Not-So-Easy Riders

The route is so twisted it sends riders to Alaska as a side trip on the way from Washington state to Maine. So exhausting that participants catnap on picnic tables instead of check into motels. So time-driven that riders snack while keeping a steady hand on the throttle.

The biannual Iron Butt Rally--an 11,000-mile, 11-day ride billed as the world’s toughest motorcycle competition--lives up to its name. This is the kind of trip hard to imagine by car, much less on a motorcycle. During its course, riders experience 20-hour days in the saddle, temperatures ranging from 25 to 125 degrees, gravel roads, leaping deer, rain, wind and blistering sun as they hit all four corners of the Lower 48 states, with some of them spiking north to the Arctic Circle.

The parking lot at the Ramada Inn in Madison, Ala., where the rally begins and ends, is jammed for the kickoff on the last Monday in August. BMWs and Ducatis decked out with global positioning systems, laptop computers and cell phones sit next to Hondas and Harleys with radar detectors, fuel cells, CB radios and CD players.

United in their desire to travel massive miles in a seemingly impossible period of time, 114 entrants are ready to ride. They’ve been through the 1,000-mile-a-day stretches and assorted endurance rides that qualify them to be here. There were more than 900 potential riders vying for their spots.

Among those in this year’s rally: Ardys Kellerman, a 69-year-old great-grandmother who has ridden the Iron Butt five times because “I just like to see the country”; Dave Zien, 50, a state senator from Wisconsin who considers long-distance riding “therapeutic” and has logged 508,000 miles on his 1991 Harley FXRT; and Michael and Caroline McDaniel, a pair of trauma nurses from Virginia who got married on their way to the 1999 rally and considered the grueling 11-day ride their honeymoon.

The trunk on their goldenrod Ducati ST4 reads “Just married.” For this, their second Iron Butt Rally, they added the word “still.”

“The fact that we were still married when we were done probably was a sign it was meant to be,” says Michael McDaniel, who rides “two up” with his wife. That means Michael rides the bike, and Caroline sits behind him, navigating with the map affixed to her husband’s back.

The list of would-be entrants is growing by about 20% each year, says rally master Michael Kneebone of Chicago, but the number of riders will remain limited to what organizers consider a manageable contingent. The kind of endurance riders who qualify for this rally are still “the fringe of the fringe,” says Kneebone, and account for a minuscule fraction of all motorcyclists.

I don’t really qualify to ride with this bunch--even though I’ve been riding motorcycles nearly every day for the past 10 years and was a motorcycle safety instructor--but rally organizers agree to let me tag along for more than 1,000 miles, the stretch between Pomona and Sunnyside, Wash. The two cities are the first and second of four timed checkpoints around which the ride is built--the third is in Maine, the fourth back in Alabama.

Straight Lines? There Aren’t Any

The two-wheeled whirlwind is half scavenger hunt, half sightseeing mission. Adding to the event’s already fevered pitch, bikers are directed to ride tractors in Memphis, Tenn., hike to the top of a national monument in Mammoth Lakes, visit Harlem’s Apollo Theater in the wee hours of the morning. To prove they’ve been to such far-flung places, riders snap Polaroids on location.

About 20% of riders don’t make it to the finish line.

Leonard Aron, a burl of a man with a bushy beard and skull-and-bones head wrap that makes him look more like a Hells Angel than the accountant and lawyer that he is, has attempted the ride three times. He has never finished.

“I’m an expert at renting trucks on the East Coast,” says Aron, who rides a 1946 Indian and lives in L.A. In 1995, he blew a head gasket in Georgia. In 1997, his oil ring went kaput in New Jersey. In 1999, his primary chain failed in Utica, N.Y.

Marsha Hall, a motorcycle safety instructor with an appropriately placed Iron Butt Assn. tattoo, hasn’t finished either. In 1999, the petite 48-year-old from Connecticut left the rally after only two hours, when the electrical system on her Panzer Tourister frizzled. This year she’s riding an orange BMW R1100S. It has flames painted on the tank and a sheepskin covered seat.

For the first leg of the trip, riders had just 21/2 days to travel the 1,975 miles between Alabama and California. Two days later, they had to be in Sunnyside, Wash.; five days later, in Buxton, Maine; and by 8 a.m. on Sept. 7, back in Madison, Ala.

Riders can simply travel from checkpoint to checkpoint, but doing so doesn’t count for all that much in this contest. The rally is scored on a point system. Riders not only win points for riding the requisite miles and arriving at the checkpoints on time, but for visiting bonus locations along the way.

On the first leg, bonuses included backtracking to Mt. Pisgah, N.C., for a gas receipt; stopping in Delacroix, La., to photograph a billboard that reads “Welcome to the End of the World,”; and swinging through New Mexico to buy a Powerball lottery ticket.

