Leg One: Near catastrophe!

“What the hell are you doing here this time of night?” The Birmingham, Alabama police officer looked agitated as he asked me that question. Me, being disgusted and somewhat agitated myself answered abruptly, “What do you think I’m doing here? I was trying to get gas!” I was at a gas station right off the interstate. The LT wouldn’t start and I was surrounded by four Birmingham squad cars and officers. The events leading up to my current predicament seemed to happen in slow motion. If I hadn’t been right there living the events, I’d have a hard time believing any of it was true.

It was about 1:00am, Wednesday, August 26th, two days into leg 1 of my 2009 Iron Butt Rally. I had ridden to Key West, throughout central Florida, across the panhandle to Gulf Shores, AL and was making my way to the St. Charles checkpoint via central Alabama and Tennessee. My bonus hunting was on track and going fine until Birmingham. The stop in Birmingham was to bag a “daylight only” bonus at daybreak. I decided I would fuel up and grab a few hours sleep prior to daylight. I swung into the gas station and popped the fill nozzle into the LT’s main tank, clicking the hold-open lever to the max fill position. While the main tank filled, I headed towards the back of the bike to open the auxiliary cell and retrieve my rally book. While I flipped through the pages to the fuel log, I suddenly heard a hissing sound coming from the front of the bike. I looked up to see fuel erupting from the main tank filler hole. It was running down into every crevice of the LT’s tupperware, boiling away on the hot engine and exhaust. The nozzle hold-open had malfunctioned never clicking-off after the main tank had fueled to capacity. I leapt for the nozzle, yanking it out of the filler hole, simultaneously trying to “unclick” the hold-open lever. Fuel was everywhere; in my tank bag, on the seat, all over my mesh jacket that was strapped to the front face of my aux cell, on my pants and boots. A large puddle of gas surrounded the bike on the ground. My heart sank. I was too tired and wanted no part of the shit that just happened.

I looked into the office of the gas station to see two guys staring at me, unsure if they wanted to take any action. One of them came out and headed toward me with a scoop and a bag of absorbent. The second guy was following him with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth! I approached both men, pointing out that if the guy with the cigarette came any closer, we stood a good chance of destroying this corner of the city block. The first guy looked at the second guy and said, “Put that damn thing out!” While attendant number one shoveled absorbent around the bike to sop up the gas, attendant number two sat on the curb about fifteen feet away, still puffing on his smoke.

I was stunned and admittedly a little rattled. To make matters worse, the attendant exclaimed, “That damn pump has been doing that all day.” “No shit?” I fired off. “Why in God’s name didn’t you put an out-of-order sign on it?” “I don’t own the place, I only work here” he said. At first, I thought he was just being a smart-ass but came to realize he was totally hammered. You could smell the liquor from three feet away. I thought it best to get the hell out of there. Wiping off as much of the fuel as I could, I jumped on the bike and hit the starter button; cranking, cranking, cranking, cranking, slower cranking, slower cranking, even slower cranking. I realized that the fuel overflow had backed up into the charcoal filtered vent canister, preventing the tank from breathing and not allowing fuel into the injection rail. I got off the LT and pushed it away from the pumps, took off my gear and started sifting through my toolkit for a piece of siphon hose. When I looked up, there were 7 or 8 guys standing around me and the bike. I smelled the booze even over the heavy scent of the gasoline; these dudes were totally wasted and I got a bad feeling. That feeling was validated when one of the men came up to the bike and tried to remove the fuel cell. I pushed him back and sneered “Hey, what the fuck?” He backed off but a second man came up and grabbed my arm and said “You got $10 bucks?” A third man started to try and remove the XM receiver from the cradle. As another guy was trying to unzip my tank-bag, it became apparent that I was going to lose control of the situation. I briefly thought about grabbing the bear spray I had in the tank bag and incapacitating these pricks, but, realized my actions would result in a legal nightmare beyond my wildest imagination. Comically, I also thought about being a DNF in a “crime scene” rally because I’d be sitting at the precinct all day trying to explain my own personal crime scene to the cops! I decided to back away from the chaos and call 911. I told the police dispatcher that I didn’t yet have an emergency on my hands but it looked like it was certainly heading that way. A minute or two after I hung up, another guy asked me for gas money. I turned my back and started to walk away and he grabbed my arm. Just as I was turning around to face him, squad cars pulled in from every angle. The drunks scattered like cockroaches. Two officers approached me while two others started talking to other folks who were “hanging around.” When I explained what had happened, that was when one of the officers inquired as to what the hell I was doing in that neighborhood “at this time of night.” The police waited while I siphoned about a gallon of fuel from the LT’s main tank. After about ten minutes, the LT fired up and I got my ass out of there. I lost about an hour of potential sleep time dealing with this unfortunate chain of events but at least the delay didn’t eat into bonus-hunting time.

The above outlined event wasn’t the first hiccup in my young rally. Just about four hours from receiving the leg one bonus listing back in Spartanburg, I had dropped my Garmin 2820, rendering it “unrecognizable” to my laptop. I scrambled to find a replacement to no avail. Two riders in the rally, Jim Bain and Charley Clemmer, graciously offered me their spare units so that I might be able to get by until a new 2820 could be shipped to the St. Charles checkpoint. I took Charlie up on his offer because his spare was a little newer than Jim’s. Don Catterton, a veteran of the ’07 IBR but not riding in ’09, also offered me his 2820 knowing he’d have no mobile phone or XM for the remainder of his long ride to Spokane for the finish. I’ll not forget the selfless acts of these gents to help a fellow rider. They will drink free at any pub where our paths may converge down the road.

On Sunday evening we attended the banquet after which the leg 1 bonus list would be handed out. The food was great. The company was great. There was a feeling of adrenaline in the air – you could tell veteran and rookie alike couldn’t wait to get on the road. Eighteen months of preparation was coming down to the next morning when shifters would be clicked into first, clutches slipped, throttles applied. Finally, open road and 11 days of who knew what. As the riders flipped through the leg 1 rally book, Lisa and Mike threw a little fear into the crowd by mentioning that the largest point value bonus on leg one - Martha’s Vineyard, might be a nightmare because a “no reservation” ferry ride was involved, and, the First Family had just started their summer vacation on the island. I thought about their words as we shuffled towards the back of the room and on to our respective hotel rooms.

Admittedly, when I saw the big bonus in Martha’s Vineyard, I thought about it hard for 15 minutes or so. I had been up there years ago when President Clinton vacationed on the island and it was a circus. Access and egress to the island was sure to be a fiasco with President Obama there now. I made the decision to head south to Key West and other high-point value boni in central and south Florida.
The ride from Spartanburg to Florida (with a quickie detour to the BMW facility bonus in Greer, SC.) was uneventful but very hot and humid. Several times I found myself lead-swapping with a group of rally riders that included Greg Rice, Ken Meese, Davo Jones, Chuck Gittner and Mike Evans among others. Prior to heading to the Keys, I stopped to bag several boni in the north and central part of the state including Veterans Memorial Park, Gator Joes, the Orlando Airport Blue Satellite Parking Lot, Emerson Alumni Hall and the Macedonia Cemetery. I saw Jacques Titolo and Jennyfer Audet at the Veterans Memorial bonus and ran into Winston Oxley while getting fuel shortly thereafter but did not see another rider until Sloppy Joe’s in Key West. While Winston and I fueled and chatted, one of the doomed RE5s screamed up the road, presumably to try and bag the “daylight only” Veterans Memorial Park bonus. It was well past dark but I had a good thought for either Barry or Alex and got along down the road.

