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The Iron Butt Rally (11,000 miles/11 days)

Passed along:

Salt Lake City, Utah
August 11, 2003
Day 0

The Visitor

Just before the banquet began last evening, the Typhoid Mary of
motorcycling, Michael Charles Gasper, rode into the Holiday Inn parking
lot. You may know him by one of his aliases: Speedracer, Gary Gonefar,
Biff, Bob Ransbottom (an identity theft of a 1995 IBR finisher), The 2K
Kid, Psycho Mikey, Brad Beckley, Ray Poisson (a combination of "Rey"
[Spanish for "king"] and "Poisson" [French for "fish"], hence "Kingfish"),
Chuck LaDeux, and most recently Charles Ladue. No matter what name he's
using, this is one dude you don't want to meet.
Gasper's history of lies and sociopathic behavior is so well known
in the long-distance motorcycling community that it would actually be
comical were it not for the occasional assault with a deadly weapon or
child molestation conviction. In recent years, however, because of his
multiple threats against other riders he has been turned away from every
endurance rally of any consequence in North America and permanently banned
from participation on the Long Distance Riders e-mail list. Unhappily, and
ironically, for Psycho Mikey, riding a bike for endless miles under
difficult conditions is one thing that he can actually do with some
skill. Now the boys and girls won't play with him anymore.
The drums had banged out the news of Gasper's arrival before he
was even off his bike. The police were called because at least three
riders at the dinner have keep-away orders against him. He muttered a few
epithets and rode off but, like the Energizer Bunny, he'll keep coming
back. If he shows up at any of the rally's checkpoints, however, he'll
find the state police waiting for him.
It took Mike Kneebone a few minutes to arrange for security guards
to patrol the parking lot last night, an unexpected expense that the riders
Gasper so desperately wants to associate with will ultimately bear through
their entry fees. But soon the drama subsided, rallymaster Lisa Landry
strode into the banquet room wearing the executioner's robe that Mike
Kneebone had first used in 2001, and the riders quickly resumed their
positions of whipped-dog submissiveness.

Bill Shaw's Surprise

Landry was wearing the same ominous shroud when she appeared in
the parking lot at 9:40 this morning. Eager motorcyclists immediately
clotted around her like white blood cells attacking an infection. They had
been told at the riders' meeting the day before that they would be exiting
through the south end of the lot. The rallymaster slowly lifted her nose
skyward, took in the scent of smoke from forest fires to the west of the
city, and concluded upon further reflection that it would be better for
riders to use the north exit.
I glanced at rookie Bill Shaw. He has been writing a series of
articles for "Motorcycle Consumer News" about preparing both a motorcycle
and one's soul for the IBR. A look of uncomprehending pain was creasing
his face. His bike was positioned 6" from the sawhorse at the south
entrance. One minute earlier he would have been the first bike out of the
lot; now the entire field would be lined up ahead of him. I smiled cruelly
and thought, "Welcome to the Butt, Bill. Let the mind games begin."
Shaw's loss was Paul and Voni Glaves' gain. In a motorcycle
popularity contest these two would receive about 112% of the vote. Voni
won a BMW Motorcycle Owners of America club mileage contest a few years ago
with 73,000 miles in six months. Paul is a former president of the same
club. Their bikes were parked at the north end of the lot. As a reward
for their quiet willingness to be last out of the gate, they became the first.
Rick Rohlf's BMW was third in line. Five minutes before the 10:00
a.m. start, I walked over to him. "You know what they do with jets that
stall on the carrier's flight deck?" I asked.
"They throw them over the side," he answered correctly.
As the Glaves began to roll toward the exit moments later, Rohlf
punched his starter button. Nothing happened. We threw him over the
side. Twenty minutes later all but one of the machines had disappeared
into the hazy smoke that still swirled through the city.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

