AGAINST A Slight BREEZE

One Man’s Account of the Incredible 2001 Iron Butt Rally

 

         The Iron Butt Rally is known as “The Worlds Toughest Motorcycle Competition”. Eleven Days, Eleven Thousand Miles. I first read about the event in “Against the Wind”, a book by Ron Ayers. The competition is held every two years and encompasses the better part of the United States, Canada and at times, Mexico. It may include mandatory checkpoints, or may not. Originally, there were four check points in each corner of the Country. Each leg of the event provided chances of achieving optional points for visiting and documenting out of the way places. Long Distance Riders from all over the world anxiously wait to hear if their entry has been drawn to compete, and if they are lucky enough to be chosen, they spend the year prior planning, training and highly customizing their motorcycle for the hope of merely crossing the finish line.  A few veteran riders even dream of actually winning. Some of the worlds top endurance riders have waited years just to get a ticket to the party. The Iron Butt Rally is the World’s biggest scavenger hunt, where merely riding the routes gets you nothing. Each leg of the event brings unforeseen challenges and hundreds, if not thousands of possible bonus options. Often, riders never see each other until the mandatory checkpoints. Many riders do not finish do to mechanical failures, fatigue, illness, accidents, poor planning, or just plain bad luck.

         The Iron Butt Association is run by Mike Kneebone, an accomplished long distance record holder and a two-wheel long distance legend.  Every two years 100 lucky riders say good-bye to their loved ones, gear up with the latest and greatest gear and accessories, mount their trusted steed, and head for the starting line. The best choice of motorcycle for this type of endurance is an arguable debate that never can be answered. Traditionally, large displacement sport touring or full touring bikes from Honda and BMW do well.   Contestants spend thousands of dollars on the best protective gear and ergonomic accessories, a motorcycle that may or may not have any value if it even finishes the ride, as well as electronics, gas food and lodging. All of this, for a plastic trophy and a coveted license plate bracket.  It is NOT a race, in fact, excessive speeding or reckless riding will ban a rider from ANY future events. Only a fool would think a rider would be able to sustain high speeds and poor fuel economy over an eleven day time period. Rather, smart endurance competitors realize it is about proper planning, routing, fuel management, proper receipt and record keeping; as well as constantly being able to adjust the plan on the fly. Endurance riding is staying in the saddle until the maximum allowable fuel level has been depleted. It’s about sleep management, and proper diet. It is a thinking game, with unforeseen choices, challenges, and obstacles.  As the rally proceeds, the choices and decisions get naturally harder. There is no way to pre-plan strategies, as each rally is completely different and no bonuses are revealed before the start of each leg. Driver fatigue, illness, mechanical failure, traffic, weather, and accidents all play a huge roll. After all, 100 riders covering an average 11,000 miles each, equates to over a MILLION motorcycle miles in just eleven days. Think about the possibilities!  Bonuses are awarded points based on difficulty or distance from the direct routes. Route possibilities are in the hundreds for each leg of the rally. Points are given for detailed fuel logs, as well as proper documentation. No “T” can be left uncrossed; a bonus location that required riding two thousand miles out of the way could very well be valued at zero at the scoring table if a rider mistakenly wrote down the wrong time. After all, he may have traveled through multiple time zones in a single day. Properly organized and recorded paperwork is part of the game.

         The Iron Butt Rally is a life changing event for most, 11 days and an average 11,000 miles of rider, their motorcycle, the World, and God. There have been more humans in space, then have completed an Iron Butt Rally.  I have competed in about a dozen multi-day long distance motorcycle endurance rallies, but my most cherished events were the 2001 and the 2003 Iron Butt Rallies.  In 2003 I placed in the top ten riding a faithful BMW R1100 RT. It was quite an unbelievable accomplishment for me considering the two life changing events that happened smack dab in the middle of the event. The first was a phone call I received during the rally that I had just won a long legal battle for custody of my two children. The second was experiencing loss of dexterity and strength in my hands, confusion and memory issues, which was later diagnosed as my first Multiple Sclerosis attack.  I retired from Long Distance Endurance Rallies immediately after the finish. The 2003 Iron Butt was my last long distance rally.

          Although the 2003 Iron Butt Rally top ten finish was amazing and had earned me a bigger trophy, I did not write anything noteworthy about it. Conversely however, because of the amount of hours spent at phone booths counting quarters, swearing and kicking or just waiting around for tow trucks, I was provided with a unique opportunity to take quite a few notes during the 2001 Iron Butt Rally. When I returned home to New Hampshire, I decided to put my scraps of scribbles to real pen and paper.  I hope you enjoy reading about my two-wheeled adventure as much as I enjoyed trying to get through it.  I often recall my Mom telling me as a kid, “They are not laughing at you, Paul, they are laughing with you.”  Yeah, Sure Mom. 

Enjoy!- Longhaulpaul                                                                                                              

 

                AGAINST A Slight BREEZE

 

                I had been talking about my acceptance into my first multi-day motorcycle endurance event, the 2000 Team Strange Sponsored ButtLite Rally, a 7 day, 7,000 mile adventure and my hopeful entry into the 2001 Iron Butt for several months. My wife and I had recently separated, and riding long and hard was a way to get the tears from staining my shirt. (Although I found at over 60 MPH I did have to change out my wet earplugs frequently).  My motorcycle riding friends that once numbered many, had now dwindled down to just a few. The only friends that would still ride with me required a signed and notarized agreement as to when or if we would return. My idea of a good long Sunday ride was one which I only turned around when the people I met at gas stops started to talk funny. I had the long distance riding bug, and I had it bad. New Hampshire to Chicago for a cup of coffee?  “I’ll get my helmet”.

       A couple of weeks before the drawing of the 2001 Iron butt Rally rider names, I was asked the unthinkable question.

