2005 Iron Butt Rally

From its inception in the 80’s, the Iron Butt rally has attracted an eclectic but determined subset of touring riders in North America and from around the globe. They are drawn to the challenge of dragging themselves and an overloaded motorcycle around much of the United States and Canada for eleven days fueled by raw grit, greasy fast food, and pay-at-the-pump gas.

But why put oneself though the agony of 11 weary days in the saddle? The real reason seems rooted in the competitive nature of the event. After all, you don’t need to spend US$1550 (the entry fee for the rally), plus travel expenses, to plan and execute an 11 thousand mile ride.

Stumbling on a few articles on the rally in 1997, I immediately got the itch. I bought my ST1100 in 1998 and started doing smaller solo rides such as the Saddlesore 1000, the Iron Butt Association’s “beginner” ride of 1000 miles in 24 hours. I finally rode “the big dance” in 2001, finishing in 32nd place.

The rally has changed little over the years. Initially held annually, it later ran every two years when the number of competitors rose to 100. Current rallies still run about 100 riders, which doesn’t quench the huge pent up demand. Only a small fraction of applicants win the lottery held to pick entrants. I wasn’t picked in 2003, but felt like a million bucks when I received word of my successful entry in 2005.

A million bucks is precisely what I wished for after coming home the rally in September and the bills started coming in. For if the rally has changed little over the years, the motorcycles and equipment certainly have.

In the months leading up the rally, I realized my old monochrome StreetPilot had to go. It was slow, outdated and outclassed by modern units such as the Garmin 276c I bought. With auto routing, large and bright TFT LCD screen, fast scrolling and searching, and handy voice prompting, it had the smarts to guide me anywhere I cared to go.

But add up the cost of the unit, high capacity memory card, detailed maps on DVD, and RAM mount, and just watch a G-note come and go. However, I wouldn’t have placed as highly without it.

After all that, I decided to also use the old GPS during the rally as backup. My old unit displayed a large-scale overview map, which also contained a clock display. In order to keep track of constantly changing time zones, it was permanently set to Mountain Daylight Time, the zone that the starting city of Denver lies within. I wrote down each entry in the bonus sheets with the same zone, and I didn’t want to be late to the finish, either!

Most competitors were also carrying laptop computers, and I was no exception. I used mine for email when a phone line was available, route planning at checkpoints, and for loading new maps, waypoints, and routes into the GPS. Having a larger screen also made doing what-if calculations faster and easier than doing all that right on the GPS screen.
Auxiliary lights are de rigueur and many motorcycles in the 2005 rally had more than one pair. Costs for lighting can quickly add up when you spec out set of HID (high intensity discharge) lights, and then augment the primary headlight with HID auxiliary lights as well.

Here I didn’t go as crazy as some. I used generic plastic-bodied spot beams from UAP/NAPA. The reflectors are large, the key to good light output, and I installed 100W halogen bulbs. Going this route, I saved at least $300 over a pair of PIAAs. Replacing one after a tipover won’t bring tears to my eyes.

My Gerbing heated jacket liner and gloves (think warm) and Aerostich suit (think dry) complete the safety and comfort equation. With Gore-Tex lining, the ‘Stich eliminates the need for a rain suit. Gore-Tex lined boots anchor my personal gear, ensuring dry feet under all conditions.

All this equipment draws plenty of power, and requires lots of room to mount and stow. Serious competitors were riding the newest touring motorcycles with their litre-plus engines and high output alternators. Quite a few made special bike purchases after being drawn for the rally, and many of these started the rally only recently having completed an abbreviated break in.

My high mileage ST1100 was competing in its second ‘Butt, and had over 300,000 kilometers on the clock when I arrived at the starting hotel, the Doubletree Denver, before the August 22nd start.

Of course all these expenses just got me to the starting line. I doubt all this talk of expense will discourage any readers seriously contemplating this rally. I wasn’t.

The rally format changed a little this year. The first checkpoint was right back in the starting city of Denver, followed by one more checkpoint in Maine. In the past there were three checkpoints, each in far-flung corners of the US.

The scavenger hunt nature of the event remained as challenging as ever. A lighthouse and water theme gave rally master Lisa Landry plenty of ammunition with which to challenge us. Or one could say the rope was long enough for each of us to hang ourselves.

As always, there were many more bonuses offered on the menu of choices for each leg than could possibly be visited within the time allowed. The combinations and arrangement of these were designed not be easy to just scoop up in a simple loop. Making it more difficult was the fact that almost all of the bonuses (bonii?) were daylight only where a picture was to be taken with the numbered rally flag in the Polaroid snapshot.

My favourite example of this is the Yellowstone park triplet offered in the first leg. Three big bonuses were clumped together within the park. They sure looked attractive, and Yellowstone was just close enough to get to before nightfall on the first day. The rally started at 9AM and there were precious few big-point bonuses available to riders on day one.

I resisted this enticement. Yes I could have gotten to the park by nightfall, but each was in different sections of this very large and busy park. One traffic tie up would put the whole trio out of reach.

Instead, I bagged a single large bonus in Nebraska (yes there is a lighthouse in Nebraska!) just a few hours into the rally, and spent the rest of the first day riding to put me in the vicinity of a very large bonus in New Mexico the next morning at daybreak.

The gambit worked. I had heard of several riders who got caught in heavy traffic in the park and had to blow off all three bonuses as the sun set while they stewed in their own juices. Sure they could have waited to morning light to take the three required pictures, but they would have just sat all night and then wasted the next day getting to the Pacific coast where all the big points were. Instead, they spent the night riding to the coast to begin their bonus hunt at first light with no bonuses under their belts to show for their efforts.

Very tricky, Lisa, very tricky indeed!

After New Mexico, I battled heat and dehydration though Arizona and southern California just south of Death Valley, snagging a bonus for taking a picture of a sign at the bottom of the world’s tallest flagpole. The base of the pole was over 300 feet below sea level, and stretched up to sea level. San Diego brought welcome cool air and a nice fat bonus that evening, coupled with a beautiful sunset over the water.

I strolled the shops in Coronado near San Diego looking for bottled water and a pair of sunglasses as mine had packed it in during the day’s desert heat, just two days into the rally. That night on the coast in Los Angeles, I took a picture of a sign at the entrance to a gated community, one of the few nighttime bonuses offered. The GPS routed me though the complicated series of freeways like a native.

I continued north up the California coast and into Oregon before turning east and heading back to Denver. A massive jam-up in Portland at afternoon rush hour forced me onto the shoulder for miles. My riding suit, tall whip antenna, and airliner dashboard layout lent an official look and no one bothered me.

Back in Denver I found myself in the top half of the field. I was surprised to learn that some riders went to Key West, Florida and New Brunswick during this three and a half day leg. They were able to snag very large bonuses for their extreme efforts, but were eclipsed by riders who collected the numerous bonuses on the west coast. And those long rides left them over-tired for the remainder of the rally, where they dropped in the standings.

We retired to our rooms that evening with bonus sheets in hand for the Denver to Maine leg. While we could leave at any time, I tried to get some sleep after route planning and loading my GPS with maps from my laptop computer.

At two in the morning, I was still wide awake. I dressed, collected my things, left the room key on the table and walked down to the bike.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the lights of Denver behind, my headlights went out on I70 eastbound. I was in the dark; my aux lights were triggered from the headlight circuit and as a result were also kaput.

Sitting on the shoulder, with nothing but the moon and a flashlight to give me sight, I decided not to go after the fuse. Instead, using CB radio, I contacted the next trucker to drive by, asking for guidance to the next truck stop that my GPS told me was less than 20 miles away. A lit parking lot was definitely a more suitable workspace than the breezy and exposed interstate shoulder.

Later on that day in a choking Kansas heat, I stopped at a highway service center for gas. While points are not given for miles ridden, having a complete fuel log accompanied by detailed fuel receipts are worth quite a few points.

The receipt the pump spat out did not have the location printed on it. I politely asked the cashier in the store if the cash register receipt had location. I was treated to a rant triggered by the rude treatment of another motorcyclist, who was obviously another Iron Butt competitor. He had berated her for the unfortunate lack of printed location on the store’s receipts.