Did I say it was HOT? Earlier in the day while going for the Emerson Alumni Hall bonus at the University of Florida in Gainesville, the temp gauge said 97*. It felt much hotter because I think I got every damn red-light to and from the bonus location. I decided to pull over in the shade, drink some water and try to avoid heat stroke. Even as the sun started to dip, the temp remained in the low 90s and the humidity just plain sucked.

I rode in and out of thunderstorms as I headed south but the rain didn’t dent the heat and only made the humidity more oppressive. Once off the mainland, it was the usual sloth’s pace through the Keys. Along the way down Florida’s island chain you can make time on the bridges but you had better get under the speed limit when you roll into a town or else. The place is absolutely loaded with LEOs looking to break the monotony of their evening shift by busting unsuspecting tourists. I observed countless road side seminars being conducted with unlucky motorists all the way to and from Key West. If there was a downside to this route selection, it was traversing this beautiful, scenic path at night, however, going at night also has an upside; the elimination of the snarling traffic usually seen in the daylight hours.

I think it was about 2:00am when I bagged the Sloppy Joe’s bar bonus in Key West, taking note that the place has changed in the 20 years since I’d last been there. It now had the look and feel of NYC’s Greenwich Village – even at this late hour, lots of colorful characters roaming the streets. As I turned back north, it remained very hot and muggy. So much so that I noticed I was beginning to smell – badly.

I can’t remember exactly where, it might have been, Big Pine Key or Marathon, but I spied Mike Evans bedding down for a snooze at a closed gas station and decided to join him. I always feel a little more secure napping nearby other riders. Poor Mike. I was having a little trouble getting my Screamin’Meanie to cooperate and the alarm fired off a few times by accident. Once I got it figured out, I proceeded to pass out in a snore-fest. However, Mike was now wide awake and got to listen to me saw logs. After about an hour, I suited up and proceeded north to daylight and the remaining Florida boni which included the Miccosukee Resort, the Last Resort, the Charleston Square Mall and the Santa Rosa Press Gazette.

From there it was west across the panhandle to Gulf Shores, AL, for the park bonus then north to Birmingham where the aforementioned near fiasco occurred. Birmingham in the daylight looked a lot more cheery than it did at 1:00am that same morning. I bagged the Baptist church bonus right at the official sunrise – 6:18am and said good morning to fellow rider Tony Hudson who was also there. My next stop was HOH - the Meriwether Lewis Memorial bonus in Tennessee. It was there I saw Greg Rice and Vance Keeney. I also had an opportunity to chat with two park rangers who pulled up while I was snapping my photo. Nice guys – VERY interested in the IBR and seemed genuinely happy that the Meriwether monument was a bonus stop. The only downside was that they could’ve talked all day long. I mean alllllllll daaaaaaaayyy long! I excused myself in the interest of being prompt to St. Charles and boogied on up the road. My next target was my last before the run to the checkpoint; the BB&T bank in Kentucky for the postcard of the robbery mural. As I entered the lobby, a teller waved me right up and said “Here ya go!” She actually offered me “One for a friend!” How valuable would that have been in St. Charles? “Psssst, wanna buy a bonus?”

I should mention that I had a minor fuel delivery problem following the incident in Birmingham. After the charcoal canister filled with fuel, my $30 Mr. Gasket fuel pump was having a difficult time transferring spare fuel from the auxiliary cell to the main tank. I found out that it would only transfer if I unscrewed the main tank fuel cap. Once I figured out what was happening, I was OK with it. Prior to that however I damn near had a heart attack when I was cruising up the road and the low fuel light came on for the first time following Birmingham. I commenced with my usual routine; hit the lighted switch on the dash and let the aux cell fuel pump run for about 10 minutes. About ten minutes later when I went to shut-off the fuel pump, I noticed my main tank fuel gauge was reading even lower! I initially thought the pump was shot. I pulled over and heard the pump chugging away but no fuel was moving to the main tank. I opened the main tank cap and I immediately heard the fuel pump “whirr” change pitch and fuel started flowing. It was at this point I realized the main tank vent was still choked. Keep this in mind - the ritual of having to remove the main fuel cap each time I wanted to empty the aux cell caused me some anguish later in Leg 2.

I pulled into the St. Charles check, somewhere around 5pm (I think), picked up the new 2820 that I had shipped to Lisa, got a hug from Voni Glaves, went through scoring (12,447 no penalties), grabbed the first hot food I’d eaten in three days and went to bed. While falling asleep I remember one of the last things that crossed my mind was that I was too conservative on my time management. Perhaps it was the “first IBR jitters” but regardless, I vowed to pick it up on leg 2.







Leg 2: A memorable ride

I overslept and missed the 4:00am riders meeting. I arrived about 4:20 and got my leg two rally book and thumb drive from Dave McQueeney. Dave had a few envelopes left on the table so it looked as though I wasn’t the only guy who needed every minute of sleep possible. I checked the standings and saw I was in 22nd place after the first leg. Not bad but not exactly what I had in mind. I should’ve gone to Martha’s Vineyard. The top places were all held by those who gambled on Martha and won big. As they say, “shit happens.” I thought to myself “Move past it, dickweed, there’s a lot of rally left!”

I took the rally pack back to my hotel room and gave the locations a quick scan. The Hobo Museum in Iowa looked good. I knew I’d have to go north but still make Shane’s house in Ol’ Miss if I was going to improve my standing. I decided I’d be a little more aggressive with the clock, but still, I couldn’t shake the notion that pushing the envelope was a bad thing for an IBR rookie. The longest rally I’d competed in to date was a 48 hour affair but I knew I could get by with minimal rest; it’s just the way my metabolism works. I decided to push it a bit.

As I was buttoning up my jacket and pulling on my gloves, Lisa Landry walked by and asked “Where ya going?” I told her “Iowa.” She said “Better zip up yer jacket, kid.” I’d already seen the Weather Channel. I knew I was going to get absolutely pelted with rain. Funny thing is, those pretty green and red radar pictures on TV make the storm seem so “fictional” compared to actually being in the middle of it. You couldn’t really call it “rain.” It was more like riding into a perpetual waterfall. I was thankful that there was no lightning involved but it was getting more and more difficult to see where the hell I was going. I was hitting deep pools of standing water regardless of which lane portion I tried to navigate. I knew anyone else heading this way would be in the same boat, or maybe not. The guy on the Weather Channel did say there would be “highly localized and extremely heavy downpours.” I was impressed with my timing as it appeared I bulls-eyed a “local/heavy downpour!”