“Hey Paul, what if you don’t get into the 2001 Iron Butt Rally?”

“Well ……….., I guess I would be willing to ride anything to get in to the rally. In fact, I would be willing to ride the most unreliable, can’t-get-out-of-it’s-own-way piece of crap being produced today, if I had to!”

It was known Mike Kneebone kept a few entry spots open, so if a rider had a good story, an interesting bike choice, or was part of the press core, they might get a special-interest waiver invitation to the Rally. 

            Evil Lord Kneebone (as he is referred to by the riders) must have overheard that conversation. I received the dreaded official document stating I was #134 on the rider’s waiting list, meaning 134 riders were in front of me waiting for a chosen rider to back out.  My only hope was to plead insanity. I knew I had to act fast.  I looked into some really weird motorcycles, and one of the biggest pieces of crap, the Royal Enfield and thought, “No way, it could ever make it.”  Boss Hoss, Ridley, Diesel bikes, a letter to Jay Leno, all turned sponsorships down. Then I thought about the IMZ Ural. These antiquated rust buckets were copies of old BMW boxers the Russians were still making the way they did since they confiscated the German tooling during the Second World War; steam driven machinery, and big fat hammers. I knew the Ural had a bad reputation, but the damn thing looked so rugged. The more research I did, I found a machine that had been used for decades by the Russian people in all kinds of terrain and weather. Most models were sold with sidecars. Some were even two wheel drive. It was a tough bike, just not made for traveling across the US Interstates at highway speeds for hours upon hours. It was built for tooling along country roads at modest speeds enjoying the scenery. It certainly was not a bike any sane rider would pick to run in “The World’s Toughest Motorcycle Competition.” Perfect!  

          I wrote Mr. Kneebone a letter begging to be allowed to ride a Russian Ural in the 2001 Iron butt Rally.  My offer was accepted, and Mike made it clear he thought I was an idiot……., but also that a silent gigling benefactor had pledged half my entry fee, and an unknown number of wagers were silently being made all across the motorcycle community……..

         I began to gather information. I had never seen a Ural in person, nor knew of anyone who had even owned one. I wrote to the Importer for Ural in America about my entry, and his e-mail response was that no one at URAL headquarters thought that one of their bikes could actually do the Iron Butt Rally. I vowed to show him!

         I found a club of Ural owners and enthusiasts on the Internet willing to help, and a company that finally offered help too. There was a group of riders who were trying to set records at Bonneville, and they called themselves the Siberian Speed Team. Over the next 18 months, with the help from the Internet, Ural America (now CMSI, Classic Motorcycles and Sidecars Inc.), and the Siberian Speed Team, I was able to put together a bike I thought could actually make the 11-day, 11,000-mile journey.

I had titanium valves, polished and ported heads, bigger oil pump and pan, bearings and suspension upgrades, and much more. I put 8,000 miles on the bike, testing all the engine modifications, putting the bike to the limit, and quite frankly trying to break the damn thing.

 

 

         In May, I entered the bike in its first long distance Rally, the Mason Dixon 20-20. This was a 30-hour event starting in York, Pennsylvania. The rally was a little too much for the bike, I rode it way too hard for 1300 miles, it broke down a few times and the engine ended up seizing just 30 miles from the finish line. It was my first and only DNF in my entire Long Distance riding Career.

           By this time, I had gained some interest from the Ural community and had been in contact with John Scholl from Ural America.  He informed me they were now interested in backing me, and wanted to loan me a brand new special secret Ural Solo for the Iron butt Rally. He asked me to sign a confidentiality and non-disclosure agreement. I did. Then he told me they were about to introduce a new, bigger, better 750cc engine for all their bikes. Every single previous Ural model had a 650cc engine, at least since Joseph and Mary rode one to Nazareth for the census. 

Ural America had just finished EPA testing, and they wanted to see how the engine would do in the real world before they released the announcement about it. He thought the IBR might be the ultimate test for the new engine. He told me there were only two of these 750 test engines in the entire USA.

 

 

          I received the bike later than expected in June, and installed all my long distance goodies on it.  A 5-gallon fuel cell for longer range between stops,  Dunlop tires instead of the stock square tread third world rubber, heated hand grips, GPS, radar detector, a large windshield, hard luggage, CB, stereo, and integrated cell phone.  I experimented with a custom made oil pump and deeper oil pan for better cooling and cleaner oil for the duration of the event, but ran into problems, so I put the original back on about a week before the Rally. Everything seemed to be in perfect order.

 

 

           I loaded the bike into the back of my truck the night before the rally, and headed to the Annual Yankee Beemer Lobster Bake. Yankee Beemers is a great club of motorcycle enthusiasts who mostly ride BMW’s and enjoy themselves doing so.  My truck blew a fan belt on the way there, and I almost missed the lobster! I decided the truck would have to make the trip without power steering, so the next day I called my kids to say goodbye, and headed for Madison, Alabama.

         I arrived two days before the rally started as most other riders did, because the check-in and technical inspection process was  long and tedious. I enjoyed seeing old friends and meeting new ones. Unlike some of the more serious contenders who guarded their secret high tech weapons and strategies, I had no problem letting other riders hear my complete Rally plan. I proudly explained my simple strategy to anyone who asked;

“I am going to ride as freaking fast as I can, so, when I brake down I will have a lot more time to fix the bike”.

 

           This of course was good for a big laugh as most riders knew the Ural could hardly keep up with most of the states posted speed limits, and was designed to cruise comfortably at about 45-50 mph. I heard every nickname in the book for my chosen mount. Someone even sharpied in the letters “in” strategically in the middle of my URAL vanity License plate. “That’s right folks, PP is riding a URinAL”. 

