Higdon Ironbutt 2003

Yesterday afternoon, as the temperature began inching up to 175 degrees, I was standing in a gas station in Salmon, Idaho, sweating like a sinner and trying to remember my name. A guy behind me, noting the 85 pounds of Aerostich Darien clothes that hang on me like divers' weights, guessed by the pain in my face that I am a motorcyclist. He asked if I were heading to Sturgis. He referred, of course, to the ritual gathering of the Harley cult in South Dakota.

"No," I sighed. "I'm going to an event that is in many ways even more strange. I'm heading to Missoula and the Iron Butt Rally."

One hundred nineteen riders from thirty continents and four planets have begun gathering in the Holiday Inn parking lot in this western Montana city to begin what will be one of the epic adventures of their lives: surviving the registration process for the 2003 Iron Butt Rally. On Monday morning the actual ride begins, but that is too far into the future right now for anyone to contemplate.

The process is admittedly arduous, worthy of the attention of a time-and-motion expert. Stand in one line to have pre-registration forms verified. Next, prove that your insurance, registration, and driver's license aren't forged. Accompany a tech inspector while he reviews the condition of your bike, with particular emphasis on the fuel system and muffler. In mid-morning Quek Cheng Chye learned that his Two Brothers exhaust had tripped Tom Austin's decibel meter at 107, two notches over the limit. The IBR is sensitive to the motorcycle noise issue. Loud pipes in this event don't save lives; they get you ejected and shunned.

Even Chye, a rookie, knew better than to argue with Austin, the IBR's chief technical advisor, and his nasty meter. Tom has rallymaster Lisa Landry's imprimatur of Total Authority, so argument is not only pointless but holds numerous downside risks. Someone quickly came up with the name of a muffler packer out toward Lincoln (where Ted Kaczynski used to live) and Chye noisily headed off for repairs. The consensus is that a successful result under time pressure will augur a productive rally for the novice; failure, however, will augur something less happy.

If the bike passes tech, the rider is sent out on a 33-mile odometer check. Return and sit down in front of a video camera to swear that the eight releases you've signed represent your holy will and that the word "sue" will never escape your lips, unless she is a wife or blood relative. There are then more lines for more paperwork. Say "cheese" for the mug shot. Go to Chris Cimino's seminar on how to handle the press. This is not an insignificant problem for the organizers of long-distance events in a litigious society.

The press seminar was created by Iron Butt Association president Michael Kneebone in 2001 when he grew weary of riders succumbing to the tricks of reporters and boasting about exploits that would be turned into blood-chilling quotes in the next day's paper. "An iron-butted motorcyclist claims that blasting through 34 states in 71 hours on no sleep is easy as long as the hallucinations aren't too severe."

Most of the veterans now understand how the game is played. When Cimino in this year's seminar asked Peter Hoogeveen how fast his FJR1300 would go, Peter replied without a blink, "The speed limit." See? Now that's an experienced Iron Butt rider. Cimino's follow up question might have been, "Could it ever travel faster than that?," Peter would naturally have replied, "How would I know?"

After Cimino's talk the riders finish up insurance business with Ed Otto and receive a final blessing from Kneebone. With the formalities completed, the riders are now free to consider the errors of their ways. That will take the rest of today, most of tomorrow, and, for an unfortunate few, the next couple of weeks.

By 3:00 p.m. all but eight riders had checked in. That left more than five score of hyperkinetic overachievers bouncing around the hotel looking for trouble. The worst of the crew --- Paul Pelland, Todd Witte, and Eddie James --- are a trifecta of pure mischief from the worst kindergarten class you could ever imagine. Nothing grows where they have walked; no soul has hope that they have touched.

Two years ago, when Warren Harhay was reporting on the rally, he vowed to mention every rider's name at least once. I promise nothing of the sort. I intend to mention only those who have been involved in the most spectacular and the most stupid things that erupt in the next couple of weeks. There will be moments of great glory, terrible sadness, and incredible irony. There always is. That's the nature of this awesome event.

And somehow Pelland, Witte, and James will find their way into the middle of it.

THIS WORK IS Copyright© 2003, Bob Higdon <higdon@ironbutt.com>
All Rights Reserved.
This material is for personal use only. Republication and redissemination, including posting to news groups,
is expressly prohibited without the prior written consent of Bob Higdon.

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