Other people had been questioning my sanity for years. It was right about now, in the middle of this deluge, that I questioned it as well. Apparently Mr. Valentine, my trusty radar detector, questioned his sanity as well; he walked off the job and didn’t come back for the remainder of the rally. “Son-of-a-BITCH!” I screamed. How am I going to make good time if I’m worried about a chance LEO encounter for seven more long-ass days. Apparently, practically dipping the entire radar detector in a vat of dielectric grease prior to the rally was no match for this storm. I regained my positive attitude when I decided to stop and put my rain jacket on over the top of my riding gear. Actually the gear was holding up fine but I had streams of water pouring down my neck and back because I couldn’t keep my jacket collar snug and tight enough under my helmet. I realized while putting on my rain jacket that the foam cover on my boom microphone had gotten stuck on the Velcro neck flap of my jacket, preventing it from holding the collar tight. I fixed the problem but snuggled up my rain cover collar as added insurance. While I was readjusting my gear, I conducted a self-motivational seminar inside my head. I was NOT going to be Landry’s bitch, or worse, Warchild’s. I briefly recalled Warchild asking me in front of a room full of people at the Tulsa National “Are you a slow learner?” This was his response to my proclamation that I would ride my BMW in the IBR. I respect Warchild for his support of the IBA and he seems like a nice guy - the kind of guy you could drink all night with and find yourself in prison with the following morning. I knew he was just breaking balls but his comment in Tulsa really pissed me the fuck off. During the rally, I went back to Tulsa in my head frequently, using that moment to refuel my adrenaline whenever I ran low. In that light, I guess I owe Warchild a whiskey.

My adrenaline surge lasted approximately ten minutes. It was at this time I noticed the LT get noticeably louder. She also started to sputter and felt like she was way down on power. “You have GOT to be shitting me,” I groaned. I figured a plug, or a plug wire, or the coil must be getting wet. I pulled off to the side and revved the engine. It seemed to rev free while not moving but as soon as I was underway, it felt sluggish and down on power.

I must briefly go off on a side note here before I continue my tale. Long before the rally started I’d been eating shit from friends and acquaintances about my choice to ride my LT in the IBR. As many of you know, she had some…..er, OK; she had THREE final drive failures. Sprinkled amongst the drives were the dreaded clutch slave cylinder failure, a driveshaft failure, two gear shift ball-joint failures, two front shock failures and a few smaller but no less expensive component problems. Still, I love this bike. I cut my teeth rallying on it and I almost felt a sense of obligation to have her on my arm for the big dance. Pop Lilley always said “Ya dance with who brung ya.” Besides all that sentimental bullshit, the entire bike was practically new because I replaced or reworked EVERYTHING. I mean EVERYTHING. It actually would’ve been cheaper to buy a new bike. I made up my mind before leaving for Spartanburg that if I encountered mechanical problems, I would absolutely do my level best to make a roadside repair, but, if something failed and didn’t stop the bike cold, like an annoying wet sparkplug, even at the risk of destroying the bike by continuing, I was going to ride that bitch until she burst into flames or planted my ass on the road. At 120K miles, she didn’t owe me anything. After three final drives, I didn’t owe her shit either.

Back to Iowa. I was now convinced I had a dead cylinder. No problem. More throttle and more fuel – LOTS more fuel, would mask the symptoms until I could take a minute to get a handle on the situation. But for now, I put it on the back burner because I was coming out of the rain and it was like day starting anew. I was bolstered by the sunshine as I pulled into the Hobo Museum. Greg Marbach pulled up alongside me. We were supposed to go in and buy something and get a receipt. However, prominently displayed on the front door was the “Closed – back to school” sign. I grabbed the camera, hung my flag on the door next to the closed sign and snapped a pic. Next stop was south to Madison County to bag the covered bridge gift shop bonus. I’d have to be there by 5:00pm but Ms. Garmin said “I don’t think so!” She had me about 12 minutes late but still, I had to try. The bonus was far enough away that a sustained pace at the 75MPH speed limit would whittle away the 12 minute deficit.

I prayed hard before (and during) the rally. I asked God to keep me safe regardless of my decisions. This was one of those times I felt God watching over me. Really, for two reasons; one, the traffic was light and the rain had stopped, and two, the good Lord put Greg Marbach (and his working radar detector) right in front of me all the way to Madison County. We made it with about 4 minutes to spare. I saw Jim Owen and said to myself “Dude, your routing skills are improving!”

After I came out of the gift shop with the required purchase, a book mark, I got down on the ground to see if I could figure out what was making the LT run so rough. By this time, it literally felt like I was running on two cylinders. Some of the other riders there heard it running and thought it sounded like shit. I couldn’t see anything obvious so I dipped my “IBR 2009 Crying Towel” in some water and touched it to each exhaust header as the bike idled. Each pipe made the “hissing” sound and the moisture immediately boiled away on each one. This could only mean all 4 cylinders were in fact firing properly. I said “screw it” and kept riding. I felt good having bagged the covered bridge gift shop for big points just in the nick-of-time.

I felt so good that I decided to head back north a few miles, maybe 25, to bag the Stuart Police Department bonus. I can’t begin to tell you how rejuvenated I felt. I bottled up my new found enthusiasm and blazed south for the whore house in Arkansas. The plan was to ride late into the night, bag the Rogers Police Station bonus a little north of Fayetteville, hit a hotel then be at Ms. Laura’s in Fort Smith for the 9:00am tour the following morning. The plan was right on and I arrived about half an hour early. There were a bunch of riders at Ms. Laura’s – Chris Sakala, Brian Roberts, Jim Owen, Jeff Earls, Eric Jewell, Jim Frens and a few other big dawgs. It felt great to see riders of this caliber at the same bonus location as me. I’d been running into Jim, Jeff and Eric at quite a few spots….always a good sign. I would’ve preferred to use the extra half hour of time to take a look at my route and perhaps fine tune my run to Santa Ana, but, in an effort to again diagnose the cause of the LTs rough running, I had to tear off the lower body work because I wanted to actually see how the plugs were burning. To my surprise, they were all burning the same color and the wires popped off with the familiar sucking sound a vacuum sealed connection makes. With no apparent cause for the problem, baffled, I decided I’d spray everything with WD40 and push on.

The Ms. Laura brothel tour was informative. It took your mind off the fact that you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there and head for the next big bonus – Shane Smith’s house in McComb, MS. After the tour, I spent about 15 minutes buttoning the LT back together before heading for Shane’s.