I eventually left the store with a printout that had all the needed information, and I carried with it a sense of frustration and disappointment with my unknown fellow rider. No amount of apologies (and I gave her quite a few) could repair the damage that one inconsiderate person had done to our sport.

Much rain and fog that night in the mountains of West Virginia only dampened my spirits further. I slowed my pace, but being passed at imprudent speeds by three Aerostich wearing riders on GPS-equipped bikes had me wondering further whether I really belonged in this rally.

Does one have to be rude and unsafe to be competitive?

After the rain, I began debating with myself about how much time I had left on this leg to ride to my planned bonus locations, having already abandoned one. After mentally going back and forth a few times, I did decide to attempt the biggest points along my path. I knew this indecision was fatigue induced and vowed to get more sleep at the Maine checkpoint, where the timing was right to obtain bonus points offered for resting.

I had scheduled a tire and oil change at Reynolds Motorsports, the site of the Maine checkpoint, and showed up there after a very nice sleep in a motel. I handed my bike over to the service department, got my paperwork in order, and went to the scoring desk. Much to my surprise, I had gained a few positions and was now in the top third.

The last bonus listing had bonuses all over Canada and the United States, including several hard to reach ones on the west coast that were worth big points. While planning my route, yet another discovery left me with a feeling of disappointment. Many competitors had teams of helpers planning the route for them while they slept. These pit crews were also loading routes, waypoints, and maps into the GPS of their riders, and arranging service to the bike as well. I had to do all of this myself, taking away from valuable nap time.

I disagreed with this practice, as it detracts from the purity of the one rider versus another nature of the event. It was not forbidden under the rules, but still cheating I thought, and yet another negative strike against for this rally that had been captivating me for eight years.

My decision to ride into Canada on the final leg was made a little easier by the fact that hurricane Katrina was starting to lash the gulf coast near New Orleans. I am from Moncton, New Brunswick, and had spent much time in Prince Edward Island, places I would visit on this leg. I also planned to ride to Campbellton, NB, where my wife Jane grew up.

I smiled when I realized I could snag yet another rest bonus in Moncton on my way by. I parked and slept in my old driveway, and slept very soundly in my family home for five hours, waking only after the extremely rude Screaming Meanie trucker alarm timed itself out.

Off I went to PEI, visiting another lighthouse, and also visiting my grandmother’s gravesite and some long time family friends. Heck, I don’t find myself on the island all that often so I might as well take advantage.

Another rally master trick caught up a fellow rider here on the island. Most of the bonuses required a picture with the rider’s numbered flag visible in the picture in front of the bonus subject. This one also required the rider’s motorcycle in the shot. At the Campbellton stop, rider Duke Dunsford lamented he didn’t read the instructions and as a result had let the 10,000 point bonus slip away as his photo did not include his 250cc Kawasaki Ninja.

Later on in Quebec, I entered into a massive storm system dumping huge amounts of rain. This turned out to be the remnants of hurricane Katrina heading north. It made riding very difficult, with strong winds and hard driving rain. If this is merely a remnant, the storm must have been bad. And of course it was.

I got tired near Montreal and stopped to rest. Not finding overhead shelter, I laid down on a picnic table, with the rain coming down as strong as ever. I tried to lay on my side with my helmet turned down to prevent rain from splashing me in the face. It was only partly effective. I did get some sleep, but it wasn’t enough.

I had hoped to snag a trio of bonuses in Vermont on my way past, but I would get there in the dark and have to wait hours in the rain for the required daylight. I blew them off.

I was on my to Sault, Michigan, but I didn’t leave the rain behind until nearly Sudbury. It was a relief. Despite the waterproof suit, I was still soaked down to my underwear. Due to the heat, I didn’t close my suit completely. I left the front zipper down slightly. Only the occasional drop of water entered, but over the course of 12 hours of this, it was enough to soak me.

I met up with Dean Tanji, Brian Boberick, and Steve Hobart at another lighthouse on the northern shores of Lake Michigan, and we all enjoyed a meal and some camaraderie in nearby Escanaba, Michigan, as we were less than two days from the end of the rally. After a much needed shower and sleep (and another rest bonus), I felt surprisingly good, despite the shock of prices at the pumps. The sun was shining, and I was on target to reach the remaining bonus.

The group of four were all headed to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, for the one remaining bonus and we rode together that far, after which Brian and I split off to take a shortcut heading back to the barn. With the end of the stress of the last 11 days in sight, my mood lightened considerably. Something akin to the elation I had felt on my first Iron Butt in 2001 crept in to sweep away the disenchantment I had been feeling. Before long, I had decided that yes, I could one day ride this rally again. Styx said it best: “Too much time on my hands.”

The final run through Nebraska mirrored my initial ride to Denver. It was cold and dark in the high elevations approaching the foothills of the Rockies. My Gerbing heated jacket liner was on a low setting to take the chill off. Whether that was from the temperatures or the excitement of finishing this massive ride I don’t know.

It seemed like an eternity since I had last seen the Doubltree Hotel in Denver. I had been to both coasts, and my old stompin’ grounds of New Brunswick. Pulling in at about 5AM, I was elated to see two friendly faces from home, Marlene and Michael from the Zen Riders club.

Park the bike: check, engine stop: check, sidestand: check. Everything was deliberate and in slow motion like in a dream. I was handed a bottle of water and was the recipient of numerous handshakes and hugs. But there was still business to attend to. Paperwork and photographs for the last leg from Maine (how many days ago was that?) needed to be organized and presented to the scoring table.

Part of being a successful Iron Butt Rally competitor is having the ability to keep one’s mind on the task at hand regardless of distractions and road weariness. However, with the end of the ride came a difficulty in focusing. I tried to concentrate with images of the last eleven days moving in front of my mind’s eye like I was riding a train. I knew if I just got this paperwork out of the way, I could check in to the hotel and enjoy eight hours in a bed.

After being scored, I was encouraged by my results.

Not wishing to bite off more than I could chew, I had not set an overly aggressive ride, but also had not left much slack time in my routes. Once the rally had started and I was on the bike and rolling, I had kept to the program, and didn’t make any mistakes. And the bike didn’t break.

At the banquet that night, I was quite certain I had improved upon my previous 32nd place finish, but wasn’t sure. As the places were called out in descending order, my heart raced as 32nd place was called out, then 30th, and still I had not heard my name. I eventually took my turn in front of the room to accept my plaque as 25th place finisher, with enough points for a gold medal!

The biggest story of the rally was Jim Owen of Pennsylvania. He was so far ahead of everyone else at the checkpoints, it was commonly understood he would win. It was a foregone conclusion. Then on the second last day of the rally, his BMW broke down and he went from front-runner to DNF. Nevertheless, he received a standing ovation at the finisher’s banquet from the hundreds in attendance.

Putting in a strong ride on his Honda ST1300 was Shane Smith of Mississippi. Despite his house being almost completely washed away by Katrina, his family urged him to continue. He became the winner after Jim dropped out, ending BMW’s stranglehold on the top spot.

Overshadowing the winner’s circle was the specter of what might have been had one Don Arthur competed. Vice-admiral Arthur, Surgeon General of the United States Navy, had spent the last year scooping up top finishes in numerous rallies and was widely expected to finish at or near the top of the Iron Butt Rally. On his way to Denver, an oblivious driver turned left right directly into his path. He t-boned the car, ending up seriously hurt and back at the Navy hospital in Bethesda, Maryland he commanded.

It is said that postpartum, a woman’s body forgets the pain of birth. I had this bouncing baby finisher’s plaque, and what remained was positive memories of faces, places, long roads, fog-shrouded lighthouses, the flash of a Polaroid camera, and the desire to ride the Iron Butt again.