The plan in 1997 was for Mike Kneebone and me to rent a Lincoln
and follow the rally around the country, checkpoint to checkpoint, from
Chicago back to Chicago. We weren't out of the city limits on the first
leg of the event before we realized we had made a monumental mistake. A
big road trip on a bike is an adventure; a big road trip in a car is
idiocy. I vowed never to be associated with such foolishness again.
It is 3:55 p.m. MDT as I type these words. Somewhere in
northeastern Idaho I sit in a van, a Pontiac Montana --- the Spanish word
for "moron" --- that sways rhythmically from side to side. In another
304,000 oscillations I will be green enough to hang my head out the window
and leave lunch on the highway that winds through this beautiful
landscape. But there are no windows where I sit in the back of the
Moron. That means we will have to stop. No one wants that. Bringing this
unwieldy pig to a halt and discharging its passengers could take up to a week.
Why a van? That's what I wonder. Sure, we have doubled the space
of the old Lincoln, but we have also doubled the crew: Lisa (rallymaster)
and Warren Harhay (rally cinematographer) are now with Mike and me. We
have doubled the bladders that need draining, tripled the luggage, and
quadrupled the angst. I was told a few days ago that a pool was taking
bets on when my fellow travelers would either throw me out of the Moron or
strap me onto the luggage rack on its roof.
I don't want to think about that. Instead I try to remember who
these horsemen were. Death, disease, famine, and Oprah? I can't do
it. Whoever they were, we have channeled them in a Pontiac Moron. I'm
seeing shades of green. Just 22,000 more oscillations and . . . well, I
don't want to think about that either.

Casualty Report

Two of the five bikes in the Hopeless Class --- motorcycles
challenged by age, power, ugly paint, or a combination of the above ---
have chalk outlines around them tonight.
At 2:55 this afternoon we received a call that Ken Morton's '82
Honda Silver Wing was having electrical problems north of Idaho
Falls. Exactly 90 minutes later we passed him. The roadside temperature
was over 100F. We would have stopped but we didn't want to let the cold
air out of the Moron. Besides, the tow truck was there.
At 4:39 we learned that Jim Winterer's '81 Yamaha 500cc single, a
motor that completed the last IBR, had rolled to a stop at a farm access
road near Riggins, Idaho. Diagnosis: Transmission failure. Prognosis: Toe
tag. The owner of the property is a BMW MOA member. He knows MOA board
member and Iron Butt vet Karol Patzer. Winterer knows Karol, and tonight
he has a place to sleep.
Within seven hours of the start two bikes bit the dust. Two
hundred fifty-seven hours remain.

Bob Higdon
www.ironbutt.com
 
Sorry to be so late posting the remainder from Monday. We couldn't dial out last night. I think the fires are limiting our communication services.

As mentioned, at the riders' meeting they learned that the empty aisle in the right of the photo is actually where they should start lining up, not the upper left beyond the meeting group, where there is already some congestion from waiting bikes.
 

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Chye was at the end of the parking lot that was actually the starting point, so he was one of the first riders to get on the road. He honked at me as I was walking back to my office and I waved good luck. At least, I hope he knew that was my wish for him.
 

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Tough biker babes! I had the pleasure of meeting Ardys Kellerman and Phyllis Lang during the registration days, and when Phyllis mentioned a small crisis at work made her think she needed to return home, I offered to help however I could.

I have learned that Ardys and Phyllis were the only solo women to ride the IBR in 1993 and Ardys is the third woman on record to finish. Ardys has finished four times and Phyllis has finished three. Voni Glaves is entered this year, her first attempt. She has supported PaulÔÇÖs efforts in past years and even met up with him on the road in the past.

Phyllis has parked her HD (pretty purple) in my garage - there is no way I would let her leave it in a motel lot for a week. I took her to the airport this morning. I think I've convinced her to try to be back by Wed, Aug 20. The Harley Davidson Ride Home will stop overnight here in Missoula - we are expecting 20,000 riders.