On the ride through northwest Arkansas, the LT kept getting louder and louder and my gas mileage was going straight to hell. I was concerned that if I was running a dead cylinder (a computer problem?), the crankcase oil was probably getting diluted with the unburned gas and sooner or later, I’d have a crank rod sticking out the oil pan. I called Bob Wooldridge, the 2009 IBR volunteer assistance coordinator and asked if he could get me an emergency appointment at BMW of Little Rock. Bob was great. He called ahead and spoke with the dealership owner. They had a tech waiting when I pulled up. The tech said “Man, sounds like you’re running on two cylinders.” They got me on the lift and plugged the BMW Motronic computer diagnostic system into the LT….no faults, no codes, no problems. The tech said “she’s hitting on all four but it sounds like a bad exhaust leak.” An EXHAUST LEAK!!!!! Bingo! A very BAD exhaust leak. The Little Rock shop was game to tear it apart and make the fix but that would’ve blown my leg 2 route to hell. It was bad enough I already burned an hour and a half by detouring and stopping for the diagnostic. I decided to ride it out until I got to California. Since I already had an appointment at Irv Seaver’s for a rear tire, I called ahead to see if they had exhaust gaskets and studs. No problem. Apparently what happened was that when I was riding in the monsoons in Iowa, I was splashing loads of water into the spoiler pan, all over the exhaust header. The number 1 and 2 cylinder exhaust flanges splintered then proceeded to crumble away over the next several hundred miles. By the time I got to Seaver’s shop, there was no trace of either gasket, plus, the exhaust header studs on cylinder 1 and 2 had vibrated loose and fell out. I was damn near ashamed to admit that I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to realize that 1) low power, 2) excessive noise, and 3) increased fuel consumption was a clear indicator of an exhaust leak….DOH!!! What a dick. Regardless, I would’ve been unable to do anything about it until the California check point without screwing my route plan.

From Little Rock to Shane’s house was a magnificent ride. I took I-530 south out of town until it ended. I picked up US65 and it was along this road that one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced occurred. I was cruising at a comfortable pace on a very long, empty and straight section of the highway. There were beautiful farms on either side of the road and out of the corner of my right eye I caught a glimpse of something moving. I glanced right to see a crop duster no more than 50 or 60 feet away. The craft was moving slightly faster than I was and flying about 10 feet above the crops. It was a moment I will never forget….it was that cool. The pilot looked over and gave me a wave. I waved back and just took the sight in. It was beautiful. A few seconds later he pulled up and veered hard right and back to the far end of the crop plot. This was one of those experiences you never forget.

I hit a nasty electrical storm complete with a brief downpour in Eudora right before the Louisiana line. The lightning was scary but the rain felt great. It cooled me and the bike down. I exited US65 at I-20 and ran that east to Jackson where I grabbed I-55 south to Shane’s. I can’t say exactly but I believe I arrived at Shane’s around 7pm. It was just getting dark and what a welcome site that place was; hot food, well lit garage (I tried to revive Mr. Valentine….NFG), cold drinks, great hospitality. Shane’s wife and daughter were great hostesses and Shane himself could not have been more accommodating. It was clear they had each rider at the very forefront of their thoughts. It was the best hour not riding or sleeping that I spent in the whole rally. After Shane’s I hit the Nyla Burger Basket for big points then ran back up to I-20 west through Shreveport into Longview, Texas where I grabbed US271 north to OK and the Indian Nation Turnpike. This was all night riding and the damn critters were out in force.

Remember when I said earlier that I would have a problem with having to remove the main tank fuel cap so the auxiliary cell would transfer? Well, welcome to my nightmare. Somewhere in Texas on US271 while enroute to Oklahoma, I went to spin the main cap off but I lost my hold on it and off the bike it bounced. “FUCK” was my exact utterance. I had visions of grandeur, thinking that I would be able to actually find the cap along the high weeds lining both road shoulders. I back tracked to the approximate location I thought the cap departed and got both my flashlights. I burned half an hour and was so pissed off that I think I actually was screaming profanity laced tirades at the night air. What a damn downer. I was dejected and exhausted. I knew the first time it rained I was screwed without that cap. I pulled into the next open gas station I saw and stuffed the “IBR Crying Towel" into a plastic zip lock bag and made a makeshift cap until I could figure out what to do.

My initial plan for Oklahoma was to be at the Highland Cemetery bonus about 5am so I could doze for two hours before bagging it. It was a 7am to sunset bonus. The loss of my gas cap cost me about an hour so I slept at a gas station east of there in Henryetta for about an hour. It was closed and quiet. I woke refreshed after my hour power nap and grabbed the cemetery, the Castle Post Office and the Citizens Bank boni before the long trek to La Crosse, KS for the Barbed Wire Museum.

On the way to La Crosse, I knew I was heading through Oklahoma City. I decided to swing by the BMW dealer and see if they had a gas cap. I thought to myself, “Dude, you are such a dip-shit, who loses a fuckin’ gas cap?” I was really, really irritated at myself. It was Saturday morning, just past 9am. I pulled into the service area, got off the bike and told the first person I saw that I had somewhat of an emergency. That person was technician, Chad Hunnicutt. I explained the situation and Chad went immediately to the parts manager who declared “out-of-stock” on the cap. They didn’t have any new LTs on the showroom floor so I thought I was pretty much screwed. To my surprise however, Chad walks up to a customer’s LT that had been in for service and took the cap! He asked me for my keys, went to the work bench and immediately re-keyed it to fit my key set! At first I thought I was dreaming then Chad said “This customer won’t be in for his bike until Tuesday. I’ll order a new one and have it over-nighted so he’ll never miss it.” I was stunned, very grateful and damn near moved to tears.

Back on the road and headed for the Barbed Wire Museum I felt rejuvenated once again. I was however getting a little concerned that all these little “side shows” I was getting caught up in were probably starting to affect my place in the standings. I figured everyone else in the rally was busy dealing with their own problems and put the thought out of my head. Still, on occasion, I found myself hoping, though not in a vindictive way, that I wasn’t the only one running into problems.

The ride to La Crosse was beautiful; great weather, great scenery and great roads. I pulled into the Barbed Wire Museum in plenty of time to buy my little piece of wire, which served to satisfy the bonus requirement. There was an adorable old woman minding the counter and I asked her if it would be OK if I crashed on one of the benches out in front of the place. She was so sweet. I thought she was going to call her husband and tell him to fix the guest bedroom for me. After convincing her that the bench would be fine, I spied an electrical outlet behind it and decided I’d do a little route checking with the laptop before retiring. I decided that I’d head for the boni in and around the Denver/Golden area that evening. Instead of the bench, I noticed a big maple tree off the parking lot and slept like a baby under it for about 1.5 hours.

I awoke to hear Jeff Earls, Eric Jewell and Greg Marbach having a chat. Jeff was chowing down a cold can of Chef-Boyardee “something” - perhaps ravioli. Matt Watkins was also there. We chatted for a bit before I saddled up and headed for Denver. I was watching a massive thunderstorm off in the distance as I cruised on I-70 west. There were frequent cloud-to-ground lightning strikes as well as magnificent fork lightning that would just blast across the thunderheads parallel to the ground. I was hoping I was going to miss this beast but the closer I got the larger it loomed. I decided to turn on the weather band and immediately heard the familiar emergency tones that precede a bad storm event. The weather station was reporting that this bitch had 60mph gusts and heavy lightning and was about to nail the town of Agate, about 60 miles east of Denver. I checked the GPS and noticed I was in Limon and figured I’d be in Agate just in time to get shit scared out of me. I decided to make another unscheduled stop in Limon, grab an hour of sleep and let the storm blow through. I hate lightning, especially in the flats of eastern Colorado. I found a small truck-stop/diner/motel and the owner was kind enough to let me push the bike in the garage and even offered me a cot. I gladly accepted.