Mexico 2003

wo years ago, in February of 2001, I stood next to my motorcycle at a gas station in McAllen, Texas, just across the border from Reynosa in Mexico. A man walking by asked where I was going on this grey, drizzly morning. I told him I was riding into Mexico. He wondered why on earth would I want to go there. I answered that I had never been there before. That pretty much sums up in a few words why I often ride great distances on my 1998 Honda ST1100. I did have another motive in this case, my wife's father lives in Patzcuaro, a few hundred kilometers from Mexico City.

However, due to an ill-fitting helmet, big miles were definitely not part of that trip, unless you count the ride down there hauling the ST on a trailer. Even that part didn't go smoothly. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, on the drive back, I skidded on black ice and collided with a disabled car on the side of the road. Ever have that feeling that you should have just stayed at home and vegged out on the couch?

A few weeks after my crash, I flew from Canada down to Tulsa to retrieve my repaired truck. After buying a new trailer to replace the one I wrecked, I picked up my bike which had received a clean bill of health from a local dealer. While finishing my trip home, I knew I would ride into Mexico again. I hate failure. My stubborn side simply will not lie down and accept such random acts of disappointment.

Indeed, the cold temperatures and relentless snow of southwestern Ontario in January, 2003, found me planning this trip all over again. My trip to Mexico actually started on the corner of Wharncliffe and Wonderland roads in London, at my dealer, Hully Gully. They were having an open house, and I had agreed to display my bike there. It meant leaving a day later than planned, but I always enjoy these things. There was a possibility that I could extend my trip a day on the other end if I was enjoying myself too much down south.

After the fun of the open house, I was loaded on the trailer for the 3000 kilometer trip to Texas. It was Saturday, February 1st, 6PM. I was concerned a high terrorist alert plus the shuttle Columbia disaster over Texas would make my travel difficult. In the end, only my tired state slowed me down as I made my way south behind the wheel of my Chevrolet Tracker.

Southern Illinois - I hadn't seen a landscape without snow in months.

I planned this trip south to avoid Oklahoma, and not just because that state drips with negative karma. After my accident two years ago, the state trooper on the scene wrote me a ticket which I had promptly forgotten about. In the weeks before this trip, I had received the ticket again in the mail with a warning that a warrant for my arrest would be issued if I didn't pay up. Not looking for trouble, especially in today's atmosphere of paranoid border crossings, I decided I would pay it. This I did, once arriving in Texas on a sunny and oh-so-warm Monday afternoon. I bought return postage for the S.A.S.E. they would use to send me the receipt, and mailed that along with my money order to Okie.

Arriving in south Texas.

Once making contact with my friend Tomas Perez in Mission, near McAllen, and unloading the bike at his house, we went for a short ride. He allowed me a stint on his new ST1300ABS, a very nice motorcycle. Tuesday morning I was set to ride over into Mexico to begin my trip.

This would be a good time to inform you of the paperwork requirements of entering Mexico, and to pass along a warning. Along with a passport and driver's license, one must purchase three documents to ride into the interior zone of Mexico. Those three things are a tourist permit, daily insurance for your vehicle, and a temporary importation certificate. This certificate is your bond that you will leave with your vehicle, and not sell it while you are in Mexico. And now for the warning: do not leave Mexico without canceling your importation certificate at the Banjercito office.

The infamous "Permiso de Importacion Temporal de Vehiculos."

My trip of 2001 once again came back to haunt me, for I had not cancelled that permit. Instead, I had dropped it into a box at the border on my way out of Mexico, thinking this would suffice. Naturally, they had questions. Fortunately, I had answers. I also had the same bike I used in 2001, with permit sticker still displayed on the windshield. This was extremely fortunate for me. I might have been fined and turned away at the border had I not been able to prove I returned with my bike two years ago. While all this was going on, I noticed a heavily laden KTM out in the parking lot. Eventually, I saw the rider. I was surprised to see that he was wearing the very same suit I was, a blue Aerostich Darien.

All of this legal and linguistic wrangling took a fair bit of time, and before I knew it, my Tuesday morning was shot. Ah well, I had my fuel cell mounted for extra range, and a helmet that did not give me migraines, so progress promised to be swift.

Mexican roads had not changed significantly in the two intervening years. City streets tended toward the atrocious side, while the toll highways were the equal of anything seen in Canada or the US. The free-use highways slotted right down the middle of these two extremes, but had the major disadvantage of taking one straight through the aforementioned cities. I opted for the expensive tolls at the beginning of my ride towards Torreon, where I had turned around two years ago.

This answers the question we've all been asking:
Where is Eric Estrada these days?

With feelings of deja-vu, I stopped in Torreon as night was falling, and stayed in the same hotel I stayed at two years ago. I liked the security of its courtyard and locked gate, and it had a charming architecture which perhaps tried a bit too hard to be the typical colonial ideal.

Torreon is a major centre. The big three automakers and all the fast food operators familiar to North Americans have a presence there, and the streets are better maintained than most, although a detour on my entrance to the city had me doubting this. This detour had me (and dozens of honking, belching cars) on such bad roads, that I couldn't help but wonder how bad the closed section was.

On my way to the hotel, I was startled when I noticed a police vehicle in my rear view with the red and blue lights flashing. My heart leapt into my throat as I pulled over, visions of decrepit Mexican jails flashed before my eyes. Relief washed over me as I watched him pass me by. Then I noticed that the police all drive around with their red and blue roof lights going all the time, ignored by other motorists. It seems they simply like the way they look, and leave them on. When on an emergency, they turn on the siren, which sounds like a European high-low type.

My hotel was right across the street from a large grocery store. I stocked up on bottled water and snacks, and purchased a TelMex calling card. After calling home to my wife, it was off to bed.

Day two in Mexico didn't start out much better than day one had. I forgot to remove the lock I applied to the right front brake disc the night before, and managed to tip the bike over as a result. After getting help to right the bike from the desk clerk, I was off.

Things warmed up nicely as I continued south along highway 49. I recorded temperatures in excess of 30°C, under blue skies criss-crossed by a few wispy clouds. Cactus was plentiful amongst the dry scrub bushes of the sparse landscape. At one point, my reverie was interrupted by two tumbleweeds making a frenetic trip across the highway, driven by crosswinds from the west.

What really made me smile, however, was noticing on my StreetPilot GPS that I had passed through the tropic of cancer (latitude 23.5 degrees north) in the state of Zacatecas. Its capital city, also called Zacatecas, is truly a feast for the eyes. Densely populated, it is built between peaks of the western Sierra Madre mountain range. I thought its combination of modern and old world architecture a tantalizing mix, often distracting me from the road. Everywhere I looked, colourful buildings lined narrow, spiraling roads.

Zacatecas from the surrounding hills.

The corridor up and down toll highway 49 towards Mexico City contains many industrial parks and manufacturing plants. Looking like prisons, these plants are surrounded with high fences topped with barbed wire. Workers' housing units line the barren land within walking distance around the plants, packed tightly like rows of corn. Houses appear little more than boxes, some made from mud and straw. Cheap labour seems to be Mexico's primary crop and export.

Leaving the industrial corridor at highways 45 and turning south towards Morelia, conditions seem to go from bad to worse. Without an economy propped up by nearby manufacturing, many towns are stuck in perpetual poverty. Only main streets are paved and street signs are often hand painted and attached to buildings that crowd the narrow lanes.

And the gas station bathrooms aren't much better.

A prime example of this is Valle de Santiago on highway 43 just north of Morelia. On its outskirts, I saw a sign indicating an alternate truck route around the town. I eagerly turn down this street hoping to avoid the slog through yet another crowded “centro.” I realize this is no ring road as I encounter a full size tractor trailer stuck trying to make an impossible turn around a tight corner. It towers above the shacks which block its path, and could surely knock down a whole city block in first gear.

I veered left, looking for a way around the blockage, only to get lost in a maze of one way and dead end streets whose surfaces would make you average rock quarry look as smooth as a gymnasium floor. Pretty soon, I was on the “bypass,” a cobblestone affair surely built before the last century - or maybe even the one before that! When I think of cobblestone, I think of charming lanes in quaint European villages, made of smooth stone in a neat pattern. I've dubbed the Mexican version “hobblestones.” After bobbing and bouncing the loaded ST1100 over the large and uneven rocks for a few kilometers, I glanced at the GPS for a way out. It indicated several more kilometers of this. I turned off and back towards town.