Ardys brought her laundry over while we were putting away the bike and riding gear, and we left it to run while we went to dinner, so I know she is good to go for at least a few days. She left around 8:00 am this morning. She started out from home in Texas and rode her R1150RT to Maryland, where she housesat for a friend, then, if I've got it all straight, she rode to Pennsylvania to meet up with Phyllis. They rode to the start in Missoula. I won't mention where she is going now because it is a surprise for someone and I don't know if this forum is read by that person. Let's just say it's far from MT. From there she will head to the Maine checkpoint for the IBR. She'll be back in Missoula for the finish.

We had a chatty dinner and traded some great stories. Although I've been riding 36 years I've never considered attempting a long distance event and it was interesting to hear from those who have done so, and more than once. I probably still won't try one, though. I can't think of anything I want to do for 11 days straight.

We ran into Harold BrooksÔÇÖ son at the restaurant. He said although heÔÇÖs been hearing about and living with his fatherÔÇÖs involvement since the late 1980s this is the first rally heÔÇÖs actually come to see.

We took a quick photo when we parked Phyllis' bike, so I am including that picture. The sun was low and there is a forest fire burning on the mountain across the river from my house, so it is all smoky and glary - sorry, this digital stuff is new to me. But, you can see everybody is happy!
 

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Marsha Hall

Marsha Hall talking shop with Tobie Stevens and Al Holtsberry the day before the start of the rally.
 

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The Waiting Game

The Waiting Continues: Marsha Hall and Russell Stephan
 

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Just got off the phone with Rob. He's got a cell phone setup on his bike to go with all the other crap he's carrying, so I've been talking with him while he's riding down the road. Pretty intense.

He came across the desert today through Nevada. Death Valley was one of the bonus legs, but Rob wound up taking a pass on it. He's got, in addition to the nuclear reactor and stuff, a thermometer that gives him the outside temp and the temp behind the fairing. He saw temps of 110 on the outside and 124 behind the fairing. With the forecasted high in Death Valley today of 116, it was just too hot to ride to.

The bike was running poorly, but seems to be fine now. He's chalking it up to high temps, oxygenated fuel and altitude. He got 4.5 hours of sleep last night and headed out at 4am. Temps were 38F and he had his Gerbings on when he left. Quite a contrast from the temps he'd see later.

One of the bonus legs involved using your GPS to find a geocache. Joe Denton was at a spot and had a specific cache for each rider. Rob pulled in, got his coordinates from Joe and then started searching the desert for his location and "prize". He was walking in circles in the desert, red headed Ritalin poster boy activity in full effect. He couldn't find the spot and, in his words, was "starting to get a little pissy." Then he realized he'd managed to pretty much park his bike on top of the spot he was looking for.

He was, when I talked to him, about 27 miles outside the checkpoint in Primm, so he's almost done for today. He's going to call later and I'll drop a report when I know more.
 
Got a couple of calls from Paul Pelland who isn't riding a Ural this year, he also can call from the helmet, he said he was doing well and was having fun, he also added he wants to be very competitive this time. it will probably be the last time he can attempt it for quite a few years.
Anyway he sounds great and isn't tired, I don't understand people that can go without sleep for that long:snore
 
OK. Here's the Rob Report. I got off the phone with him about 15 minutes ago and he's pretty amped up. I've got a bunch of stuff here, so this is going to be kind of long. I don't know if it breaks my trip report rule, but it's not my trip, so I suppose not.

They left yesterday at 11am and started heading south. Rob headed south with a couple guys on GoldWing 1800s, running at pretty respectable speed, I'm assuming on 93 or whatever it is that runs south there out of Missoula. They rode together for a while until one of the Wing guys decided he'd had enough and just rode off into the distance.

Short, but important strategic alliances seem to be the order of the day, at least at this point in the ride. Rob and a guy he sort of knows, rode together through some deer infested canyons last night. Later, he shared a room and part of today with a District Attorney from Joisey.

He got hung up at a construction site today for a bit, but got a fairly lucky bit of local info and saved 40 miles.