The hour of rest did me good and I missed the storm. I hit the Coors Wellness Center bonus in Golden and found Margaret Peart. I then hit the New Life Church bonus and again found Margaret Peart. At the Coachlight RV bonus I again saw Margaret. It never dawned on me to worry about the IBR staff thinking Margaret and I were teaming because we were not. Additionally, we seemed to be a few minutes apart on arrivals and departures but still, it was a funny coincidence. At the Coachlight RV bonus I also saw Eric Jewell. We talked for a minute and I told him I was heading up to Cripple Creek for the Old Homestead bonus. Eric mentioned that he thought Jeff Earls was heading up there as well. The ride up to Cripple Creek was a bear. There was a lot of traffic coming down from the resort and I couldn’t keep my Phillips HIDs fired up because they were blinding the oncoming drivers. Once in Cripple Creek, I’ll give you one guess who I saw….Maragret Peart!

After the Old Homestead bonus, now having the benefit of hindsight, I realize I should’ve gone south into Arizona and bagged some high value boni before heading to Los Angeles. Instead, I went northwest towards Breckenridge to I-70 to head for the checkpoint. I knew I needed some more rest, I knew I needed to be in Santa Ana early because I had the appointment at Irv Seaver’s and I was tired of the exhaust leak. On the way to I-70, I came across another IBR rider at a small rest area on CO 67 and found out it was Tony Hudson. I pulled in to grab some sleep and Tony pulled in behind me but said he was wide awake so he continued on. I pulled the bike next to the rest room facility and stretched out on a park bench. There was no one else around except for a large RV parked across the lot. Just as I started to fall asleep, a green GMC pick-up with three guys in it pulled slowly into the lot. After the Birmingham incident, I was in no mood for dealing with strangers in dark places. I jumped up fired the bike and started west on US 24 towards CO 9.

Somewhere around Blue River on CO 9, I had to get some rest. I pulled into a fire station, curled up on the ground next to the bike and fell into a comatose sleep. It felt great until I woke up shivering uncontrollably about 2 hours later. I checked the LT’s ambient temp gauge and it was 33*. I tried to get back to sleep but it just wasn’t going to happen. I got on the bike and hit the starter and heard the familiar “whirring” sound the LT starter makes when its slipper clutch arms fail to engage the flywheel. “You have got to be shitting me” I believe were my exact words. I tried unsuccessfully to get the starter to grab and feared I would run down the battery. I opted to push the bike across the gravel parking lot and bump start it on route 9. The starter would remain a pain in the ass for the rest of the rally, getting progressively worse. It got to the point where I just wouldn’t shut the bike off unless I could park on a slope that assured a successful bump start.

I rolled into Grand Junction right before dawn and knew from experience that one should always gas up before heading west into Utah. I-70 in eastern Utah has some long and desolate stretches. I grabbed some coffee and pushed towards the Santa Ana checkpoint.

Coming down out of the plateaus in Utah towards Las Vegas and California I watched the ambient temp gauge on the LT creep higher and higher until topping out at 115* right around Barstow. It was so hot I couldn’t keep my helmet visor up because it felt like a space heater was blowing directly on my face. It was the hottest weather I’d ever ridden in on a motorcycle. That was one tough stretch of miles. I would occasionally stop and buy two gallons of water to pour down the front and back of my jacket and also into my pants. I smelled like the chimp house at the zoo and was ready to get the hell out of the heat. The ride on into the checkpoint felt like it took absolutely forever.

When I got to Santa Ana, I gathered my stuff and went straight to scoring. I ended up with 38,436 points (no penalties). I grabbed some hot food and went to my room to shower. It was then back on the bike to Irv Seaver’s for a rear tire and to have the exhaust leak repaired. Irv Seaver’s BMW had food and drinks for the riders. They were well prepared and I was grateful. I tried to sleep in a dark corner of the showroom while they did their thing but I was just too interested in how they were doing with my exhaust leak. Turned out they did not have the studs in stock but “made” me some suitable replacements by cutting some longer stainless cap screws. I was there for maybe an hour and a half but managed to eat about 7 sandwiches and a slew of cookies. Once back at the checkpoint hotel, I passed out but made sure the Screamin’ Meanie would have me up for the riders meeting. As I fell asleep, I recalled thinking that I just didn’t give a shit if I missed any easy “on-the-way” boni. I was mentally and physically spent.





Leg 3: Montana is one long-ass state

At the 4am riders meeting the leg 3 bonus list was handed out and Mike Kneebone read aloud the standings through the first two legs; “moving up from 22nd place to 10th place – Bob Lilley.” I was stoked but immediately my mind jumped to what I would need to do to maintain a top ten position at the finish. I wasted no time heading back to my hotel room. On the way I received many congratulations from my fellow riders for my move to 10th. It felt good. I mean, I always knew I could ride, but, my routing choices, usually a problem of too much or too little, always seemed to keep me just beyond a podium spot in the 1 and 2 day rallies back east. It’s hard to make up for a poor routing decision when you only have a day or two until the finish. In the Iron Butt, however, a guy like me could have a bad routing leg and still make it up by riding his ass off in subsequent legs. Let’s face it, in 11 days damn near ANYTHING is possible. I was happy.

I took one look at the bonus locations for leg 3 and knew I had to go to Michigan to maintain a top position. The difficult part was figuring what to bag to and from, and, I knew I’d be heading out of LA and back up I-15 through the blistering heat. But first I had to get out of the hotel parking lot. The LT’s starter was acting up again and the damn thing wouldn’t turn the engine over. Roger Sinclair, a fine BMW mechanic in his “day job” was happening by and pushed me while yelling “Make sure it’s in 3rd gear, make sure it’s in 3rd gear!” She was and I slipped the clutch out and she fired right up. I owe Roger a brew next time we run into each other. Once that pesky little detail of getting the damn bike running was taken care of, I decided to head for the Mountain Meadows Memorial bonus then shoot to Monument Valley for the UT-163 bonus. When I got to the MMM bonus, the wind was blowing pretty hard. I saw Andy Mills and another rider (I can’t remember for sure but I thought it was David Porter). I started running down the path to the bonus with the intention of asking one of them to hold my flag because of the stiff wind. I was too late as they were well on their way back to their bikes by the time I got there. Luckily, the fence surrounding the memorial was iron. I clipped the flag to the top of the wrought iron spikes and was able to secure the bottom with two magnetic clips I carry. Back at the bike, I mentioned to a rider that there was still time to make the Monument Valley (UT-163) bonus which was daylight only. The other rider gave me a blank stare as if to say “No way, dude!” I thought it could be done and on leg 3, I wasn’t going to be conservative. I headed out from the memorial bonus and the LT’s front tire caught a berm of gravel and nearly slid out. I reflexively grabbed a big handful of throttle and the ass end swung out and straightened the bike up. I looked back to see a swath of gravel roosted away by the LT’s rear ME880 and smiled.