I entered the town center and instantly realized I had jumped out of the frying pan and right into the proverbial fire. The one lane “main street” was jammed with people, donkey-propelled carts, and smoking cars so old they disappeared from your local junk yard decades ago. Eventually, I adopted the method used by other motorcyclists of simply riding down the side of the road. Pedestrians wisely backed away and waited for me to pass. This was the only access to the city of Morelia to the south.

I eventually wended my way through Morelia and on to Patzcuaro on highway 14. I had estimated I would be there at 6PM, but conditions put me in after 7:30.

My wife's father, Roland, who was waiting for me in the town square since 4:30 I later found out, had gone home as it had started to cool off. At 6000 ft elevation, it was the coldest it had been all day, around 15°C. I walked around looking for him, but had no luck. I found a hotel with a secure courtyard, and checked in. My small room cost 220 pesos, or about US$20.00 After putting my bags in the room, I covered the bike, set the alarm, and put the disc lock on - after applying a homemade sign in front of the ignition lock to remove it.

I went walking around in a t-shirt, while most of the locals were wearing jackets and hats; this was their winter after all. The square was very busy on this Wednesday night, with sidewalk hawkers and food stands lining all four sides. Not trusting the cleanliness of roadside food, I walked into a nice sit down restaurant decorated with copper place settings and colourful woven wall coverings.

The waiter walked over and I issued a sturdy “uno cerveza por favour - Corona,” fulfilling a primary entry on my itinerary. My spanish or perhaps my appearance gave me away, as he came back with my beer and an english menu. I ordered the Patzcuero Chicken, a dish with tasty enchiladas, chicken thigh, and somewhat dry and bland carrots and turnip. The total, including the barly pop, was a reasonable 75 pesos, or under US$8.00. I went back to my room and fell asleep quickly.

I was awake before light, wondering when and if Roland would come to town to meet me. I decided I would head back home. It was Thursday morning, I was 4000 kilometers from home, and I had to be back to work Sunday night. I pulled open the map and spread it out on the overly firm queen-size bed. There was no way in hell I would pass through Valle de Santiago again. I decided to detour through Salvatierra and Celeya on my way to Queretaro where the free highway 57 starts north. I made the changes to the route in my StreetPilot and packed up the bike.

I chose a different route while leaving Patzcuaro in the dark, and wound up on another hobblestone road. I would have been upset if not for the nice decorations on display. Presumably leftovers from the Christmas season, streamers and banners were hung on shanties and shacks and across the road. I saw not a single string of lights in this poor area if town.

My detour on highway 57 through Salvatierra ended up being a pleasant romp through rolling hills in a fertile valley. I think I saw more cropland in ten minutes than I had in my two previous days in Mexico. The road was also a surprise. It was a four-lane divided highway with good quality pavement, and wasn't clogged with traffic.

Buying tequila at the drive-in liquor store in Celeya.

I soon encountered the first of six military checkpoints in the northbound lanes. Ignoring the tequila I bought, they were looking for guns and drugs being smuggled from Mexico City north to the U.S. As a motorcycling gringo, I had an easy time, although on several occasions, soldiers carrying automatic rifles unpacked all of my bags to look in each.

I quickly learned that producing my passport would speed these checkpoints. Pulling it out, the top-ranking officer on hand would hold out his hand for it. After reviewing it and handing it back, this officer would inevitably wave his hand, indicating I could leave. The others would simply stop what they were doing, and I would go.

A roadside stand selling copper goods.

The sights were much better along this “libre” highway than the toll roads. Roadside markets appeared occasionally, like an oasis in the desert. Copper and beaded trinkets were popular among Mexican artisans. Other tasty treats for the eyes included pottery, porcelain, and of all things black velvet art. Each state also had a series of signs along the roadway indicating the condition of its roads. I was encouraged to find that my roads that day would all be “bueno.”

Bueno, senior!


Its getting warm out here.

Mid-afternoon in the central plains turned downright hot, and I appeared to be entering a desert-like environment with few stops. When the opportunity arose, I decided to stop for gas at a state-owned Pemex station on highway 101. That turned out to be my best tankful of the trip. I had already ridden 636 kilometers that day, and still had 10 liters in the tank.

Continuing north, brown rusty peaks began to appear over the horizon. Crossing over the eastern ridges of the Sierra Madres between Tula and Ciudad Victoria proved to be the absolute highlight of my trip. Mostly excellent quality switchbacks tempted me to leave behind some of the metal underneath my footpegs. Unfortunately, the sheer drops and lack of guardrails were a deterrent. The massive peaks that towered above rivaled a good many of what the Rockies can muster, especially as those fourth gear corners turned to third and second gear corners.

Switchback curves visible on mountainside in the distance.


Steep roads climbing up.


Looking down over the edge of the pavement.

As seen on many roads in North America, locals have erected crosses at the sites of automotive gore. One such turn, preceded by many signs with big red letters of warning, contained more than a dozen. I didn't count them, as that would likely have resulted in one more. Looking the other way towards the outside of the curve, the cliff began where the road surface ended - without any shoulder.

As the road flattened out, I kept looking back towards the peaks I was leaving behind, as I often find myself doing. It's sort of like watching the credits after a good movie. I was also watching my last day in Mexico slip away. I was so engrossed by the twisty tarmac, I didn't notice the sun slipping behind the mountains to the west.


Crackers, potato chips, and water. Mmmmm.

I was still several hours from the U.S border, and was not thrilled with the prospect of riding in Mexico after dark. I had lost track of the number of animals I had seen on the roadways.


Horse grazing in the median.

I was pleased with myself, when after several hours of mild and breezy riding under a starry sky, I was successfully canceling my importation certificate and riding back into the U.S. It may have been -20 degrees and snowing back in Canada, but this warm winter ride would be safely tucked away in my mind, ready to relive at a moment's notice.

Toronto Motorcycle Show - Spring 2009

Today was the first day of the Spring Motorcycle Show in Toronto. I really like these shows because it gives me a chance to talk to a diverse group about the sport of motorcycling. Very interesting.

Funny thing happened today, though. Two different people told me about the fact that they use car tires on their motorcycles. I am not referring to a sidecar rig that spends all its time in the upright position. I am talking about a bike that is supposed to do what all motorcycles do in a corner - LEAN!

These guys are running tires with flat profiles and telling me it doesn't adversely affect the handling of the bike in any way. Twice today I have been told this. They do it because car tires last much longer than motorcycle tires, and are less expensive.

I was told not to doubt it, just to try it. Well speaking as someone who has had a motorcycle accident and survived, why would I want to invite disaster? I didn't tell them this, but I was certainly thinking it. These guys have a screw loose. DO NOT DO THIS!

Here I am at the show today. My hair is getting a little long. I guess that it the way it will look when you haven't had a haircut in over 8 months!


Here I am geocaching at the airport the week before.

The KLR Project - Got The Bolt and Bearings Out

On Monday, March 30th, I finally was able to get the frame on a hydraulic press to remove the stuck pivot bolt.

Thanks to Inglis Cycle Centre in London, Ontario and Gord Inglis for his help.

It took a lot of force to remove the stuck pivot bolt for the rear shock linkage. But it finally broke free. The sleeve inside the linkage was fused by rust to the bolt.


In the above picture, rust is visible inside the tubes of the frame.

We also used the press to remove all of the bearings from the shock linkage and the swingarm.


The next step will be to strip the swingarm, and thoroughly clean the link so that they can be drilled and grease nipples installed.

Gord had a good idea that may prevent the sleeve from rusting to the pivot bolt in the future. He suggested a grease nipple be installed on the pivot bolt, with a small hole down the middle of the bolt, and a small hole drilled through the radius of the bolt to where it will eject grease underneath the sleeve. In order to get the plastic cap back on the right side where the bolt head is, I may have to remove the grease nipple and install a plug.

Interesting idea that I will discuss with my machinist friend.