But the biggest opportunity for points was Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay. Twenty-two riders chose to attempt the journey, despite warnings they would encounter construction, gale-force winds and 430 miles of gravel road.

“I mapped it out,” said Bob Ray, 44, a seasoned Iron Butt rider who plans to ride his 250cc scooter to Denali National Park, the closer of two possible Alaska bonus destinations. “It’s a piece of cake.”

Earlier rallies have been restricted to the Lower 48 and Canada, but Alaska was added this year because “the riders were getting better,” says Kneebone, 41, who has a salt-and-pepper beard and slowly balding pate.

When the rally was founded in 1984, its organizers thought no one could finish. These days they are not only finishing, but doing so on “novelty” rides--scooters, Ural sidecars and antiques like Aron’s Indian.

“This is billed as the world’s toughest ride, and there’s nothing tougher than getting to the road north of Fairbanks,” Kneebone said. “It’s the end of the world up there. The motorcycle gets beat to death, it’s punishing on the riders and it’s mentally hard to do ... the Iron Butt is more mental than anything.”

In Pomona,

Leg Two Starts

It is day three of the rally, and the Pomona checkpoint at Brown Motor Works doesn’t open until 6 p.m. The riders who have been trickling in before then use the time to catch some shut-eye or repair their motorcycles before getting ready to head out again at 8 p.m. Some mill around in the parking lot, scoping out each other’s bug-splattered bikes. A dozen or so others sleep on the second floor of the shop, oblivious to the mechanics working below and to the stream of riders meeting with Kneebone and his staff, submitting gas receipts and photos to prove they have traveled to the locations they claim.

The sun is setting, and the crowd perks up as the clock nears 8 p.m. Kneebone gathers the group and releases the next list of bonus locations. They include hiking up Devil’s Postpile in Mammoth Lakes and picking up a casino chip from Buffalo Bill’s at the Nevada state line on the way to Sunnyside. There are just 21 hours allotted to do all this.

The moment the list is handed out, nearly every rider drops to the pavement, spreading maps on the ground and busting out laptop mapping programs to devise the most efficient route.

I check a map I’ve had to borrow after realizing I’ve forgotten mine at home. Should I head for Primm, Nev., to collect a gambling chip? If I do, I won’t make have a chance of making it to the higher-scoring Devil’s Postpile, which we must get to before 7 a.m., when the road closes.

I gear up--helmet, riding suit, gloves, boots--and head for Highway 395 and the Mojave Desert. I ride five hours straight without seeing any of the other riders on the highway. At 1:30 a.m., I check into a Motel 6 and ask the desk clerk for a 4:45 a.m. wake-up call. She gives me a look of pity.

When the call comes, I get up, grab a rushed breakfast at the Denny’s across the street and am on the road by 5:15 a.m. I still don’t see any of my fellow riders. It’s freezing, and I wish I had an electric vest or heated hand grips, as I know many of the others do. It isn’t long before my hands feel like claws, and my wrist aches from constantly twisting the throttle to maintain 60 mph. At last, on the way into Devil’s Postpile, I am passed by two riders in brightly colored riding suits. I’m pretty sure they are part of the rally and headed to the same place I am, so I follow. I eat their exhaust, cranking the throttle to 85 mph to keep up until we get to the park.

It’s common wisdom that slow and steady wins the race, and for the most part, that is true here. “If you exceed the speed limit for a long enough period of time, pretty soon you’re going to [wind up] by the side of the road talking to a guy with a big hat and a gun,” said Michael McDaniel, the trauma nurse, who rides to keep with the flow of traffic.

Kneebone warns riders before the rally that riders will encounter “approximately 600 law enforcement officers looking for traffic violations” along the route. “The Iron Butt is a rally, not a race,” he says, adding that riders who use excessive speed or ride recklessly risk being disqualified.

Still, riders don’t always heed his warning.

The two bikers I’m trailing lose me on the twisty curves that lead into the forest. At the monument are more riders, even though I didn’t see them on the road. At least 50 of them are hiking into the hills in full riding suits. I join up with two other riders and hike in.

One of them is Bob Hall, 42, who opted to go to Primm before coming here. He didn’t sleep at all last night.

1,000 Miles

in a Day

Like all the others here, Hall has earned at least one “Saddlesore” certificate issued by the Iron Butt Assn. The association, founded by Kneebone in 1986, now has 8,400 members worldwide. “You can’t buy your way in,” says Kneebone.

“The only way to become a member is to ride a 1,000-mile day.” The group’s membership “card” is a license plate frame that reads, “Iron Butt Association--World’s Toughest Rider.”