 

Some riders felt I had squandered away a valuable entry slot that should have been available to a real rally contender. SpeedVision was there to do a show on the rally and Dave Despain got a good chuckle out of what I had chosen to ride in the world renowned event. Putting all ribbing aside, when the rally began, all the riders realized they were all in the same place, at the same time, all attempting what the rest of the world considered  impossible, and the bond between contestants is one that lasts for a lifetime.  It must be very similar to the bond Buzz Aldrin and that other guy, the one no one ever forgets; because they both went to the moon.

         We received our leg one rally packets Sunday night, with details for the next checkpoint, as well as hundreds of possible bonus locations and their respected point values. I looked over some maps and I decided I would attempt a very conservative start with just a few bonuses along I-40 on the way to checkpoint #1 in Pomona, CA.

           10:00am came quickly and the rally began. As I crossed the start, I felt the red flush of adrenaline, and sported a big smile, this was it, after 18 months of planning, training and customizing, I was finally doing it, I was riding in the infamous Iron Butt Rally, and on a freaking URAL!

 

           I headed out on Route 72 West, and passing through Memphis, I saw the big Pyramid, and recalled it as being a listed bonus. It was so easy to get, I stopped, placed my Rally Towel over my bike with the Pyramid in the background, and snapped the Polaroid. Each bonus picture had to be accompanied by the special rally towel with each rider’s individual number, only given out to riders the evening before the start, to prevent faking any bonus pictures. A detailed bonus sheet also had to be properly filled out for each bonus; listing the bonus, time and date, mileage, and an answer to any question the bonus may have.  Little did I know this picture would be the only time I would use my special Rally Bonus Towel for the entire 11 days of the Rally (With the exception of flagging down tow trucks)

    About ten minutes after getting this first bonus my goal for Leg One changed. In fact, my goal for the entire Iron Butt Rally changed.

    SURVIVAL.

         I was in West Memphis, Arkansas when I suddenly lost all engine power. I coasted into a Citgo station with a stalled engine. The electric starter would no longer turn the engine; the motor was jammed stuck. I removed my helmet, jacket and gloves. I first checked the oil. It was bone dry. I had driven all of 250 miles and it appeared the engine had seized! I would never live this down I thought!

 

        I could not understand where the oil had gone, there were no leaks, and it wasn’t burning it, where the hell was it going? I hastily bought two quarts of oil and poured them in. I waited an hour for the bike to cool down, and tried to start it. No way. “Are you kidding me?” Ok, time to weigh my options:

1. Try to get the bike fixed, continue on.

2. Get a different bike, take the huge bonus penalty for swapping rides, continue, and attempt to finish the rally.

3. Push the bike into the field behind the gas station, burn it, then hitch a ride back to Madison, get my broken truck, tuck in my tail, go home, have the phone shut off and legally change my name.

       I decided to try to fix the bike. I called Ural America and spoke with ‘Golden Hands’ Alex, the head Russian engineer. As I was on the phone, I was systematically removing the parts that once made up a 750 Ural engine! First I disconnected the transmission. This was the problem with my test Ural, and the clutch screws’ backing out was a common known issue. I should have disconnected the battery first, because as I was pulling the tranny out, the starter hit the frame and grounded out in a shower of sparks! I smelled something burning and found the power cord to the CB had melted into my homemade Velcro lined dashboard.

        It also blew the relay I had for the driving lights. Oh well, at this point I didn’t need either one anyway! I removed the left valve cover, rocker arms, head, and cylinder— Whoa! The piston was scored badly. As I removed the valve cover, I also found all the missing oil, it was in the cylinder head, and the drain hole was spurting out oil like a garden hose. About a quart of oil was now all over the ground. Obviously something had blocked the return hole for the left cylinder, causing the bike not to receive any lubrication. How did I screw that up?

      About this time a fantastically curious couple in a well-used burnt orange Mercury Montego pulled up and began to question me. I told the man I was ok, and he continued to bug the crap out of me until I purchased something from the trunk of his car. He had a variety of T-shirts, pictures, black velvet paintings; mostly boxes of left-over yard sale crap.

“Ok, ok, I’ll buy one of those lovely T-shirt.”

        I paid him $7, dropped the shirt on the ground, and began to use his shirt to wipe up the oil on the ground! That got him to leave me alone.

      I figured I had one bad cylinder and one bad piston; I could handle that and it could be ok, but when the right jug came off I found the connecting rod had welded itself to the crank. Now I really needed a whole new engine! A call back to Ural with the fatal diagnosis, and they told me they could ship me a new engine overnight guaranteed for 7:00am delivery. I asked them to send it.  I then called a local motel for a room, and a tow truck.   A little more thinking, and I realized even if I got the engine at 7:00 AM, I would never be able to swap it out at the motel and be back on the road to make the Pomona, California checkpoint.  I called Ural back. At first they offered to send Alex with the engine on the flight, but I realized this also would not work. John Scholl and Gary Kelsey at Ural asked for a half-hour to see if they could work out another solution.

After Hanging up, I sat down, discouraged, depressed, and quite pissed off. An Iron Butt Rider on a BMW R1100S pulled into the gas station. She saw the Ural engine sprawled across the parking lot and my Exxon Valdez oil slick (which by now looked a lot like a silhouette of Texas), and asked if everything was ok, or if I needed anything. I thought for a moment and then asked to borrow her MOA (BMW Motorcycle Owners of America) Anonymous book. It is a useful directory of club members in every state who offered fellow riders assistance, as well as a list of all the BMW dealers. I thought I might get the names of the nearest BMW dealers and see about buying a real motorcycle. Before she handed the book to me, she paused and asked me if I was indeed a MOA member. Thankfully she trusted me, and I did not have to find my membership card, do the secret handshake, or stab her. I called the nearest dealer, and was told they had a used R11000RT for sale as well as a few other possibilities. I told him I would call him back soon.