Rob: "Hey! How long are going to be here?" If it's been more than a couple minutes, Rob's probably already riding in little circles in the road, sometimes standing up and sometimes sitting down.

Flag guy: "Twenty minutes! You riding to Tonopah with the rest of those guys?"

Rob: "Yeah, sure am. How much longer?"

Flag guy: "I make everyone wait twenty minutes."

Rob starts doing little circles in the road again, while he fiddles with his tablet PC, calls Julie and sends an email to some of the folks in his company's Swedish office.

Flag guy is start to get cheesed because now they're going to have to grade the berm Rob's making smooth before they can go home.

"Hey, busy boy!"

Rob flicks the tail on the KLT out slides up next to the guy while he hangs up the phone and sends the email. Sending the fax is going to have to wait a minute.

"Yeah! How much longer?"

"How do you feel about dirt?"

"I'm cool with it. Why?"

"Good. You can save 40 miles if you go back and take Powerline Road. We just graded it last week."

"Cool! Let's ride bikes!" He leaves a perfect roost as he launches out and over the berm he's made. The flag guy smiles and starts kicking the berm flat.

So anyway, Rob tells me that when the K11LT starts doing the big wobble in the dirt, in the really deep stuff, gassing it will not help. He's somewhat surprised he didn't crash out there.

He's also hit a couple birds today. One of them hit the base of his windshield and split itself in half. Part of the bird went over the top of the shield, but the other one wound up inside on the back of his GPS units. It must look great with all the dust and stuff he picked up by riding 70 miles of dirt. Yikes.

Coming out of a gas station somewhere in Nye County, NV. (Yes, it's true), Robs getting his go brain on again. He's got the face shield up, he's spooling up the K bike after a fresh set of control rods and he's eating M&Ms. He looks up and sees two giant signs that say Speed Limit 25. He rolls it off and instantly, his Valentine One lights up, full lock. So he pulls into a parking lot, parked on a pretty sharp slope to the left of the bike. He's sitting on the bike and the cop walks up.

"Going a little fast, eh?"

"Yeah, I was riding along, I've been out in the desert, I'm from Rhode Island and we don't have desert and then I looked up and there were these two giant signs and ya know, I'm kind of flipped out by seeing my name all over the place". He has to pause and take a big breath. At this point on the phone, Rob's telling me all the things he saw, Nye County Sherriff, Nye County Courthouse. You name it. The time is Nye.

The cop asks Rob for his license.

"Ya know, if I put the sidestand out, my bike's going to fall over. Do you mind if I just turn it around here?"

"Sure".

Rob buzzes around in a little full lock circle and parks the bike, just a few feet from where he was and digs his license out. Cop sees his name is Nye, he's motorcycle endorsed and then sees the Chuck Clapham Hollister Volunteer Sticker on the back of his license.

"You a fireman?"

"Yep. I'm a volunteer!"

The cop hands him back his license.

"I'm going to give you my first and probably only Warning this month."

"THANKS SO MUCH!" *under his breath* "How much longer?"

The cop is now looking at the collection of antennae on the back of the bike. He's looking a little puzzled.

"How'd you get this thing so dirty?"

"I rode it down Powerline Road. The Flag Man told me it was a nice shortcut."

The cop's eyes bug out a little and he suppresses the urge to let his mouth flop open.

"You rode *this* down Power Line Road??!!"

The organizers have also split the rally in two. They've circulated envelopes to all the participants with either a blue or red dot. The red folks are going to Lakeland, FL, in a traditional IBR. The blue folks get something different. Everyone is cheesed. They're going to explain more fully at 11PM PST tonight when they hand out the route sheets.

Also, the location that is furthest NE in North America is supposedly on the route sheet as this years equivalent to the Alaska bonus they offered last time around.

More when I hear.

