Friday, May 3, 2002 Chelsea, Michigan
We're relaxed this morning, as we no longer have a schedule, and it is, once
again, a beautiful morning. Finding a laundromat, we get our dirty clothes turned in to clean ones
again. It was late - 12:20 PM - when we finally pulled out of Chelsea with our next planned stop
at Don Damron's Fireside Inn over in Stevensville, Michigan.
As we tooled west on I-94 into the city of Kalamazoo, we watched two
sportbike riders pull onto the interstate to our right. Clothed in typical fashion - helmet, gloves,
nondescript jacket, jeans, tennis shoes - they proceeded to cut through traffic in a manner guaranteed
to irritate the cage drivers they were dodging, failing to use turn signals or common sense. They
stayed on the interstate for about 4 miles, then exited in the same manner - cutting across several lanes
of traffic just in time to get the off ramp. It was interesting to note, from our position in the
hammer lane, that they had progressed to only about three car lengths ahead of us despite all their
antics. My hope is that they live long enough to mature and learn to ride safely and responsibly.
We found Don's fine dining establishment with no trouble, and sat down
to enjoy a good meal. Our waitress found Don for us, and he joined us for some lively conversation
while we ate.
I'm going to blame Don for talking us into this, as it was during our
delicious dinner that we decided to do a SaddleSore from Stevensville. There were no planned stops
for either of us before Montana, we wanted to get across the Midwest as quickly as possible, and I-80
should provide the perfect venue for that attempt. Checking maps and GPS, it looked like the Wyoming
border would be just about far enough.
So when it came time to leave, we got out our SaddleSore witness forms
(which I vainly carry with me on every trip) and had Don witness our starting odometer readings. He
pointed out that his daughter, who had at one time had the distinction of being the youngest Iron Butt
member, could have signed them as well. Had that occurred to us, we would have been honored to have
her signature on the dotted line. It was a real joy to spend the time with Don and his daughter.
But once again, the ticking clock was controlling our ride, so off we went at 5:05 to fuel up and get
our official starting time.
In previous sentences I've noted my inability to cope with the
documentation portion of an official Iron Butt ride, and it turned out this one was no exception - but
I didn't discover that until it was too late to remedy the situation. Russ and I both rode a couple of
blocks south on Red Arrow Hwy. to a large station to fuel up. We obtained our receipts and dutifully
folded them and put them away for safe keeping. However, I failed to put on my reading glasses first
so I could ascertain exactly what was printed on the slip. But the printout was over three inches
long, and two inches wide, and filled with fine printing, so it had to have every bit of information
I required, right? Or so I thought - for the next thousand plus miles. It wasn't until I sat down
about 25 hours later, in a restaurant in Torrington, Wyoming, that I discovered there was no time printed
anywhere on the receipt.
Having traveled the route many times in the past 40 odd years, I am all
too familiar with traffic in Chicago and its environs. And yet we managed to find ourselves crawling
from Indiana toward the Illinois line as part of a 10,000 vehicle creeping mass, with the temperature
only slightly lower than what we had experienced in Houston and Florida. Perhaps in the future I should
consider such things before heading out to do a 1000 mile day. To complicate matters, the cooling fan
on my bike refused to come on, leading to the temperature gauge climbing into the red, and coolant
spitting out onto the hot pavement. Once again we found ourselves clear over to the left hand side
of the pavement, which on this portion of interstate is akin to riding through a trash heap rather
than the rain-washed cleanliness of northern I-5 where I'd found myself in a similar situation nearly
a month earlier. After letting the engine cool for a bit, we decided to chance moving forward again,
looking for the nearest exit to get onto a surface street where we could expect to move occasionally
to aid in cooling the radiator.
As good fortune would have it, we had to ride less than a mile to get
to Exit 2, and got onto US-41 which took us south to US-30 where we were able to resume our westward
direction. By shutting the engine off at stoplights, and keeping the bike rolling whenever possible,
we were able to make it west to US-45 where we turned north to rejoin I-80 and get back up to a
comfortable speed. From then on, we had but one goal - get to Wyoming by tomorrow afternoon.
In my days of being chased back and forth across the country by a 48'
semi-trailer I had carefully measured the differences in time and miles around or through most major
cities from coast to coast, and found that experience proving useful as we neared the Quad Cities region
on the Mississippi River where it divides Illinois and Iowa. We stayed on I-80 and circled to the
north, and before we realized it, were headed west again in Iowa. It was just 10 minutes before 10:00
PM when we crossed into Iowa, and we continued to make good time as we made our way toward Nebraska.