The ride to Monument Valley was perfect. The weather was gorgeous, the scenery, well the scenery in southeast Utah speaks for itself. I can only add that it was magnificent. The roads were empty and quick. I rode most of the way to the UT-163 bonus with Jim Frens and Ken Meese and we arrived there at the same time. Jim and I pulled into a small gravel lot and positioned our bikes and flags for the shot. Meese just swung his bike around on UT 163, held his flag up while sitting on his bike and took his pic. He was gone a few minutes before me and Frens. As I was about to leave, I mentioned to Jim that perhaps the DHP bonus in Moab, Utah, a daylight only bonus was attainable. I think maybe Meese had the same idea as Jim and I caught up to Ken and the three of us headed north. It became apparent that Moab was not going to be on our scorecards when I was riding in total darkness and Moab was still an hour away per Ms. Garmin. I gave up on Moab and headed for the COP bonus in Rand, Colorado.

The ride over the Continental Divide at night on some twisty roads was a bitch. I remember thinking what a bummer it was to be riding these roads in the dark as I was probably missing some extraordinary views. Another thing I noticed was the lack of traffic. Of course it was very late- maybe 4am or so, but still it seemed like an extremely lonely place. I did however round a corner to find the Sperry’s pulled over on the side of the road. I pulled along side and they said they were OK so I plodded on to Rand. When I arrived at the bonus it was still dark but daylight was about 40 minutes away. Chris Sakala was there and we each found a bench to lay on for about half an hour. I was grateful to see Chris. In the dark, far from a familiar place, his presence bolstered my confidence. It also served to keep me from thinking I was the only crazy bastard who would ride over the Rocky Mountains in the middle of the night to snap a picture of a dummy in an old police car. Of course the Sperry’s pulled in shortly thereafter so now I had three other crazy bastards to ease my mind. At daylight, I snapped my pic and headed for Devils Tower.

It was somewhere in Niobrara county in Wyoming that I experienced the most restful nap I took the whole rally and maybe in my whole life. I was tired and needed to stop. I pulled off on a small paved lot from US85 that looked like an access area to a cattle ranch. I took my helmet off, laid down on the ground next to the bike with my head on my mesh jacket and fell asleep listening to cattle chewing on grass. It was about 72* with a beautiful breeze and aside from the occasional grunt or “moo” from the herd, it was blissfully silent. I slept soundly for two hours then continued on to the Tower.

The Devils Tower visitor center parking lot was crowded. I kind of “created” a spot between a couple of busses and let the bike run while I ran inside for the photograph. As I was heading down the sidewalk, a gentleman who said he was at the Tulsa National Meet and actively following the rally stopped me. He said we had met in Tulsa and I actually recognized him but damn if I can now recall his name. Anyway, I thought that was pretty weird. I took the required pic and bailed for Crazy Horse.

I made the mistake of waiting until I got to Crazy Horse to open the rally book. Had I taken a minute to see what this bonus required while still at Devil’s Tower, I would’ve realized that I didn’t have to actually enter the park. The parking lot attendant was nice enough to refund my money and I returned to the entrance sign to take my picture. A security guard in a little shack immediately started for me and I could tell by the look on his face that something about me was pissing him off. I again let the bike run, snapped my pic and was seated on the bike ready to pull out when he reached me. He said he was going to tell me that I couldn’t park there but since I was leaving it was no problem. I briefly considered asking him to detain any other rider that showed up that day for the authorities, but, that would’ve been nasty. ;)

Twilight was approaching and I knew I had to make it all the way across South Dakota to be in a position to bag the Telephone Pole bonus at daybreak the following morning. I was getting a little cranky because I hadn’t eaten all day. I had to resist a strong urge to stop at a Perkins for some ham and eggs, instead chewing down two more Clif Bars. Did I mention I was starting to shit like a goat? Seven days or so of Clif Bars, Slim fast Meal Bars, trail-mix, sunflower seeds and almonds was taking a serious toll on my upper and lower gastrointestinal tract. I really wanted some hot, sit-down type food but could not spare the time. I rode until about 1am and sought a hotel near Dell Rapids. I noticed Meese had also chosen this spot for a rest and I made the assumption he too was headed to Michigan. I was stunned to find out later that he did NOT go to Michigan. Regardless, I asked the clerk and he assured me that the checkout receipt would show my check-in and check-out times. I asked him again, “Are you sure?” I was using this stop to claim the point-laden Rest Bonus and didn’t want to screw it up. Of course the following morning the clerk realized that due to some “shift change” problem in the computer (something only the manager – who was home in bed – could override), he could not give me a receipt. I was pissed but couldn’t do anything about it at this point. As I was packing the bike, Meese showed up and I sought comfort by telling him my tale of woe. I really, really, REALLY wanted to choke the living shit out of Meese when he lectured me that you should always, always, ALWAYS get a receipt for fuel before and after a rest stop “to be sure.” I knew he was right but at that time of the morning after realizing I just screwed the pooch, I needed an understanding shoulder. Meese would be a terrible mommy. I wished a secret voodoo curse on his gear shift assembly and headed for the Telephone Pole bonus. In all seriousness, Ken offered to back up my story at scoring if need be. I thought that was a very nice gesture but knew I’d be an infamous ass-clown for eternity on the web after Hobart and Austin were done ridiculing such a sorry excuse for missing a rest bonus. I decided I’d never mention it.

I cruised down a few miles of hard packed gravel roads to reach the telephone poll. Occasionally my front tire would catch a rut requiring a healthy dose of throttle to power out of the skid - there is no better way to become fully awake in the early morning. Once there, I saw Chris Sakala and Roger Sinclair. Rog was wired! He started telling me how his camera got run over, his fuel cell woes, etc. I decided I’d try Roger for sympathy regarding my lost rest bonus. He cut me off mid-sentence and said “I didn’t even take my fookin’ rest bonus yet!” Holy shit! It hit me! I had until midnight to start my rest bonus again! I could’ve kissed that crazy Irish bastard right there on the top of his stubble encased cranium! I wasn’t planning on bagging another 5 hours of sleep, but what the hell, it couldn’t hurt. I thought to myself, “God put Roger at that bonus just to do me a solid.” After bagging the photo, I headed for the next bogie while replaying over and over again in my head a “what-if” scenario; would it be more beneficial to skip the rest bonus and get some bigger Canadian boni on the way to Spokane? Or, should I attempt to claim the rest bonus again and significantly reduce my bonus hunting time?

I put the argument out of my head while on the way to the Little Bohemia Lodge in Wisconsin. It was a beautiful day, perfect temps in the low and mid 70s and great roads. I got to the lodge and went in for the business card but was told “we don’t have any business cards.” I opted for a ginger ale and the receipt for same and ran back to the bike. I had a newly lit fire under my ass and fanning the flames was the issue of whether or not to retake the rest bonus before midnight. I can’t remember exactly but I believe I was at the lodge before noon.