Dave
 
From Bob:

Primm, Nevada
August 12, 2003
Day 1

Ernie Pyle And Me

Someone, maybe von Clausewitz, called it the fog of
war. Information comes in. It sounds good, but it turns out to be
bad. You think it's true, but it's crap. Yesterday morning a woman walked
by me in the motel parking lot. Smoke from fires in the mountains west of
the city wafted through downtown Missoula. It looked like Los Angeles
during the riots. A woman walked by me. "Lolo pass is closed," she
said. "I just heard it on the radio."
There are really only two main ways through the Bitterroot
Mountains. One is via I-90, which once was a U.S. highway and before that
a state highway and before that a wagon trail and before that a trapper's
route and before that an Indian path and before that a deer track. In that
sense, I suppose, it's fair to say that I-90 was originally mapped out by a
jack rabbit.
The other route is by way of U.S. 12. It runs west over Lolo pass
toward Lowell, Idaho. On the Montana side is Lolo Hot Springs where in the
movie "A River Runs Through It" Norman MacLean's brother was beaten to
death in a bar. The real Paul MacLean was actually murdered in
Chicago. The fog of poetic license.
The Montana-Idaho border lies at the top of the pass. To the west
one of the world's great motorcycle roads begins, a section of
uninterrupted curves for 77 continuous miles. At least some of the riders
would have taken that road to reach bonuses in central Washington. If Lolo
were really closed, they might not have gotten through. At that point, I
thought, they might have backtracked to run south on U.S. 93, a highway
that has been closed off and on because of fires during much of the past
several weeks.
I went inside to the hotel receptionist. She had just been on the
telephone with fire and highway officials in Montana and Idaho. Lolo was
open. Really? Really. But was it really? Is a radio faster or more
accurate than a telephone? Fog, fog.
Sometimes I tell people that I know what Ernie Pyle's life was
like. He was a war correspondent in the Pacific during World War II. It
is a tough, scary job. Accurate information is rare. Fog is
everywhere. People really are out to get you. Ernie was killed by machine
gun fire near Okinawa. A nation mourned. Some motorcyclist, angry that I
have commented unfavorably on his riding style, will one day rearrange the
back of my skull with a brick. The last thing I will see is fog.

How To Get From Montana To Nevada

The first thing a rider must decide when the list of bonus
locations is dispensed at the beginning of a leg is the route to be taken
to the next checkpoint. Some factors to be considered are the length of
the proposed ride, the value of the bonuses, and the kinds of conditions
--- principally roads and weather --- likely to be
encountered. Additionally, experienced riders know that as the rally
progresses, the bonuses invariably increase in value. The vagaries of
human emotion also must be recognized and controlled. Conservative riding
will trump greed every time.
In the first leg of the 2003 Iron Butt, there were three basic
rides that looked appealing: 1) Ride west to Washington, south to the
Nevada desert to reel in some easy bonus points, pass up the hard ones
(like Bristlecone Pine forest and the charcoal kilns in Death Valley), and
then to the checkpoint; 2) Ride south to the Nevada desert, pick up all the
difficult bonuses there, and head to the checkpoint; 3) Ride south to the
Nevada desert, skip the difficult desert bonuses, and grab the bonuses in
downtown Las Vegas and Boulder City. Stay out of the desert as much as
possible, especially in the afternoon. Conserve your strength. It only
gets harder.
Before this first leg began, the administrators felt that Route #1
was a poor choice because it was much too long for this early in the
rally. Route #2 fared little better because some of the desert bonuses
would be challenging for even highly-skilled motorcyclists. That left
Route #3.
Did the length of the Montana-Washington-Nevada route deter any
hot shoes? Not a chance; seven of the top ten riders listed below went
that way. Was the weather much of a factor? Bob Ryan and Bob Cox started
this morning with the temperature seven degrees above freezing. In the
late afternoon they were riding in heat of 114F. Did road conditions
affect the ride? The Jungo Road in northern Nevada, as usual, took no
prisoners, and the normally hard-pan, dry lake bed of the Black Rock Desert
at Gerlach was wet enough in places this morning to trap more than a few
bikes. Fortunately, volunteers were able to yank them out. Mark Kiecker,
trying desperately to escape the mire, burned the clutch out in his Honda
VFR800. He used a piece of a Folger's coffee can to repair the damage and
made it to the finish.
When the dust had settled at the scoring table, the guys below
were setting the pace. The www.ironbutt.com web site will soon list
complete scores, along with the bonuses that each of the 117 starting
riders earned:

1. Eric Jewell BMW 3,690
2. John O'Keefe BMW 3,506
3. Jeff Earls BMW 3,506
4. Jim Owen BMW 3,461
5. Todd Witte Yamaha 3,483
6. Tom Loftus Honda 3,434
7. Manny Sameiro Honda 3,431
8. Paul Pelland BMW 3,385
9. Jeff Powell BMW 3,282
10. Leonard Roy Honda 3,282

The Casualties Continue

There are five cell phones, six laptop computers, and two
satellite radios in Moron, the van from Hell. Warren Harhay says that the
contents are worth more than the vehicle that's carrying them. Cell phones
are the worst annoyance; the closer we are to a checkpoint, the more
frequently they ring. Sometimes two go off at once. I shudder when even
one lights up. No one ever calls with good news.
Yesterday we reported that Ken Morton's beater had crumped due to
electrical issues north of Idaho Falls. He revised his diagnosis to blame
carburetor gunk. If he's right, we'll move him from the category of In The
Toilet to In the Bathroom. It's not anywhere close to On The Podium, of
course, and it may not sound like much of an improvement to you, but Morton
will take it.
Homer Krout called late yesterday afternoon. His Harley had
overheated in a 25-mile traffic jam north of Ogden, Utah. He was unable to
restart it. Fearing a burned out something or other, he was towed into
town. The mechanics found nothing fried. Krout is back in the hunt.
Speaking of fire, Dennis ("Sparky") Kesseler saw enough of it this
morning to last him a lifetime. He and Paul Taylor had just bagged the
large bonus in the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, the home of some of the
oldest living things on Earth. Kesseler suddenly noticed that both he and
his Aprilia Capo Nord were on fire. He jumped away from the flaming
machine and rolled in the dirt to extinguish himself. The bike's tank then
exploded. A moment later his four-gallon fuel cell also erupted. A ball
of blistering, stinking, black smoke shot high into the air. Could
Kesseler's day possibly get any worse?
Yes. Before he could regain his footing, flames from the bike
started a brush fire. Think of it: For 4,500 years those aged trees have
withstood everything the planet could throw at them --- rain, hail,
lightning, snow, and sandstorms. Then an Iron Butt rider shows up on his
blazing steed. The horror, the horror.
Fortunately for everyone, the fires were quickly
controlled. Dennis headed for Los Angeles in a rental car to borrow a bike
and rejoin the rally. He was time-barred at the checkpoint tonight, lost
all the points he had accumulated during the first leg (including the
points in the bristlecone forest), and will be barred from chasing any
bonus points on the next leg. Then it gets worse: Changing machines in
mid-rally invokes a 10,000-point penalty. When Dennis arrives at the
second checkpoint in Florida in a few days, his total score will be
-10,000. It is the rare and nightmarish triple crown of Iron Butt
disasters. And it's no wonder those old trees have lived so long; they
always get the last laugh.
Other stories from the day weren't nearly so humorous. Dan
Lowery, who had retreated to Wyoming before the rally started to pick up a
repaired bike, managed to return to Missoula, hours behind the other
riders, only to develop an intractable clutch problem. That was the stake
through his BMW's heart. A forest rat --- you may know these vile animals
as "deer" --- jumped in front of Stephan Russell near the Oregon-Nevada
border early this morning. The front end of the Honda was demolished;
Russell, shaken, didn't have a scratch. Finally, Patrick Jacobson's Harley
sidecar rig was another to be hammered by the Black Rock Desert. His
suspension system may have suffered damage that cannot easily be repaired
in time for him to continue.
But at least he didn't burn down anything.