At Exit 220, near the town of Williamsburg, we stopped to fuel up. It was somewhere to the west of
there that I recall being passed by a car with Alaska plates. Well, what better rabbit than one of
my countrymen - so I set off in hot pursuit. This was even more than Russ felt comfortable with
apparently, as his headlights began to diminish in my rearviews. Checking my speedometer, I realized
that my fellow Alaskan was probably in a much bigger hurry to return to the state than I was, and
reduced my speed to something less likely to prove instantly fatal in the event of a mishap.
Saturday, May 4, 2002 Clive, Iowa
Can you believe it? The restaurant at the Flying J, where I've faithfully
eaten a meal every time I pass through the area, is closed when we arrive just after midnight. So we
made a u-turn and went back to the Pilot truckstop we'd passed up a few miles north. Sure enough,
the fairly heavy meal this late at night made me drowsy, and in less than fifty miles I spotted a rest
area and pulled in for a 2 hour nap. This was one of those times when the difference between riders
worked against us, as Russ was still wide awake and ready to keep riding. He stopped too, however,
and we both got some sleep, although mine was fitful due to the cool temperature. At 03:45 we were
back on our bikes and headed west once more.
We crossed the Missouri River into Nebraska at 5:15 AM and made it
another 16 miles before I was once again overcome by a case of the drowsies and we stopped for another
brief nap. This time Russ was able to sleep quite well apparently, as I had a bit of trouble waking
him once I was ready to travel again.
We had made it as far as the Petro Truck Stop at Exit 353, near York,
Nebraska by 8:30 AM, and stopped there for breakfast. It had warmed up to 54°F by this time, with
the sun starting to come up behind us through a slightly hazy sky. Although it isn't something I
usually have, a cup of coffee helped to get me back on schedule and ready to put some miles behind us
once we were back on the interstate.
As we make our weary way across Nebraska toward the Wyoming line, I'm aware
that this SaddleSore attempt, taking place on the interstates here in the Midwest U. S., is probably
the most difficult one I've ridden. The miles slowly added up as we continued across this flat
stretch of landscape. While seemingly featureless to the casual glance, I enjoy it, as I remember
various points from many earlier trips across I-80, and years before it, on old US-30. In fact,
when I travel through here by myself, I often get off the slab and take the two-lane for a change.
It has hardly changed in the more than 45 years since I first came across it, headed for a summer ranch
job in Oregon. I enjoy pleasant memories, and some not so pleasant, but soon they are all left behind
as we leave I-80 at Ogallala to take US-26 into Wyoming.
This is another highway that I frequently travel, ever since a vacation
trip with three teenage stepchildren as we returned home to Alaska. With 3 teenaged siblings in a
car together for an extended period of time, it is imperative that they have something to do. So we
retraced the Oregon Trail - as much as we were able - from Jefferson City, Missouri to Oregon City,
Oregon. Along this stretch of US-26 from Ogallala to past Guernsey, Wyoming, there are many historic
sites (and sights) related to that famous trail from the early days in our nation's history. Even the
kids were fascinated by the things we saw and the places we visited.
It was just after noon local time when we left Ogallala, but that meant
it was 2:00 PM in Stevensville, Michigan, two time zones east of us. That gave us but 3 hours to
make the 155 miles to Torrington. Not a problem so long as all went well. Having been over this
road several times, I wasn't worried, as I felt we would be able to keep our speed up enough to maintain
at least a 55 mph average - that would get us there within the allotted time. As a matter of fact,
we had a sufficient cushion when we neared Chimney Rock, one of the major landmarks along the Oregon
Trail, that we sidetracked a couple of miles to stop and take some touristy photographs of the sight
from a distance. Leaving there, we were within 55 miles of Torrington, and had just over an hour to
get there. We crossed the line into Wyoming at 2:48 MDT and 11 minutes later pulled up to the gas
pumps at the first station we came to in Torrington. Making sure the receipts had the correct time
on them, we realized that we had completed the 1000+ miles just under the wire - twenty-three hours
and fifty-five minutes since we had fueled up in Stevensville. That's cutting it close.
We talked one of the clerks in the convenience store into coming outside
to witness our odometers and sign the witness forms. Then Russ, who had friends to visit in Montana,
hit the road again while I walked over to the restaurant with all my paperwork for the ride, and sat
down get everything ready for submission to the IBA while I waited for my meal. It was while doing
that, that I discovered the lack of a time stamp on my starting receipt.