       John called me back with a probable solution. 150 miles east in Waynesboro, Tennessee there was a small part-time Ural dealer who was willing to swap out the engine from his personal bike into mine! Great! I called back the tow company and explained the original 2-mile tow to a motel was now a one-way 150-mile tow. The dispatcher said the driver had the final say if he was willing to go the whole distance, so I waited. I had broken down about 2:00pm and it was then 6:30 PM.

         The tow truck driver appeared shortly, and after hearing my sad tale, agreed to haul me and my bike the whole 150 miles. I handed him ten bucks and asked  him to get some drinks and snacks for the ride from the store while I put some of the bike back together. After a brief center of gravity lesson about why a bike needs to be tied down from a higher point then from it’s mufflers, we were off. We proceeded to drive all around Memphis chasing down another tow truck operator so we could get the companies only ‘gas card’ before we actually took off.

        I have met very few people in my life who have left me with a very confused, “What the hell?” kind of feeling. This tow truck driver, who sported odd tattoos like ‘Made in USA’ across the back of his head, sun and moon on his knees, and a few others I demanded he not show me, was oddly named “Rabbit.”

         It would have been nice to try to grab a few winks on the long ride, but no way. I could not bring myself to close my eyes. Instead I listened to Rabbit. He had a lot of views of society and lots of ideas about the world, just not about this world! He had an idea for an invention—removable faceplates for VCRs. Amusingly I agreed it was a splendid idea. It made perfect sense to me that thieves would no longer break into your trailer if your VCR looked like an ashtray.

        After showing him and discussing the Garmin GPS unit I had brought in the cab, he asked me to turn it off because he didn’t want the CIA tracking him. He did let me turn it on once or twice to see how far we had travelled.

        At one point, I showed him we were going the wrong way, to which he replied, “See, the damn thing doesn’t work, I know where we are going.”

       30 miles later he stopped to ask for directions because he was completely lost. After that, he let me keep the GPS on, and actually decided he might get himself one if he could sell his “Cherry, supercharged, nitrous injected, triple chrome plated wheels, 1976 Camaro,” which of course was the baddest, fastest machine in the neighborhood.

        Rabbit told me of the time he and his best friend were paid to sleep with 256 women in 128 minutes for a low budget porno movie. He told me how he had to dodge all the women in town because they were all after him. This revelation was the explanation he gave for the four cell phones he had in his truck. He said by having so many different phones he could tell who was calling. When the black phone rang, it was the girl from South Memphis, another phone means it’s his Mom, another was for the tow company, etc. It was quite hilarious to hear the phones ring and watch him answer each one until he found the right one! He called each and every one of his friends, co-workers, and all his Dad’s to tell them he was towing this guy on a Russian bike who was going to go around the whole country.

       He told me how he had fooled the Government into paying him because he was a hard worker. He had gotten almost $5,000 back over the past few years. All he had to do was keep working and send in his tax form, and they would just give him money back each year. It was like free money.

        We arrived at Mike’s Motorcycle in Waynesboro Tennessee around 10:00pm. Mike and his son were waiting for me. Rabbit gave me a discount on the towing charges with the agreement that I would send him a thank you letter with some pictures to help him out with his new boss, or parole officer, or someone like that. After getting all my credit card information he said, “Good. Now if I don’t hear from you, I know where you live and maybe I can uh, call you to remind you. Eh?”

        I carved a large mental note on my forehead to send the thank you.

        Looking back now, almost ten years later, after much therapy and medication, I have come to realize the possibility that Rabbit and the Tow Ride were maybe all part of a fatigue-induced hallucination.

         Mike had the well-used 650cc engine ready to be shoehorned in. I helped remove the diseased 750 motor from my frame, then I helped bolt in the donor engine. About midnight, I felt extremely exhausted, and laid down on the cement floor of the garage. I kept lifting my head every few minutes to see if Mike was still working because I didn’t hear any noises. I think he was politely trying to be quiet, but I didn’t really sleep anyway. Around 2:00 AM his son ran a route on Mapquest for me and we figured I had 44 hours to cover the 2,000 miles to Checkpoint one, Pomona California.

         I expressed my gratitude, and bid farewell, not even double checking or test riding the transplant, and took off. The borrowed 650 engine did not have an electric start nor did it have a 300-watt alternator like my previous motor,  but it did have those fancy K&N chrome cone air cleaners on each carburetor.  The bike ran like total crap, sputtering and stuttering for the first 30 miles or so. I also soon realized I had only one directional working, and the brake light was also not working. There was no time to fix it now, I made a mental note to check it out the first chance I got to stop.

        About 3:00 AM, I was getting pretty cold, so I pulled into a rest area to put on some extra clothes and check the light problems. A quick check found the brake light was actually on constantly, and playing with the switches did it no good. I then just removed the taillight bulb altogether, because left on the heat from the brake light will melt the entire assembly causing the taillight to disintegrate (don’t ask me how I know this!). I would revisit the issue maybe in Pomona when I had the chance. The pit stop should have been about ten minutes, but……..

      The bike refused to start; as I no longer had the luxury of modern electric starting, I had to use the kicker. I attempted to kick start it for about twenty solid minutes before it finally started, and I was on my way yet again.

      About an hour later, my body let me know It needed sleep. I pulled over in a rest area to give myself an hour of sleep. I set my Screaming Meanie Trucker alarm clock for 60 minutes. These alarms have the same decibels as a smoke detector, and a complicated series of button pushes to turn it off,  a favorite item of experienced endurance riders. When I awoke, I couldn’t kick start the bike again. I checked for spark, fuel, timing, cleaned the plugs, adjusted the valves, tried everything, it wouldn’t come to life. I pushed it down a small hill, trying to push start it, but that didn’t work. I was reminded of the four cycles of an internal combustion engine;

      Intake stroke, Compression stroke, Power stroke, and Exhaust stroke.