Welcome To The New Silliker.Ca

Welcome to my new website. If you have visited before, you will notice the new layout immediately.

My friend Mike Reid, who introduced me to motorcycling, had been hosting this website on his server for many years. He was very gracious and with his help, I had been able to post of my motorcycling adventures.

My problems were my inability to post often enough. Any additions to the website were being done with an HTML editor, formatting text and photos and then uploading the whole works via FTP and then checking and adjusting the formatting. It was a time consuming process.

Now using the Blogger system, all entries can be made online via any web browser. I am typing this on a small 9" laptop while lying in bed! It is much easier and quicker. It also adds the blog functionality, which I have been interested in trying. This website also does a decent job of categorizing posts.

I will eventually port over all my riding stories. Some have already been brought over. I look forward to exploring all the possibilities this new platform has to offer.

Thanks for logging in!

Easter 2001 Banzai Blast to Key West

Long weekends are for riding. As spring arrives here in cold Canada, a rider's thoughts turn to warmer weather and putting down the kilometers. The Easter weekend always means the first big ride of the year. While not technically true this time, as I had already taken a long ride in Mexico, it was the first long ride where I left home riding a motorcycle instead of pulling a trailer! During two previous Easter sojourns, I have gone to Canada's east coast. This has always resulted in at least some riding in snow, so in a fit of mature and sensible (not to mention uncharacteristic) thinking, I decided to avoid the snow this time. Well then what's left? Key West!

Now here is a destination I've wanted to hit for some time. It's extreme (it is the southern-most point in the continental U.S.), it's warm, and it's somewhat mysterious and exotic. I didn't know exactly what to expect in Key West. I had in mind a tropical paradise kind of place in the same vein as the Bahamas: beaches, palm trees, resorts, nightlife. Well, it really has all of that, with less emphasis on the beaches, more on the nightlife, with some interesting history thrown into the mix.

I ran this idea past some local riders during a regular "committee" meeting. Important topics such as prepackaged meat, and the planned summer ride were being discussed. Called the MOB (Men On Bikes), surely at least one member would bite. In the end, a rider on the STOC mailing list accepted my offer. Dominic Isabella lives in Philadelphia. He, myself, and two other riders made the trek to the Grand Canyon during WeSTOC 2000 and this small group of riders has been dubbed the Road Dawgz. While these "club" names can be fun, everyone realizes the real fun lies in not just who you ride with, but more importantly where you are going and how you get there.

As Dom and myself live far apart, he in Philly on the east coast, I in London in southwestern Ontario, we arranged a meeting point that still allows us to share a long ride on the way down. That meeting spot is Hillsville, Virginia, near the junction of interstates 77 and 81. Eight hours from Dom's home, 12 from mine, Key West is still over 1200 miles to the south!

I was ready to leave on the morning of Thursday, April 12 at 7AM, directly from work. It was raining, weather I am prepared for and willing to accept as a part of any ride, but it's never pleasant when actually leaving on a trip. Bad karma. This cleared up as I headed west on highway 401 to the Windsor/Detroit border crossing. The absent rain was soon replaced by a ripping south wind, more powerful than I have ever ridden in before.

After crossing over to Detroit, I headed south to Toledo, Ohio, then turned east heading to Cleveland where I would turn south on I77. On the southern shores of Erie heading to Cleveland, I thought less about making Hillsville, and a lot more about merely surviving another mile of the tortuous wind. If it were just the wind, I would have been fine with it. Combine the brisk wind, the occasional gust (which the news reported at nearly 100 km/h!), and traffic on a busy interstate highway and what you have is palpable danger!

Many times I was sent reeling, either by gusts or the sudden lack of any cross wind such as when passing a semi truck. And what happens when you are passing a truck, leaned over hard to the right in an effort to ride in a straight line, and suddenly you enter calm still air? You careen to the right, directly into the path of the trailer's wheels!

I pulled over into a rest stop.

I called my partner Jane, I called Dom, not exactly sure whether or not I would continue on. I contemplated stopping in Cleveland, visiting the Rock and Roll hall of fame, staying the night, and turning around. However, Dom assured me the wind speeds would lessen as I went south from Cleveland. I got back on the road hoping like hell he was right. He was indeed right, bless the weather channel and it's pocket protector-wearing cadre of weather experts! I settled into the rhythm of a typical highway drone.

Things got a little more interesting as I approached the West Virginia border. The roads on the map go from something resembling straight uncooked spaghetti to the cooked variety. And just like cooked spaghetti, these roads were a little more tasty. And I do mean a little more, the interstate experience rarely rises much above the bland level. At least the Appalachians were pleasing to look at, interrupting the monotonous horizon I had been used to.

Late evening saw this Canadian rider sitting down to a Chinese food dinner in Hillsville, Virginia with a guy from Philadelphia. We had a good talk. The last time I saw Dom was in Massachusetts in the fall at another gathering of the STOC clan called FallSTOC. Dom, two other riders and myself were the recipients of written warnings from county police in western Mass. Dom filled me in on his plans to attempt an Iron Butt Association SS1000 on our ride to Florida. We reviewed the paperwork he had prepared. It's still warm when we press on, back on I77 south.

We were soon out of the narrow wedge at the western reaches of Virginia state and into the also-narrow western side of North Carolina. At South Carolina we were officially in the deep south and the temperatures were quite comfortable. I didn't see any banjo-playing hillbillies, but I did catch a glimpse of the insides of my eyelids once or twice. Yes, I was getting tired. I worked the night before, and here I was hoping to ride through the next without so much as a minute's snooze. It ain't happnin'.

Not being an experienced Iron Butt rider, Dom has never before slept in the Iron Butt motel. We pulled in to a rest stop, parked the bikes, and I explained my own strategies for choosing an ideal location to check in. If you want to know what those are, just plan a long ride with me and I'd be happy to explain them to you!

Helmets serving as pillows, jackets as blankets, we reposed upon the seats of a picnic table. I slept very well, but woke up sweating. I walked back to the bikes as Dom slept on. In the dimness of a gas light obscured by the many encroaching trees, I stripped off my jacket and helmet. Rumbling low nearby, the semi trucks were parked in a diagonal row. I barely noticed the incessant scream of a trailer-mounted reefer as I walked about to cool off. It was indeed very warm, even at this wee hour. I threw my long sleeve T to the ground and faced bare-chested into the slight breeze to cool off.

Dom was soon awake. We had water and snacked on junk food, and got back on the road. That wasn't the last stop for rest. Twice more I became tired enough to force us to stop, sleeping well each time up to an hour. I don't know what it is, but I enjoy these stays in the Iron Butt Motel. I think it's the solitude and peace of the rest stop devoid of screaming kids and bustling hordes. Or maybe it's the lack of any line-ups in the washrooms and at the vending machines!

We eventually ride through Georgia and are finally into Florida, still many miles to go in this elongated state filled with Snowbirds and others who would waste ballots. With Florida also came the flat terrain once again. It's a straight shot down I95 all the way to the Miami miasma of tollways that would take us to the keys.

We just rode into Florida, still some distance to go!

I was really looking forward to riding the keys. The image in my mind was one of blue-green water all around as we ride some immense bridge. A bridge so long we couldn't see either end of it. Eventually we were actually doing it!

Riding along over the bridges that join the numerous keys, the sun was setting. A large blurry reddish-orange disc still blazing as it was plunging into the water on our right side. Our Friday of riding was being extinguished in the amber light. I felt as if this captured - no commanded - the attention and imagination of every person in the cars around us. It was as if we were all seeking out the object that was disappearing before our eyes.

My first Key West sundown occurred on the highway!

I was disappointed we were not yet there. This is one of the things I had had in mind to enjoy while in Key West: to be reclined on a beach, Margarita in hand, Jimmy Buffett's "Margaritaville" playing in the background, watching the sun set over the gulf of Mexico. No matter, there was still Saturday night.

Traffic going to the keys was almost unbearable. The mile markers were counting down much slower than I would have hoped. We were not the only ones looking to enjoy this Easter weekend on the keys.