Bob Higdon
www.ironbutt.com
 
Thanks for the update. Poor Russell. When I first pulled through the starting area lot on Friday, after work, just to see how it was shaping up, he was one of the dozen or so that were already here. He introduced me to someone as an Iron Butt Rally groupie. The next morning when I arrived to help, I told him, "Hey, you came to my town, you're a Missoula groupie." Besides, Russell, I'm not the one that keeps entering the rally.

On another forum I posted pictures of the more unusual bikes but left some photos untitled so they could try to identify them for fun (surely not profit), so this forum has only seen the GL500 (remember the roundel?) that sounds like it's resurrected and in the hunt again.

Here's the Yamaha thumper that, as mentioned, had the tranny rebuild just last week, only to find it was indeed the weak point, apparently:
 

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This is Leon's (don't know the last name, sorry) Kawasaki Ninja 250 twin. I named it the Stealth bike (and I'm probably not the first to do so) because that finish is not flat or matte black paint, that is spray-on bed liner. Maybe it helps the bugs, birds and deer bounce off?
 

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Today's Rob Report:

OK. Got off the phone with Rob a bit ago. The rally has split into folks that took the blue pill and folks that took the red pill. I believe, if I can keep this straight, Rob took the blue pill along with about 90% of the participants. Those folks are off to Lakeland. The red pill people are doing something closer to an automotive time/speed/distance rally, the first portion of which involves riding to Lake Isabella, then to some Hot Springs in CA and then back to Lake Isabella, where they pick up more directions. Apparently, Kneebone told the heavies, the ringers and the heavily favored that if they wanted to win, they needed to take the red pill. Rob took the blue, hoping for a good finish, but not a win. The folks that took the blue pill are calling themselves the "Special Olympics." The riders are not happy. Not at all. Also, the red pill seems to involve lots of dirt roads. After Rob's experiences with the CVN-K11LT on Powerline road, he's glad he took the blue pill, but still somewhat distraught that he's pretty much riding for a good finish instead of contention for a win. Que Sera, Sera. Maybe I should email Rob a Doris Day MP3....

Rob and I talked about the logistics of doing a TSD event on a motorcycle versus a car. Typically, in a car, you have a navigator that runs the clocks and the TSD computer to tell the driver what to do, how fast to drive and when to turn. I daresay that this could be a problem on a motorcycle, even if you're an overachieving red head with two GPS units (slathered in bird guts) hooked to a milspec tablet PC. Additionally, TSD rallies are typically built around traveling exactly at the speed limit or very close to it.

I don't know about you guys, but neither Rob nor I saw that as part of an effective Nye riding solution.

While we were on the phone, Rob asked me to find out what time the sun comes up on top of Mt. Evans, CO, which has the highest paved road in North America. Apparently, he needs to be there during daylight hours, which are probably different that what they are 15K feet lower. I think his intention is to ride up there in the dark, get his picture taken at dawn and then beat feet out of there.

More later.
 
Hey, someone should tell Rob it's latitude not altitude that will help with the time of sunrise, unless he is standing in the shadow of the mountain. Or maybe it's latitude not attitude? Or altitude not multitude of gadgets?
 
I just got a hugely broken up call from Rob. It seems he's crashed, but our connection was horrible.

:(

Stay tuned.....
 
Dave,

Keep us posted, hopefully Rob and bike are ok.

I agree the blue route would be best, but am sorry to learn of Robs crash if true.
 
FWIW, at the same lat/long, a high altitude WILL get first light on any given morning (think about the top of Mount Katahdin Maine being the first place in the US to get a sunrise on Easter, in spite of there being lower land to the East).

Unfortunately, that bit of information is not worth a p-hole in the snow if Rob has crashed... seems he's already been through his own personal Twilight Zone this year (how do you get pulled over in your own town!?). Life ain't fair, but it ought to be for the good guys... bummer.

Hope all is well
 
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