      This particular piece of recycled tank turret however, seemed to have created it’s own version;

      Retake stroke, Depression stroke, Powerless stroke, and Exhausted stroke.

          I laid down to rest for a while, then kicked and kicked and kicked. Rest again, and then repeat. This went on for at least 4 hours, before miraculously, she just decided to start! She was mocking me.

      The next fun adventure was my freeway crash in Arkansas. Fully overloaded with tools, spare parts, clothes, food, extra fuel, maps and rosary beads, I had noticed the front end of the bike getting a bit wobbly more and more. Sometime mid morning in Arkansas I hit a series of dips in the highway, and the front end just went loose. Within seconds it turned into a tankslapper (Not to be confused with a knee slapper). It started with a little wiggle, and then the rear end of the bike started waving like a door on a hinge. I knew I was in trouble when I looked to to my left and saw my own ass. I tried to stabilize the violent flapping, but knew it was not going to be pretty. I prepared to crash. With sphincter contracted, I aimed towards the breakdown lane, and that is where the bike decided to spit me off. I tumbled and slid a bit, but not nearly as far as the bike. I watched in seemingly slow motion as it slid down the travel lane. Rich, colorful sparks, unlike any of those Japanese bikes could create, were lighting up the highway. After I came to rest, I did not move for a minute or so, long enough for a trucker to stop and run over to me and ask me if I was ok. I kept thinking about something I learned from a First Aid class, “Don’t remove your helmet, Paul, your brain will fall out.”

        Slowly, I systematically attempted to operate all my limbs and head, realizing I was possible ok. No broken bones. My Aerostitch riding suit had saved my ass. I had some pain in my knees, elbows, ribs and shoulder, and it got a little bit worse within the hour, but I had survived!

         I ached over to the bike and shut off the key. The bike was facing the wrong way in lane one. I lifted the bike up, and wheeled it to the shoulder. What a mess!

 

 

        My donated Windshield was cracked in half, the right mirror was missing, the brake lever was bent, my electric grip had been ground down to wires, the front fender was ground down, the headlight bucket was crushed, the tank pannier was torn, the saddlebag scrapped and broken, and one of the valve covers was twisted  had a bent stud, and a 3” crack in it. Oil was puddled around the bike and one of the K&N filters was gone, exposing the open throttle body of the carburetor. The truck driver stayed with me until an Arkansas State Trooper showed up. Another Iron Butt Rider, Steve Smith pulled over on his K1200LT when he saw the accident scene, and I told him I was finished, it was end of Rally for me. I thanked him for stopping, but told him there was nothing he could do to help, so he should go. He called my misfortune in to Rally headquarters, where wagered cash was most likely passing hands.

 

         When the trooper arrived I was ready for him, license, registration, and I had zeroed the GPS (even though it displayed legal limits). The trooper only asked me what had happened. I pointed to the washboard pavement that started the unlucky chain of events. He nodded slowly as if it had been a common problem. He then asked me what I was going to do. Puzzled, I asked what he meant.

“Well, why don’t you see if you can put it all back together and ride it away from here?”

        The thought that the bike might be rideable had not yet occurred to me. I got out my tools, duct tape, and J.B. Weld, and went to work. I removed the valve cover, looked for damage to the valves and rocker arms, but there was none. The round cork gasket was broken in three pieces, but I was able to hold then in place and tighten the cover down. I filled the crack and the hole in the cover with J.B. Weld, then I duct taped around the cover and gasket hoping it would hold everything together at least until the goo dried. I duct taped the windshield somewhat back together, and straightened out the brake lever. I sat on the bike and the bars seemed reasonable straight. I found one of the air cleaners and put it on the right side.

        I became anxious to see if it would even start. After three kicks it actually fired! I immediately shut off the key. “Ok” I said. I did not want to run the engine or ride the bike without oil. The trooper called a service station to see what they would charge to bring us a couple of quarts of oil. “$25 plus the cost of the oil” was the answer. He hung up on them. I explained I would have gladly paid the price, but he said it was ridiculous. “Let me see what I can do” he said.

        He proceeded to call his wife at home who agreed to go to a local store, purchase two quarts of 20-50 oil, and then deliver it out to us on the highway! I thanked the two of them profusely. A theme was definitely starting to evolve about this epic ride, bad luck being followed shortly by good luck!

       Both machine and rider were a little wobbly, but we took off smiling. I pulled off at the first exit to thoroughly look myself over as well as to see how much oil we were losing. Not too much oil, and besides being sore, I was unscathed. I called in to IBR headquarters and reported the Infamous Siberian Speed Team rides again, just now even slower!

 

              It was now just 24 hours since the rally had first begun.

 

        The rest of day two was mostly uneventful except for one pestering issue. Every twenty minutes or so the bike would start to lose power, feel like it was starving for fuel, and as I would lean over to look at the fuel system and petcock,  it would begin to run better. About a hundred miles later, I finally realized my pant leg was getting partially sucked into the wide open carburetor, causing it to choke!

         As the sky began to darken, I realized I really needed sleep. The aches and pains of the crash had also begun to set in. I pulled into a rest area and parked in a corner. I shut off the bike, put my helmet on the right handlebar grip, and my head on the bag covering the gas tank, and I quickly fell fast asleep. When I awoke a few hours later, I could not start the bike. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick, kick. I then realized as I slept, my helmet must had pushed the kill switch into the off position!  The bike roared to life, and I was off again.