I was expecting traffic to thin as we approached Key West, as folks stopped at various islands along the way. Every key is it's own resort area. Each is filled with hotels, boat dealers, fishing charters, restaurants, condos, and of course bars. This effect was barely noticeable. Congestion was relentlessly slow. On one bridge ten miles or so from the keys, things opened up a bit with two lanes in each direction in contrast to the city-center two lane norm.

In the darkness, we did not see the Florida State Trooper parked at the exit of the bridge. We were well over the posted limit, but perhaps he didn't see us: he stayed put. Police presence was typically paranoid as it is in most populated areas of the U.S. Paranoid also describes the mindset of those who speed in this environment while not under the watchful eye of a good radar detector.

Finally we found ourselves on Key West. The sense of relief lifted my spirits immensely. The stress of the last 100 miles was immediately forgotten. The temps were still very mild. People were everywhere. Dress code seemed to be shorts and Ts, or even less. Scooters were the transportation method of choice, their riders unhindered by bothersome footwear, gloves or helmets. On my huge ST1100 dressed for highway running, I felt like a Clydesdale being buzzed and bothered by mosquitoes.

We pulled off highway 1 onto coastal A1A. Checked into our hotel room at the Sheraton, we caught the shuttle to the downtown. Our driver gave us the rundown of the downtown. Soon we were roaming the streets of this city known as Key West. For that's what it is, a city from coast to coast. Boat docks line the one side facing the Gulf of Mexico, while beaches stretch along the ocean side, with plenty of drinking in the middle!

We had dolphin fish at the A&B Seafood restaurant, one of the older eating establishments. A few brews later and the miles were once again catching up with us, I questioned whether I could even walk to catch a cab.

Standing at a taxi stand, we wondered where all the taxis were, as did quite a few others. We realized that they were being flagged down by savvy revelers while still enroute to the area. We headed in the direction of the full cabs and flagged one down ourselves. Ten minutes ago I hadn't known what a savvy reveler was, now I are one!

Sleep came easily in the air conditioned room. Ten hours disappeared in literally the blink of an eye. In the morning, we wandered outside to the beach across the street. Man, this is heaven! Warm temps, clean sand, sun, palm trees, and all we had to do was cross the street! We bought huge fruit smoothies, then sat down to take it all in as we woke up.

The scene directly across the street from our hotel.

Looking for photo ops, we jumped back on the bikes and headed for the downtown. We took pictures at mile zero of highway 1, which happened to be on a busy intersection. Being careful to avoid pedestrians and scooters, we manoeuvred our big rigs into position on the sidewalk. We took turns wedging our bikes between the fire hydrant, the highway sign, and the nearby building which began where the sidewalk ended. This just so happened to completely block off the sidewalk, we could barely get ourselves into the picture. Passersby were forced to walk onto the roadway to pass us by.


Scooters rule in this place!


Dom just parked his bike amongst the scooter throng.
"Did someone say thong???"


One of the many condo developments downtown.


Highway 1 ends on a very busy intersection downtown.

We ate at Sloppy Joe's where we watched a great singer who was playing guitar and banjo. We scoped out various landmarks, such as Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville bar. We spent the entire afternoon and into the evening downtown. After picking up a few knickknacks, we headed back to the hotel to drop off the bikes, my intention was to return to the downtown on the shuttle to finally sample a margarita in Key West.


I spotted this great photo op on the way back to our hotel, mere feet from deep water.

While at the hotel, we again bought smoothies, walked back to the beach and sat down at a picnic table. Yes, we sat down on this one instead of sleeping on it. I filled out several postcards I had bought. Life was good. The beach was a little quieter, quite peaceful actually. Of course now that the intense heat of the afternoon had left and it was actually comfortable to be on the beach, most of the folks had gone. We sipped our smoothies, the gentle breeze which rustled the palms was carrying away the hurried feeling of our afternoon of touring.


The beach across the street from our hotel, on the ocean side of the island.
The downtown area is on the Gulf of Mexico side.

Dom was feeling tired, and decided to get some extra sleep. So we parted ways as I waited for the shuttle to take me back downtown. I went straight to Margaritaville, where I had the (what else) Cheeseburger in Paradise. I drank two margaritas, one was on the rocks, the other in the form of slush, or as they call it - frozen.

It was approaching sunset and I still wanted to fulfill my dream of watching the sun go down over the Gulf of Mexico. So with margaritas in my stomach as opposed to in my hand, I headed to Mallory Square. Mallory square is the traditional place in downtown Key West where people gather to watch the sun set. There were buskers galore and people were already seated on the dock to watch the coming spectacle.

I take my own place, black motorcycle boots dangling toward the green churn below, a wide swath of dancing light stretched off to the horizon, well almost. I was a little miffed at first that what you are actually watching from this location is the sun setting over the island sitting several hundred meters off shore. But these are the islands, mon. Hell yes, we're closer to Havana than we are to Miami. So go with the flow, take it easy. Lulled into a dreamy state by the soothing sounds of a nearby busker softly singing and strumming quiet tunes on his guitar, I watched my Key West dream come true.

I got up and headed back in the direction of the shuttle pick up point. I was distracted from my path by a group of excellent musicians playing traditional Spanish music, dancers nearby throwing themselves around in a rumba, or maybe it was salsa or samba or something. I've only ever seen dancing like that on television.

My pick for best busker was a rotund gentleman sitting in a lawn chair with a sign that read: "Dirty jokes, $0.50 and up. I need beer." If someone passed by who looked like they needed to have their intelligence insulted, he would belt out "get your dirty jokes right here!"

The many little shops also caught my eye with colourful trinkets and baubles, drawing me in. I couldn't resist picking up a few more little gifts, just getting some of that Christmas shopping done a little early!

December in Canada was the last thing on my mind as I wandered back to wait for the shuttle. I enjoy people-watching, and they were in no short supply. Wild dress filtered by on a continuous basis, as did tricked out trucks, cars, scooters, motorcycles, and even several electric vehicles.

Back in our room, Dom is asleep with the TV on. I watched briefly as a desert cat in Africa slowly pesters a scorpion until it becomes his meal. Fascinating, but I needed sleep.

We had planned to be up at six on Sunday, but no wake-up call arrived. It was more like 7:30AM when I awoke Dom from his slumber. We got ready and loaded our bikes. We were on the road before 8AM, but it was already hot and muggy. We were in for a hot day. Thankfully, the trip back to the mainland was much quicker at that early hour.

Our run back up north was indeed hot. Many cars were visible on the side of the road with blown tires, victims of their own slack maintenance. Sure of our own tire pressures, we rode uneventfully back along our path at a quick pace.

Once out of Florida, it began to cool off. Must be something to that Florida sunshine after all! We were gradually adding layers as we crossed northbound state borders. Before we reached the point where we must go our separate ways, Dom and I pulled over to a rest stop, shook hands, and congratulated each other on a successful trip.

Continuing on, it turned even colder. I eventually found myself riding the mountains of West Virginia in a near freezing drizzle in the middle of the night. I was becoming fatigued once again and I began to wonder about the conditions of the bridges. I stopped to get a motel, and slept for several hours.

In the morning, it wasn't much warmer. But now it was Monday morning, I would be due in to work that night. I had to press on. It warmed up some as the sun finally came out, but I was glad for having my electric jacket liner.

While crossing the border back into Canada, I lost my sunglasses over the side. Riding in the bright sunlight was getting to be quite uncomfortable. I was soon relieved of my discomfort when the sun went behind some clouds. When the flurries began, I started to curse those clouds, however.

The ground was still warm, though, and the very light flurries melted quickly when they hit the ground. But as the afternoon progressed, it began to snow harder and harder. Pretty soon it was building up on the highway! I was close to London, I debated on whether I should stop. Finally, I felt I could no longer go on, I was pushing slush, and people were looking at me like I was from Mars. I pulled over underneath a bridge and called Jane. We arranged a meeting point and I got back on the bike to try to bring it safely off the highway. I trundled along on the shoulder at slow speed.

