesting in the daylight. I was passed by one of the Rally riders. I fell in behind and enjoyed the ‘company’ of a fellow rider for about 20 miles. Alone again, I started to climb a hill lined with trees on both sides of the road. Large trees, chestnuts or beeches and I suddenly knew this road. I had dreamt of this road months before. I slowed down. I couldn’t remember whether it was a good dream or a bad dream but, at 60 mph, I felt I could deal with it either way. It was a good 10 minutes before I was out of ‘that’ section and could take her back up to 70 mph. When you ride a bike, you are in a heightened state of awareness. You sometimes sense things that are not immediately visible. Good or bad. But a lot of bikers, the older ones certainly, come to trust in those senses and premonitions. If you get a bad feeling, slow down. It has served me well over 43 years of motorcycling and several hundreds of thousands of miles. My sensation and memory of the section of road passed.
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