         A while later, my battery light started to flicker. The GPS showed a draining battery voltage, and the alternator was no longer charging. I turned off everything electrical I could, but within twenty minutes, I realized the headlight once as bright as a 1981 Yamaha 350, was now barely lighting up the road. I slowed my speed to about 30 mph, trying to see the next highway exit sign. I got off the exit and pulled into a well-lit parking lot. I just happened to have a spare alternator, and figured I would just swap the two components. I pulled out the HOT alternator and realized the new one did not have the special drive gear attached.  I tried to remove the gear from the old one, but it was impossible without a special tool. I got a little pissed-off when I realized I had been carrying 35 pounds of ground up Chock Full of Nuts cans in the shape of a completely useless generator around the entire United States. A couple of dents in the tank later, a confession and a short prayer, I decided to try to fix the original alternator.

        I found a loose stud, and by prying off the back cover I was able to retighten the stud to somewhat satisfactory condition. The problem now was the bike’s electrical system was completely dead. It was so dead, it would not even kick-start. Feeling like John Wayne, I looked off into the distance and I decided to chance it. I would manually push the bike out of the parking lot, down the road a stretch, onto the freeway on-ramp, and try to bump start it by popping the clutch at just the precise moment.  If I failed, I would be stranded in the middle of the night, somewhere between the on-ramp and the highway, with an abused overloaded Russian camel.

        The plan worked! The bike started, and the headlight was again bright. Giddy-up cowboy!

       Wednesday was uneventful until I was about 50 miles from Barstow, California. Let me set the stage; It was smack in the middle of the day, smack in the middle of August, smack in the middle of the desert. The Ural suddenly lost power, and knowing I was only 150 miles from Pomona and the very first checkpoint of the Iron Butt Rally, I putted along in the breakdown lane at about 35-40 mph, unless there was a hill, which slowed me down to about 25 mph. This was working just fine until I reached Barstow, and the ‘HILL.’

          The bike just called it quits.

        Searching, I found a wire to the alternator had vibrated loose and had disconnected. I thought I had found the problem, but a jump by the California Highway Patrol didn’t help. The bike was very dead, no electrical power at all. No lights, nothing. The impatient officer did not want to sit there (and he was not about to call his wife for help), so he called for a tow. I called Ural America and tried to test things with their help over the phone. It was HOT, very HOT. My mind was fried. Time was getting short. I had only three hours ‘til the checkpoint window closed in Pomona.

       Once again, I felt defeated. After all I had been through, I was done, just 100 miles from the first checkpoint. My journey seemed over.

      The tow truck driver tried to jump me, but we had the same result, no electrical power. I searched for a short, or loose wire while the driver was literally winching the bike onto the flatbed. I inquired about the cost to tow us to Pomona, where I at least had friends waiting, but was quoted $400.00! No thank you! He dropped me off at the next exit. In the five-mile ride I explained what I was attempting and I think he felt bad. He helped me find a bad connector at the alternator (again!). We put a new connector on it from a nearby garage, and everything electrical worked. I had full juice! But still the bike refused to start. I had forgotten the start of the problem in the desert which was loss of power, and unable to go over 40 mph. The truck driver left and I realized I could not make Pomona. I called Mike Kneebone to relay the bad news. He reminded me of the one missed checkpoint rule; that if I got going again, provided proof I went to Pomona with a gas receipt, and made every other checkpoint in the entire rally without being time barred, I could still qualified as an Iron butt Rally finisher. I just would have to forfeit any points I had received for the first two legs of the rally. Points? “What the hell were those,” I asked? Mike provided me with the encouragement I much needed to continue, and let me know there were more spectator inquires regarding the idiot riding the Ural then who was actually winning the rally. He then revealed, “Some of us actually think you might finish”.

     This pep talk gave me the energy not to give up. And after all, it was a long walk home to New Hampshire.

      I spent the next few hours kicking the starter pedal, checking for fuel, spark, and timing. A man named Two Crows who worked at the gas station occasionally came over to see how I was doing. Around 9:00pm I realized the right carburetor was not sucking as much as the left when I kicked it over. I pulled the valve cover off again and found a loose (by ½”) pushrod. The rocker arm had stripped, causing the adjuster bolt to slide all the way to the end. I looked around for something to jam between the pushrod and the bolt. I found a few washers at the right thickness and cross-threaded the hell out of the nut so it wouldn’t allow the bolt to back out, and put everything back together.

        The bike barked to life on the very next kick! It was extremely late and I was dead tired. Two Crows offered me a couch at his house, but I really did not want to ride anywhere after the day I had, so I got a room behind his garage at a cheap motel. I set the screamer alarm for 4:00am. My plan was to get to Pomona by 6:00am, get the needed gas receipt, then head straight up I-5 to Sunnyside, Washington where the Russians and a fresh 750cc engine would be waiting for me.

         I got 6 hours of deep quality sleep.

        I had a few very close calls in California around Glendale with traffic, mostly because I had only one blinker and no brake light. I began to use the one working blinker for all my turns. This and flamboyantly waving hand signals like an idiot seemed to help me from getting killed.

        On Interstate 5 heading Up to Washington, I only broke down once, and within five minutes I had found yet another loose wire that had vibrated itself loose.

        I arrived for the Sunnyside Washington checkpoint about 1:00 am. I went to the three motels in town and they all had no-vacancy posted. I needed to use a restroom real bad, and found not one single 24-hour gas station or convenience store in town. After driving around and around for half an hour, I decided to use a construction site port-a-john I spotted at a traffic light directly in the center of town.  I parked the bike, undressed, helmet, full riding suit, gloves, and threw it all  right there on the sidewalk. I did not have a second to spare.  So, there I was at 2:00 AM , taking a dump, three feet from a traffic light on Main Street, when I hear a car with it’s radio blaring pull up to the red  light. It was one of the longest red lights of my life!