I was a little closer to London than I thought I was, and pulled up Wellington Rd. at the exit. I parked, had a Tim Hortons coffee, and waited for the cell phone to ring. As I was not at our pre-planned meeting spot, that phone call eventually came. I felt relieved as Jane and I left in the truck, my bike sitting behind us in the snow.


From sunny and warm to cold and snowy.
Welcome back to Canada!

It was cold and I felt that it would be unwise to attempt to ride home, so there it stayed. It would stay there until I was less disgusted and the weather more agreeable. I guess I couldn't avoid that cursed Canadian Easter snow after all, so my record of snow riding is intact after all! Dom informed me later his own ride was also chilly. Back in London and the snow, the dreams of Key West were not sated but in fact heightened.

For several days afterwards, I understood the mindset of the snowbird. Who knows, one day I may find myself "wasting away again in Margaritaville…"

The KLR650 Project - What's Wrong With It?

My 2002 KLR650 has delivered me from my home in southern Ontario to many adventurous places.

Here is my bike on the Newfoundland Rail Trail, after traveling over 2000 km via New England backroads and a ferry.


Here it is in northern Quebec near the James Bay Hydro projects.


Here it is on the Michigan Cross Country trail.


My bike also roams the backroads near my home, and takes me to work when the dirt road I live on is really loose and muddy in the spring. Here is me and my wife who is riding her Yamaha XT225.


Trouble started last fall while halfway through my trip to the Michigan Trail with my friend on his DR650. The rear suspension lost all compliance and free motion. I could press down the seat while standing next to the bike, and it would not spring back up. Trouble, and I was a day from home. I had to ride it back.

So recently I began to tear down the rear suspension to grease the rear suspension and install grease nipples. Unfortunately, I could not remove the front pivot bolt of the suspension linkage. Pounding on the bolt, the two frame halves began to separate. The frame needs to be put on a hydraulic press to press this bolt while holding the frame halves together.

Today I tore down the bike to be able to put the frame on a hydraulic press.

Here is a close up picture of the threaded end of the bolt on the left side of the frame. This is the bolt underneath the little round plastic cover on the bottom of the frame verticals.


Here is a wider shot which shows the linkage this bolt is for.


Here is the frame sitting on the floor of my garage, leaning up against the engine.



As I mentioned, I want to install grease nipples on the rear suspension bits. I also recently bought a doohickey kit to install. Also planned is to grease the steering head bearings, replace the wheel bearings, change the fork oil, install upgraded subframe bolts, inspect the oil intake screen on the right side. I may also install a new Progressive shock. Also to be done is to check the valve clearance. If I get ambitious, I may also decide to replace the piston rings and valve guides. We'll see how that goes.

I'll post more after more progress is made.

Lake Superior Saddlesore 1000 Ride

The following is my own ride report on a ride I took in April, 1999. IBA Saddlesore 1000 attempt around Gitche Gumi.

Total miles on the odometer (just for the circle around the lake itself, not including ride to and from start)
1626 km. (1010 mi.)
time 20 hours, 45 min.
low temp below freezing
high temp 12C (54F or so)
sleep 30 minutes. (near Duluth, MN)

I saw dozens upon dozens of deer, some on the road, some running right in front of me! I hit none. No performance awards, no tip-overs or accidents whatsoever.

Total riding miles were well over 3000 kilometers as I had to ride over 6 hours just to get to the starting point of Sault St. Marie Michigan.

Left London Saturday morning at 10PM, got witness forms signed by Michigan State Patrol in S S Marie at 4:30. End witness form signed at 1:45 on Sunday afternoon. Also, got another 30 minutes sleep on the way back home Sunday afternoon under the bright sun on a comfortable cement picnic table.

Some interesting information on Lake Superior can be seen on the Lake Superior Magazine Web Site.


Information on the Iron Butt Association can be obtained on their web site.

Ride Report for Lake Superior Saddlesore 1000 April 24, 1999.

I left London city limits at approximately 10AM Saturday morning. Weather was sunny but cold. Had on the full Gerbing electric suit set at a low setting. The summer construction season was in full swing in south western Ontario, and the 402 from London to Sarnia was down to one lane in each direction. Consequently, it was fairly slow going.

I successfully crossed the border without incident into Port Huron.

The ride up through Michigan on I-75 was pure interstate: long, straight, and boring. As I rode north, I was anticipating riding over the Mackinac Bridge. After reading of Ron Ayres' passage over the bridge in his book on the 1997 Iron Butt Rally, and others' talk of it locally, I developed a healthy interest and respect for the bridge before even seeing it for myself. I was expecting a long and high bridge.

But the main point of interest about the bridge is the metal grating center lanes, separated by a slight raised section in the grating which separates opposing lanes of traffic. The openness of the bridge's location spanning the border of Lakes Huron and Michigan allows wicked winds to rip across it, blowing those exposed along it's unprotected surface toward either the guardrail or the center section of questionable traction.

My passage over it for the first time was totally uneventful. I rode on the center grated section all the way across. I noted how the weaving of the bike on it's widely spaced and rusty metal grates made the bike feel like it is skimming on the water itself! And looking down, way down to the water only amplified the effect.

For those of you who enjoy the sight of looking down below your motorcycle to the churning waters below, it is also available at the Prescott, ON/Ogdensburg, NY border crossing southwest of Montreal. I took this bridge while returning from NESTOC in June of 1998.

While on the Mackinac, I removed one of my Gerbing gloves and allowed it to dangle free by the electrical connection. This is an unexpected benefit of electric gloves: you no longer have to search for a secure place to stow a glove while underway, just let the thing go. I removed my camera from the spot I had stored it just prior to entering the bridge, and proceeded to snap a few pictures. I figured the camera would focus on the metal grating but was pleasantly surprised when the water below showed up perfectly in the developed pictures.

When riding down off the bridge, I wondered what all the hoopla was about. More interstate brought me to my intended destination, Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. I stowed my headset AM/FM radio, no such pleasures on the trip to come, this was serious business. Went into the Burger King and ordered a Chicken sandwich combo, jeez I like those things.

I asked the attendant who served me, a very fresh-faced and inexperienced looking youth, where the nearest police station was. He proceeded to give me a series of convoluted directions to the police station, then said "oops I think that's the back door and you can't park there." WHATEVER.

I continued eating and made a few calls on the cell at the same time. On the video screen, I learned that snow had forced the investigators in Littleton inside after the previous Tuesday's shooting. Horrible scene it was out there in Colorado. I got on the bike not looking forward to heading into the downtown core and the inevitable traffic which accompanies it. Who says downtowns are dying???

My sharp rallyist's eye then spotted the Michigan State Police station just a few hundred feet from the Burger King! I shook my head at the thought of buddy in the restaurant telling me to go downtown to the nearest police. This was perfect, about a hundred yards from the Interstate onramp and located right next to an Amoco, Mobil and Shell stations. For one on a Saddlesore, it doesn't get much better than that!

Inside, I was greeted by Sergeant Hopper and rattle off my standard spiel when groveling for a witness signature. I carry printed copies of one of the pages from the Iron Butt website and always hand one to my witness to keep. I wrote my name on it and told him to search the web site. It just so happens they had web access right in the station.

Thinking back, giving a MSP officer access to the rally schedule and a list of names was not such a good idea. In fact, he may actually read these words one day if this gets posted to the IBA web site! But he was a really nice guy so I guess it's OK! Besides, I am comforted by the emphasis the IBA places on safety, And this shows on their web site.

He followed me out to the waiting ST. I showed him my license plate (it's on the form) and my odometer reading (it's on the form also) and he readily signed and shook my hand in a good luck gesture. From my preparations, I told him to expect me back at about 2PM Sunday. Present time was 4:30 PM.

I headed to the gas station and of course forget to ask for a printed receipt. I realized this after I was rolling down the road to the interstate and stopped at the next gas station which was right on the way and topped up with a big .10 in gas for the receipt. It had been much too long since I've collected receipts, I told myself to quickly get back into the habit. After verifying location, date and time, I wrote my mileage on the back and stowed it in the tankbag.