I have never completed a 1,000-mile day, or competed in other endurance riding events like the other riders. I came into this knowing I was out of my league--truly along for the ride--but still, I’m confident I can make the mileage.

After Devil’s Postpile, I head to Reno to pick up a signature at a casino and to take a photograph of a tree carved into the shape of a fish. The fish tree is near a park, where, when I pull in, I see about a dozen riders are already fast asleep in the grass. I didn’t think I’d do this, but I’m going to sleep in the park. I’m exhausted and slowly realizing any saddle sores I have won’t be of the honorary kind.

“The only thing separating you from a homeless person is the $30,000 bike,” said McDaniel, who had also taken a nap in the park.

Long-distance motorcyclists are accustomed to sleeping whenever and wherever it is necessary. While it may seem dangerous to sleep in truck stops and rest areas, it is far more dangerous to keep riding tired.

“If you get the least bit drowsy, that can be it,” said Zien, the legislator from Wisconsin who got his first motorcycle when he was 12 because his horse wasn’t fast enough. “If you slip even for a second, it’s lights out.”

“I can take an hour power nap and be back on the bike and riding again and be perfectly fine,” says Marsha Hall, who chooses populated and well-lighted areas when she stops. She usually sleeps on picnic tables, but sometimes she sleeps on her parked motorcycle. “I just put the side-stand down, lean it over on the side-stand and lay out over the tank,” she says.

On a trip this long and wild, accidents happen, even though, mile for mile these riders are among the safest on the road. This year, one rider hit a buffalo and another hit a deer while riding in Canada. Another rider fell into a construction zone. Gary Egan, 1995’s rally winner, crashed only 27 miles into the event. He was reading his map while riding and ran off the road. All these riders suffered broken bones. In 1999, Fran Crane was also reading a map when she rode into the median--she died in a local hospital. In 1997, a heart attack claimed another rider.

It’s a Rally,

Not a Race

Kneebone has worked hard to prevent the rally from becoming a race. When he first took it over in 1991, he removed the $50,000 prize because it was creating a dangerously competitive environment. Riders were not only jeopardizing themselves in their sprint to the finish, but also vandalizing one another’s bikes.

Instead of a cash purse, the only thing a rally winner gets today is a wooden plaque, a gold medal and the satisfaction of being top dog in what no one seems to dispute is the toughest motorcycle rally in the world.

The Iron Butt rally was founded by a Pennsylvania motorcycle shop in 1984 as a yearly, for-profit event, but it was canceled in 1988 for lack of participation. Before taking the rally over in 1991, Kneebone rode in the 1986 and 1987 events, when the rally was little more than a round-the-country trip, mostly on major freeways, with mileage verified by toll and gas receipts. When he kick started the rally, he began constructing them around themes.

In 1997, it was “Strange but True.” Riders had the option of visiting “Area 51,” the supposed alien crash site in New Mexico, and the Elvis Is Alive Museum in Wright City, Mo. In 1999, it was disasters. Three-Mile Island and the Snake River Canyon in Idaho, site of Evel Knievel’s failed rocket-powered motorcycle jump, were among the bonus destinations.

“I don’t know what happens to me ... My twisted side comes out,” says Kneebone, a computer programmer manager who, for 50 weeks out of the year, is known as The Nicest Guy in the World but during the Iron Butt Rally becomes Evil Lord Kneebone.

Endurance racing is about “an inner yearning to face mother nature--to take machine, mind and body and take them to the limits,” said Dave Zien, the Wisconsin lawmaker hoping to have the world’s first million-mile Harley. His bike doesn’t cooperate this year, conking out the night before the rally begins. Mechanical failure prevents about 7% of the rally’s riders from finishing. Another 3% drop out due to run-ins with animals.

During my stint, I don’t encounter mechanical or animal troubles.

When I get to Sunnyside, there are cots in one section of the checkpoint, water and food in another. I’m not tired enough to sleep, but when the next round of bonus locations are handed out a few hours later, I’m relieved I won’t be sticking with the group--just biking to my sister’s house in Seattle.

The rest of the riders are off to points north or east--and eventually south--while I settle in for a night’s sleep in a bed. When I roll out the next morning, I’m painfully aware of why it’s called the Iron Butt.

And the long-haul riders? As the rally progresses, bonus points become more valuable and riders become more tired. By the third leg of the ride, Kneebone offers substantial bonuses for riders who can prove they spend five-and seven-hour stretches off their bikes.

Ninety-three of them made it to the finish line on Sept. 7--including Marsha Hall, Aron and the McDaniels. Bob Hall does too. He’s a first-time rider who bit the bullet and rode the wind all the way to Alaska, and back to Alabama. He is the 2001 Iron Butt Rally champ.