What I did next was almost comical. I set the GPS for Gay, Michigan to bag the gay bar bonus. Five minutes into the route, I pulled over and reviewed an alternate route to Thunder Bay, Ontario instead. I decided that I should go to Thunder Bay because it was a “daylight only” bonus which I could bag today then get the gay bar bonus the following day. I turned around and headed for Thunder Bay. About three minutes into the ride to TB, I stopped again to rethink my decision. It was a long ass ride from TB to Gay. I would later find out from Rick Miller who bagged both boni that it was about eight hours. Something in my head said trying to bag Thunder Bay then get the gay bar the following day was too big a stretch, everything would have to be perfect; no bike problems, no construction delays, and the rest bonus still loomed. I again turned around and decided once and for all that Gay was my next destination. What happened to me later at the US/Canadian border would validate that this was the right decision.

I arrived at Gay, bagged the bonus and found my way to US 2 heading west towards Winnipeg and the courthouse sculpture bonus. The sun was setting fast and I wanted to get as many miles under my belt before total darkness. I called home to let my wife know where I was and where I was headed. She was packing for her trip to see me in Spokane. We caught up on the day’s events and just before I hung up, she heard me exclaim “Holy SHIT!” She said, “What’s the matter?” I had just driven between two young black bear cubs that had darted into the road. It was still daylight enough that I also saw mommy bear just starting out of the brush along the road. I was a bit puckered but happy to report that me, and the guy in his car right behind me, both missed the bear family.

I rode until about 11:30pm and decided that I could not afford to blow off the big points offered by the rest bonus. I can’t remember exactly where I stopped, I think it was Minnesota. Regardless, I hit a Holiday convenience store, got gas and a good receipt this time, then turned in at a small, non-national motel. I slept soundly for about five and a half hours. I returned to the same store to get my rest bonus “finished” receipt then headed for Winnipeg. I was confident I’d cruise into Canada without a hitch at the border. Most of my confidence was due to the fact that I carried a NEXUS Trusted Traveler card. About three months before the rally I took the time to apply for the credential. I then rode up to the Lake Champlain, NY border crossing station to be interviewed by both US and Canadian border agents. About a week later I was notified that I was approved and a few weeks after that the card arrived in time for the rally. When I hit the border crossing near Pembina on I-29, I pulled up and shut the bike off. The officer asked that I remove my helmet and provide ID. I gave him my passport with the NEXUS card. I answered the usual questions and he seemed satisfied as he handed me back my passport. As I was about to tuck the passport back into my tank bag I noticed a yellow slip of paper sticking out of it. I looked at the officer and was about to ask him what it was when he said “Pull under the pavilion and come inside.” At that very moment, I knew this was going to cost me the big boni in Alberta and possibly the Championship Fight Club bonus in Saskatoon. I tried not to look agitated as I unpacked the bike for inspection. When the agents were satisfied that I was not a threat to the Canadian populace, I was allowed to continue, a full two hours after arriving at the border crossing. I was really dejected because this unplanned stop was going to cost me some big points down the stretch. I thought about what a huge waste of time it was to obtain the NEXUS credential while I headed for Winnipeg. On the other hand, I was now thankful that I had not tried for the Thunder Bay bonus. This delay, combined with the extra time required to get all the way around Lake Superior, would’ve more than likely insured me penalty points for lateness at the finish.

I bagged the courthouse sculpture and headed for the Viking ship in Erickson. While enroute I played with the GPS to see if I could salvage the Saskatoon bonus. Ms. Garmin said “yes” - I could do it, make Zip’s Drive-in early Friday and be back in Spokane by 7:00am. Trouble was, this route allowed for NO sleep time and I knew I’d need at least a little. I decided to break off from Saskatoon, head southwest to US 2 and on to the Zip’s bonus in Sandpoint, Idaho. Ironically, the US border agents at International Peace Garden waved me through like I was a direct descendant of George Washington. I was pissed and couldn’t get the Canadian border crossing out of my mind, realizing I had an all-night ride through Montana to make Zip’s by 5:00am Friday morning. I was able to get through western North Dakota and into Montana in daylight. The first 20 miles or so of US 2 in MT was under construction. The term “under construction” is really an understatement. Actually, the concrete and tarmac had been removed and replaced with a hard-packed gravel and oil slurry. I was grateful to have at least a little daylight remaining as I navigated my way through the ruts. I got held up waiting for the pilot car at two locations before I was clear of the work zone.

I knew Montana was a big piece of land and I knew it was day 10 of the rally. I knew I was not at my peak and I expected to be a little worn out at this point in the event. Having said that, I cannot honestly attempt to put into words the level of anxiety and agony I endured trying to get across that long-ass, dark, lonely, cattle heavy state. It was the worst part of my rally and on two separate occasions, I almost pulled over and simply said “Fuck this.” What kept me going? I really can’t point to any one thing but I’m sure my wife waiting for me in Spokane played a role. As did the fact that I had literally hundreds of people – family, friends, work associates, my kids’ friends, etc. – all following Tom Austin’s daily updates. My wife had relayed the excitement all of these people felt when they watched me move from 22nd place up to 10th. They were thrilled that Austin was NOT mentioning my name as one of the riders who was making boneheaded mistakes. I thought of how much I missed my wife, kids and dog. I thought how there could be no explanation for not pushing on and that quitting now would go against everything I held myself out to be.

I pulled over somewhere around US 93 west of Glacier National Park and took a short nap. The break did wonders for my attitude but nothing like the boost I got when I rode into Zip’s Drive-In and saw a large group of my fellow IBR competitors. Sitting in Zip’s having hot coffee, listening to all the bullshitting and lie-telling that was already taking place was an uplifting experience. It was there at 4:45am, Friday, September 4th, 2009 I had the first real feeling that I was in fact going to finish the IBR, and, that I was going to finish well.

I lined up with everyone else and got my coffee receipt at around 5:05am. I headed for the bike and had to bump start it, yet again, while having a conversation with a guy and his wife who used the occasion to point out that they “had lots of reliability issues with their BMW.”

I rode within a group of about 10 bikes toward Spokane. It amazes me still, how much better I felt about everything when the sun rose, even on this last day while heading to the barn. When I pulled into the parking lot at the finish, I saw my wife and several friends who rode out to Spokane from back east to see me finish. My wife burst into tears, nearly pulling me off the bike as she hugged me. I was sobbing. My tough Harley riding buddies, Harry Knerr and Kerry Dibler and their wives Sherry and Lisa were crying. My friend, Steve Branner was crying. The best way to explain how I felt at that moment is that everything inside me came pouring out. It was an emotional release that only those who finish an Iron Butt Rally can understand. I couldn’t stop crying and cried fairly regularly throughout that afternoon and evening. Dean Tanji showed up with his video camera and I broke down while he filmed. I didn’t feel embarrassed because the way I was feeling was genuine and beyond my immediate control. It was an amazing feeling


I will cherish for the rest of my life the feeling of finishing the IBR, especially after dealing with some crazy situations. That feeling must be the reason people enter the rally multiple times. I saw Lisa Landry, gave her a big hug and started crying some more. After that, Steve Branner handed me a beer but said “until you score, no more beer!”