I saddled up and headed south on I-75 the short distance to Rt. 28. This road would be my friend for a long run as I headed west for the start of my clockwise circle of Superior. I had never seen Lake Superior before, and I got my first glimpse of this magnificent lake at Munising. I felt the temps drop noticeably as I approached town and the water. The view of the open waters of the lake however, was blocked by the presence of Grand Island.

A short while later, I saw the open water with a faint hint of land on the other side. I sat there, awed by the sight of it. There it was, Gitche Gumi. Strains of Gordon Lightfoot's Wreck Of the Edmund Fitzgerald rose to the vocal cords. This song followed me around the lake, echoing in my mind at particularly breathtaking overlooks. It was noticeably colder and I dialed in a bit more juice on my Gerbing heated suit.

Sundown near the lake.

I left the water behind at Marquette and the air warmed again despite the setting sun. I soon encountered every motorcylist's nighttime waking nightmare: The Deer. It wasn't long before I began noticing them everywhere. Maintaining a speed of 80kph (50mph) was all I dared, for they were in the woods, in the ditches, on the shoulders and indeed right on the road.

At one point after I crossed into Wisconsin, there were two on the shoulder on my side as I approached. I let off the throttle and slowed quickly. One decided he didn't like it there and bolted. Of course he ran not to easy refuge adjacent to him but right across the road in my path. I was still 150 ft away or so and in no danger. But his friend stayed a while until he too decided this was no place to be and joined his partner on the wrong side of the road.

I was much closer to them but also slower and a single finger on the brake handle slowed me to a crawl. He passed within 20 feet in front of me. This would turn out to be my closest encounter with deer. My 100W driving lights and the ST's snarling decelerating engine were usually enough to scare them into running away.

Nothing stopping those trucks, however. They blasted by at well over the limit, safe in their cage and the knowledge of what that big slab of a bumper would do to any animal unlucky enough to cross their path. Made me wish I had brought my CB with me. Alas, my forthcoming audio work was awaiting the arrival of my new Nolan N100.

I pulled into Duluth, MN feeling very awake and alert and 12 Midnight local time. I tried the Amoco and not one pump seemed to work, I went inside and inquired whether they were pre-pay. Nope. Just my bad luck. She said they should work but I couldn't get them to. It was Saturday night and the pedestrian traffic into this store slowed my progress as I waited in line to talk to the attendant.

After a fruitless third try at a pump, I gave up and headed down the street. Way too much time lost there. I got to the next station just before he closed and got that all-important Duluth receipt. Yup, there it was in black and white. I took the opportunity to make another call and ingest some of my trusted travel nutrients. As I was ready to mount my steed, I noticed the receipt on the ground underneath. Oh my god, I left it on top of the tank bag when I went in to use the bathroom. If it had been a windy day, I would have been in search of another gas station. Whew, almost pulled an Ayres there. Ron Ayres, author of the book "Against The Wind," wrote in that book of losing important paperwork during the Iron Butt Rally.

I safely stowed it and resumed my quest for more of Superior. This leg was interesting. To my left, the lights of various towns and resorts were visible. To my right the inky blackness of the lake. It was there that I obtained my only sleep during the Saddlesore, 30 minutes of slumber at Tettegouche State Park/Baptism River Rest Area. Remembering waking up to chattering teeth on some previous cold weather rides, I had brought along a 7Ah gel cell battery with a Gerbing two-prong plug attached. I dug this out of my tank bag and plugged in my suit. I set it on about 1/3 and laid down on the ground for a snooze. I woke up very warm and rested, feeling invigorated.

Hours later as I approached the Canadian border, I worked on my next border-guard story. This one would be more tricky, how many motorcycles cross through into Canada on the northern shores of Superior on a Sunday morning in early April? I was probably his first this year. Weeks earlier, I was told by a toll operator that I was the first motorcycle over Cobiquid Pass in the interior of Nova Scotia.

My story ended up something like: "Just finishing up some touring of the great lakes region and I am on my way back to London." This worked like a charm and I was wished well on my return.

I pulled into an Esso in Thunder Bay as the dawn approached. I gassed up and headed in to pay and pick up a snack. The gas attendant, surprised to see a motorcycle out at this early hour, asked me if I was cold. A question I get asked quite often. I lapsed into the old "nope, I'm packin' heat" explanation. I avoid this terminology while talking to my police witnesses for obvious reasons.

He asked me where I was going and I explained it to him while looking over the candy bar rack. As I placed a Crispy Crunch on the counter, he said that the bar was on him, because he just couldn't believe anyone would do what I was doing! Well thank you very much! I asked him how far it was to Sault Ste. Marie. His response of 12 hours was WAAAAY off the mark. NEVER ask a kid at a restaurant or gas bar for directions or any sort of critical information.

I knew from my constant map consultations that SSM was only about 8 hours away. At 12 hours, I would be over the 24 hour mark. I thanked him again for the bar, left and stowed the receipt. Mounted up again, I moved on.

The next 8 hours were filled with some of the most incredible scenery I had ever laid eyes upon. The region on the northern shores of Superior is mountainous and utterly beautiful. The roads are pure motorcycling ecstasy. Twisty, turny, rising, falling, you get the picture. Very entertaining.

Somewhere north of Superior.

I stopped in Marathon, a fitting stop I figured, and gassed up. And again, realized I had forgotten to ask for a receipt when about 3 kilometers down the road. I contemplated turning around and risking wasting all that time only to discover they couldn't print me a receipt, so I again stopped at the next station a few kilometers hence. I topped up my tank and got a receipt. I made a log entry about the whole ugly incident and carried on. The fine scenery soon made me forget about that and my mood was quite positive.

I pulled into Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario at about 1PM and followed a convoluted path of signs to the bridge to the US. My next border story: Just visiting a friend is SSM and heading home to London. The border guard asked me if I was making any stops in the US on the way, and I uttered an outright lie and said NO. What would he say if I told him I was going to the Michigan State Police Station in SSM, MI? Probably something like "please pull over into the inspection station" no doubt. No thanks, I think I'll pass.

I gassed up and headed to the aforementioned police station. Time was 1:30, a half hour ahead of schedule! Witness form signed and pictures taken, we shook hands and I was again on my way. I grabbed more grub this time at Wendy's (man, this exit had it all!) and got back on the road south.

At that point, I found out why motorcyclists are stressed about a crossing of the Mackinac Bridge. The wind was blowing from the west at a very brisk pace, forcing a steady lean angle just to stay pointed directly ahead. I rode in the high traction paved lane on the outside, continually envisioning the scene should I stray onto the grated center lanes. The thought of me and my mount scraping our way across the surface of the bridge, metal clawing away at plastic panels and cordura nylon was not pleasant. The occasional gust upset my path , sending my heart into my throat as I inched towards the grates and certain doom. Crazily, I snapped a few pictures with the camera just for good measure, which don't turn out anyway. I came off that bridge in one piece, wiser, and with a healthier respect for the structure.

North of Saginaw, I obtained another 30 minutes of needed sleep on a comfortable cement picnic table at a busy rest stop. The picnic table and my parking spot were away from the main body of traffic, ideal for a stay in the Iron Butt Motel.

It continually amazed me how many billboards were visible on the side of Interstate 75. Approaching Saginaw, I knew the location of every Honda dealer, antique dealer, and motel in the city. I think they fit the entire Yellow Pages onto all the signs on the side of the road. South of Saginaw, I saw a chilling advertisement on a billboard. Mere days after Denver shooting, reading "Guns, Guns Guns" on a billboard made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, and it wasn't caused by the warming air. Then I saw this HUGE gun the same length as the tractor trailer it sat on the side of the road.

My last border story of the day: Just returning from seeing a friend in SSM, Ontario, and I was once again in Canada. It was evening and I was looking forward to bed.

I pulled in at around 10PM and fell into bed. It would be an early bell in the morning: 5:30AM.

My wrist and my (Iron) butt were a bit sore at the end. It had been a while since packing on that kind of serious miles all at once. Butt it sure felt good to be back in the saddle!