        Relieved, in a multi-faceted way, I ventured back to the motel where all the spectator bikes were parked. I parked around the side of the motel, where there was some grass, and I laid down to sleep. About 6:00am, a Rally volunteer woke me up and sent me to his motel room to sleep in a real bed. I awoke about 9:00 or 10:00am, and opening the door, saw the Ural trailer and three men I had never met in person before, tearing my bike apart! They had the new 750cc engine installed and were tightening all the bolts. Originally they were meeting me in Sunnyside for routine maintenance, now they were installing the only other 750cc engine in the United States, into my bike! What great warranty service!

 

 

 

 

       Alex the Russian Engineer, with help from John and Gary, went through the bike fixing the front-end problem, a bad head bearing, tightened the wheel bearings, and repaired the wiring problems. I got a ride to Radio Shack and bought a relay to fix some of my accessory wiring.

      After the bike repairs were completed and test driven (I was amazed to learn I actually could remove my hands from the bars now!), they took me out for lunch. I told them with the bike all set; I wanted to try to go to Hyder, Alaska for the big bonuses. Very politely, and bribing me with good food, they convinced me it was not a very good idea.

 

        Finally I conceded. I would ride straight to the Maine checkpoint.

 

        Things went ok ‘til sometime early Saturday morning when I stopped to refuel. I hit the electric starter button and the started engaged, but did not release. Click.  Nothing. The starter was jammed into the flywheel. I could not even use the kick-starter because the flywheel was stuck by the gear of the starter. I banged the starter with a Russian persuasion implement to no avail. I removed the starter, and it’s gear then disengaged. I put the starter back in, hit the start button, and the Ural started fine.

         About 9:00am Saturday I hit a large rut in the road, and the bike started running on one cylinder. I knew something had disconnected. Without even stopping, I was able to repair it. Within a few seconds I found the spark plug boot disconnected from the actual plug wire. High-voltage, smoltage. Quick and easy. I was getting good at this, at least so I thought!

 

       After eating lunch in Rock Springs, Wyoming the electric starter gear got stuck again. After I took it apart and unstuck the drive gear, I decided not to use the starter for the rest of the rally, So much for new technology. Kick started it, and off I went.

       About 2:30pm Saturday I heard an odd jingling noise from the left side. It sounded like keys, so I started looking around the bike for something loose. I then realized it was coming from inside the engine. I took the first available exit, and pulled off the road into an empty dirt parking lot. I removed the left valve cover and found about a teaspoon of aluminum shavings. Damn, I thought, another piston! Further searching, I realized the intake pushrod was not only loose, but also become bent. It spun in an oblong orbit. Damn!

       A call to Alex the Head Russian Technician left me with the simple advice to remove the pushrod and straighten it out on a rock with a hammer! Well, removing the push rod revealed the end of the rod, which was hardened steel, had completely broken loose from the aluminum pushrod shaft. The rod end had also mushroomed. I tried to file the end so the hardened cap would fit back, and it seemed to fit ok, but I needed something to hold it all together. Had I a drill, I could have pinned the two pieces together. I did not have a drill however.

 

 

      Instead, I decided to J.B. Weld epoxy it together. I let it dry an hour and put it all back together. I called Ural to let them know what I had found, and how I had fixed the problem for the time being. (By this time, they had told me they had set up a ‘war room’ with a big map of North America and a motorcycle pin they kept moving every time they got an update.) Alex told me if the glue didn’t work,

“Just find metal, make pushrod.”

       This was the best official manufacturer’s service advice I have ever received.

 

 

       Well, the J.B. Welded pushrod lasted about 50 miles, when the left jug ceased working. Chugging along, limping to the next town, the drone of the one working cylinder began to take on a very distinguishable verse:

           “GU-HUM, GU-HUM, GO-HUM, GO-HUM, GO-HOME, GO-HOME, GO-HOME!”

 I had a sudden surge of energy. I opened up my helmet, stood on the pegs, and screamed at the top of my lungs,

       “I WILL NOT GO HOME, I WILL NOT GIVE UP, I WILL NOT GIVE UP, YOU COMMIE BASTARD!”

          I scribbled this statement across my windshield with my grease pencil. I vowed, no matter what, I was going to finish this Rally. Once I decided this, there were no second thoughts. I just needed a plan. By the time I thumped into Rawlings, Wyoming, I had one. I would buy, borrow or steal a drill with a small bit, drill the pushrod cap and pin it with a small nail, and continue on to Maine.

        I stopped at the first motel I saw. The owner had a drill, but no small bits. I found the only hardware store in town had closed, and would not open until 10:00am the following morning. I decided to get a room and take apart the cylinder head. Opening the cover revealed a larger problem than I first saw. The entire pushrod end was now crushed, and the hardened cap was broken beyond repairing. I now needed a whole new pushrod. I went into the  motel room and called my good friend Scott Mingo who is a machinist. We talked about what I might find in a hardware store that would work. I was thinking a long threaded rod, or a screwdriver shaft; he said to try to find something hardened like a drill bit.

         I then had an enjoyable evening, took a long hot shower, ate pizza, and watched TV. Easy Rider starring Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper was playing on one of the movie channels.  Perfect!

         I had to wait until 10:00am Mountain Standard Time (which was noon by my body’s clock), before the True Value hardware store opened. I awoke refreshed and renewed at about 6:00am. I got dressed and planned the day. I soon became restless, so I began to look around the room for something to use for a pushrod; curtain rods, toilet paper holder, bars from the windows, the bed frame, shower rod, and I actually removed the rod from behind the sink that actuates the stopper, but it was just too small.

         I decided to go for a walk downtown to see what I could find. I started looking in vacant lots and in trashcans.  I started looking in dumpsters behind some of the stores. I was in an alley, half in a dumpster, behind a window replacement business when I heard a deep ferocious sound emanating from down the alley. It was either a black bear or a rather large dog. I ran as fast as I could back up to the main road. I walked over to the hardware store and sat down in front. I would have to just sit and wait the hour for them to open up.