The lack of proper documentation for the ride doesn't bother me all that
much. It seems failing to properly document rides has become a habit for me. So after dinner I get
back on the bike with a destination in mind, yet subject to change along the way. But as the miles
go by, I decide to continue as planned, and keep going until I get to Buffalo, Wyoming, where I find
an EconoLodge with nearby restaurants. This will serve as the starting point for some riding I have
in mind for the morrow, weather in this high country permitting.
Sunday, May 5, 2002 Buffalo, Wyoming
If I had to live somewhere other than Alaska (not a thought I wish to dwell
on), northern Wyoming is one of the few places I would consider making my home. Here in Buffalo, the
Big Horn Mountains loom to the west, and the Black Hills are less than a day's ride to the east, as inviting
a set of roads and scenery as you'll find almost anywhere. It was a mild morning as I headed west
across I-25 and up into the mountains with the small town of Worland as my destination for now. Climbing
toward the summit, I met quite a few riders headed the other way, and wondered to myself if there might
not be an organized ride going on. Or maybe these local motorcyclists were just as eager as I was to
get out and enjoy the good weather.
The last time through this area I'd crossed from west to east through Shell
Canyon, and now I wanted to take a look at Ten Sleep Canyon, which lays a few miles farther south. On
the way, I rode over Powder River Pass, where the weather was cool (38°F) and the skies were cloudy
overhead. The requisite photos taken, I descended through the Canyon and then through the slumbering
little town of Ten Sleep. Again, there was what appeared to be a disproportionate number of
two-wheeled vehicles gathered at cafes and bars for a town of this size. Couldn't blame them at all.
Stopping to fuel up at Worland, with the temperature up to 73°F now, I got
to enjoy this ranching town for a few minutes, and wondered what it would be like to live here year
around. Probably just as well that I was just passing through on a day with good riding weather, as
I can remember some days, crossing Wyoming on I-80 in the winter, when a person wouldn't have wanted
to be outside at all.
From Worland, it wouldn't have been but a short ride south on US-20 to
Thermopolis and the famous hot springs there. It was tempting, but the anticipation of Shell Canyon
was too much, and I instead turned north toward Greybull, where a right turn in the middle of town would
take me toward the dot on the map named Shell, and its namesake canyon carved deep into the west side of
the Big Horn Mountains.
As I came out of the upper end of the narrow canyon, the wind picked up,
blowing from the southwest rather briskly, driving scudding rain clouds past the surrounding peaks, and
even blowing veil rain toward the ground, which it never contacted due to the dry winds blowing across
the terrain. I've been here in nicer weather, but there's something about foul weather that
attracts me, and I stood next to the bike for a while, watching it. Then a couple of photos, and back
onto the Concours to see what else awaited us.
It had been my hope when I started out this morning to be able to ride
up to Burgess Junction and then ride back west on US-14 Alt to connect with US-310 and enter Montana via
that route. But when I got to the junction, I saw several feet of snow just past the Bear Lodge Resort,
with the road plowed out only as far as their parking lot. That meant I'd go on over Granite Pass
and get back onto the interstate at Ranchester. Oh well, it had been a pleasant interlude while it
lasted.
The lights of Billings were inviting as I stopped there for dinner and
gas. But it was not yet 6:00 PM when I was ready to go again, and I really wanted to get as far as
Butte before the weather turned nasty, if it did. According to weather reports I had seen on TV the
previous evening, a snowstorm had come through the area the day before, and another one was on the
way. Livingston and Bozeman were similarly inviting as the evening turned into night, but I had
slept in late this morning and was feeling fine, so onward I rode. There was snow on the road, and
some serious snow flurries in 33°F temperatures as I climbed in the dark toward the top of the
Continental Divide just before dropping down into Butte. At one point I had to stop between snow
squalls and clean off my windshield and faceshield so I could see the road. The road continued to
wind toward the top, and I wondered how much colder it would get as I climbed, and if I would have
to turn back to one of the spots that had seemed so alluring earlier. The sign marking the summit
of the pass and then the highway descending back down the west side were both welcome sights, and I
was glad both that I had continued on this far before calling it a night, and also that Butte was no
farther than it was. It was slightly warmer, 35°F here in Butte when I arrived at 10:15 PM, but
I knew that could change before morning. At least I was where I could relax for a day or two if
the weather forced me to stop.