I went upstairs and gathered my paperwork, checked my fuel log, my pictures and my receipts. All was in order. I went to scoring and while I waited, drank another two beers. They just tasted great. Bob Higdon summoned me to Heidi Still for scoring. Heidi was beyond thorough but I was confident my “shit was in one sock” to quote Warchild. For leg three, I came away with 60,953 points and no penalties. My rally was over. I went back upstairs, peeled off my filthy riding gear, took a shower and went to lunch with my wife and my friends. After lunch I slept until the banquet.


While I was sleeping, my wife, Kathy, was going to actually throw my riding under-gear out as she said nothing that smelled that bad could possibly be saved. She said she absolutely could not stand the smell of the hotel room with my dirty clothing lying there in a heap. With that, she and the wife of my friend “Beaumont” Bob Collins decided to drive to a local Laundromat and perform an exorcism on my crusty duds. I must admit, the stuff smelled pretty bad. With good reason; I pretty much threw my hygienic practices out the window for the entire rally. As an example, on day nine I lost my travel kit, although truth be told, I hadn’t used it that much prior to losing it. For the next two days, I just “scraped the fur” off my teeth with teriyaki beef jerky and then ate it when I was done. Some might consider this disgusting. I considered it resourceful as I didn’t have to waste time to stop and reassemble another kit.

The Finishers Banquet: “Slow learner my ASS!”

I was hoping I’d managed to hang on to my 10th place finish but was confident that, given the obstacles I had to get around, I gave the rally my level best effort and no matter where I ended up, I would be satisfied. That’s the God’s honest truth. Yes, I made some mistakes. Yes, I had some delays not of my own doing. Yes, I had some mechanical problems but who didn’t? In the end, looking back, I believe the outcome for each setback was the best it could’ve been. I was beyond grateful to God that I finished safely. For a moment, I thought of those who were not as fortunate and offered a prayer for them and their families. Of course I thought about Davo Jones. I had been following his posts on LDRider and had the pleasure of sharing a few beers with him in Spartanburg. We chatted again during scoring in St. Charles and joked about how the Coni’s gas mileage was holding him back. I had a good thought for Davo and said a prayer for his family. After that, I put it behind me just as I knew Davo would have preferred.

Kath and I went downstairs about a half an hour before the banquet to mingle and DRINK! I’m not much for stereotypes but I’m of Irish heritage – both sides of the family. I had not had a beer, a shot of whiskey, tequila, NOTHING all summer while prepping for the rally. This quite possibly may have been a greater challenge for me than the actual rally! Well, at least my dad thought so. The beer I was now enjoying tasted fantastic and I was grateful to have good friends all around me. It meant a lot that my friends Harry and Sherry Knerr, Kerry and Lisa Dibler and ’07 IBR vet Steve Branner all rode out from the east coast to see me finish.

I’d like to mention a word about my good friend, a fellow rally entrant, Bob Collins from Beaumont, Texas. Bob was a DNF and it broke my heart. For one, I know he can ride his ass off and he has the certs to prove it. Bob is an “old school” guy, a Vietnam Vet, a guy you’re always happy to see, a class act. The new fangled end of rallying – GPS, high tech routing software, huge numbers of bonus locations with time constraints and a very limited amount of time to calculate a route, is what did Bob in. With routing practice, I know he’d kick some ass in a future rally. I’ll be the first to tell you, the experience I got entering one- and two-day rallies like the Mason Dixon 2020, the Cape Fear Rally, the Minuteman 1000, the Void and the Tinbuttu Rally, was INVALUABLE. All these rallies, except the Tinbuttu, delivered bonus locations in a format similar to the IBR. Bob didn’t have this experience advantage and if he did, there is no doubt in my mind he would’ve been a finisher.

The food at the banquet was delicious and I wasted no time piling my plate high with everything on the buffet. I had lost about 8 pounds while riding and needed to “bulk-up”. I continued to eat while Mike Kneebone got the show started. What can you say about Mike Kneebone, Lisa Landry, Bob Higdon, Tom Austin, Ira Agins, Steve Hobart, Warchild and the rest of the IBA staffers? They run a “top-shelf” event and they pull it off as though it’s no big deal, autonomously busting their collective asses to deal with whatever snafu gets thrown their way. Every IBA member, whether or not you ever participate in the rally itself, owes them a debt of gratitude.

Mike turned it over to Bob Higdon to present the finishers. Bob was given this honor because he was the mastermind behind the “crime scene” bonus template. A total of 101 riders started the rally and 70 finished. Mr. Higdon pointed out that just finishing this event makes you a winner. He’s right.

As Bob went down the list, it was great to see how genuinely excited each finisher was. I was happy for all my fellow competitors and waited patiently for my name to be called. When Higdon got down to the final ten spots, even before my name was called, Kath and my friends started congratulating me. I think they were as happy as I was that I was about to be announced as a top ten finisher. Steve Branner remarked “you’re a rock star now!” Honestly, I knew I’d had a good rally but I was absolutely floored when I found out I was the top finishing IBR rookie in 8th place. Once I was on stage holding that beautiful chunk of lead crystal, I thought “hey, this thing weighs about the same as a spare final drive!”


Conclusion:

I felt bad for those who didn’t finish. When I got the “congrats” letter from Lisa saying my entry form was drawn for the rally, my friend Harry Knerr summed it up quite nicely; “let the eighteen month mind-fuck begin!” Harry was right. I probably have an obsessive compulsive disorder, but, everyday from the time I got Lisa’s email until I was leaving Spartanburg, five consecutive minutes didn’t pass without me thinking or doing something rally related. The time, the money, the emotion, the anxiety, the physical preparation – can take a toll. The thought of going through it all and then to not finish, for whatever reason, would’ve been crushing to me. I hope those who came up a bit short find peace in their minds. Just to be a starter in this thing says volumes about the kind of people we are. Congratulations to every damn one of you!

I want to wish Jim Owen special congratulations for finally getting the IBR monkey off his butt! Way to ride it, Jim! No one was more deserving of a win. Now please, go away and let the rest of us have a decent shot at winning ;)


Acknowledgements:

I want to thank my loving wife, Kathy for her undying support of me throughout the entire IBR endeavor….I owe ya, babe!

To my two beautiful daughters, one who celebrated her thirteenth birthday while I was on my way to St. Charles, thanks for understanding dad’s obsession.

To my Aunt Toni Fiore, thanks for the love, support, watching the girls and of course the BMW parts!!!

To all who said a prayer on my behalf, a heartfelt thanks.

To the IBA staff, THANKS for tending our LD sandbox.

To Jim Bain, Charlie Clemmer and Don Catterton, thanks, guys.

To Steve Branner, thanks for calling me every night on days 8, 9, 10 and 11. It did wonders for me, Steve, no shit.

Thank you to Harry, Sherry, Kerry and Lisa. It was great to have you rooting for me and heartfelt thanks for tripping to Spokane!

Thank you to Mr. John Frick for snapping and sharing some great pictures of me during the rally.

Thank you to the Birmingham, Alabama Police Department.

To Bill Shaw, THANKS for giving this diatribe the once over!