        As soon as the front door was unlocked, I hurried in like a Virgin bride-to-be rushing in for the once-a-year gown sale at a Filene’s Basement. I was looking for anything 10 inches long and hard.  I found some long screwdrivers I thought would work, then I saw the long drill bits. Great! “Now, how do I cut and shape them?” I thought. I found a Dremmel kit, but thought it may not cut through the hardened steel. I found a bench grinder and thought I could buy a carbide wheel or something.

        I went to the counter to ask for some help. After explaining what I was trying to make, and a brief discussion of my adventure, store manager Mary Maxson pointed me in the right direction. She rented me an angle cutter for which I bought a carbide cut off wheel.  I was headed out the door when I spotted through a half open door in the back, a vise and a grinding wheel. Oh, Christmas! I begged Mary to let me use the store’s tools and reluctantly she finally agreed. She did not want to get in trouble, so I assured her if I hurt myself, I would pick up my bloody limbs, and run out the back door.

 

       In about ten minutes I had produced two new pushrods. I ran back to the bike, put one in and kicked it over. Started right up and ran great. I had already packed the bike, so I tossed on my helmet and headed out.

 

 

 

 

 

        I drove until late Sunday night when I stopped at a gas station for fuel and a little rest. I found a strip of grass about 20 by 200 feet between a motel and the gas station that looked great to me. I laid down. It wasn’t long before I felt tiny ants crawling on my hands and on my neck. I carelessly brushed them off, they were so small and I was so tired, I figured I would just shake them off when I left. I was soon aware of an animal walking near me. I picked up my head to see a woman walking her dog. I suddenly realized I was sleeping in the area set aside for walking animals! I got up and looked at the ground. It was covered in dog shit! I had been lying on piles of it! Now I was squeamish and the ants really freaked me out. I shook out my jacket and hair, and drove off. 

         Somewhere near Des Moines, Iowa I stopped for a break and fuel. The 24-hour store’s attendant was outside smoking a butt. We exchanged the usual greetings and small talk, and then he asked me what kind of bike I was riding. I explained it was a Russian motorcycle, and his eyes brightened up as he exclaimed,

         “I knew it, I knew you had a funny accent.”

 It is times like this when I really wished I had a witness with me. I can BS with the best of them, but I can’t make stuff like this up!

He then wanted to know if I rode it all the way from Russia.

I wet myself, again.

        Ural had set up an emergency service stop for me at Wagner’s Cycle in Indiana. I called them and estimated my arrival time. I arrived three hour early, called their home and left a message. I then slept in their driveway for an hour or two. I adjusted the bike’s valves and brakes. Around 5:00 pm the owners, Felicia and Mike showed up. They left a family outing on Labor Day to come back to work to help me. Mike changed the fluids and I was again off.

       Felicia’s daughter had done the mileage for me on her computer and it was about 1100 miles to Reynolds in Maine. I had about 42 hours. It was more than enough time (If I had been riding something else).

       I decided to head for a few bonuses. I could hit Niagara Falls, and if I made it to Vermont without incident, I could go to Burlington and Brattleboro for some bonus points. I arrived in Brattleboro around 8:00pm Tuesday, and after searching 3 variety stores for the local newspaper (the bonus), I was told to look in a Laundromat and Sure enough, there it was! I was actually getting bonuses!

       I then called a friend who lived in Vermont. Even though I was less than 100 miles from my own home, and it was on the way up to the checkpoint at Reynolds Motorsports, I did not want to go to my home. I had heard tales of riders going home in the middle of the rally, and staying there. My friend was not home, and for the first time in eight days, it began to rain.

       Screw the superstitions, I went home. I slept until 10:00am and took the long leisurely way over to Reynolds. Completely refreshed, I greeted my friends and fans with a well-rested smile. At Reynolds, I was again strongly advised to go directly to Madison Alabama, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 bonuses. I picked up my care package of clean underwear and beef jerky I had mailed to the checkpoint. Someone had some some fun in the parking lot with my bike.

 

 

 

       

I went for the gas receipt bonus in Scranton, and the 4 hour sleep bonus. Sometime Wednesday night my battery light started to flicker, so once again I turned the GPS onto its voltmeter. It read; 11.8 volts, then 11.7, then 11.6. I slowed down to about 60 mph and found the volts started to climb back up. The faster I went, the lower the volts. I thought about this for a few miles, then I figured the only way this made sense was the alternator was heating up, causing something to have more resistance. I soon stopped at a rest area, not wanting to repeat the John Wayne dead battery episode. I remembered the alternator was adjustable to reduce gear noise. I thought the gear might be too tight, causing excessive heat. I loosened the alternator bolts and turned it counter-clockwise. I got back on the road, and the light stayed off.

        I arrived at the final checkpoint and finish line of the 2001 Iron utt Rally in Madison, Alabama at approximately 10:00pm on Thursday.

I had made it!

       I had hardly thought about the other riders or scores, or bonuses for the entire eleven days. It was a very personal battle, I’m not sure if it was man and machine against the world, or just man against the machine with the world giggling.

      My finish had a lot to do with luck. Horrific bad luck, followed closely by unbelievable good luck. It had a lot to do with help, me needing help, and lots of people willing to give me help. It is a story of a motorcycle, a company and enthusiasts willing to help out in every way possible.

       I had ridden a motorcycle never intended to be ridden or tortured, in the way I did, and we survived. I finished 87th out of 112 riders that had started the 2001 Iron Butt Rally. I will say that the Ural is one of the most repairable motorcycles I have ever owned, and boy, do they stand behind their warranty!

 

 

©2001 Paul R. Pelland