The 12th Annual Blue Butt Rally
Reno to Tacoma, 1K -- 1 Way -- 1 Day, August 2005
"Oh, the water is complimentary, sir." The young girl at the cash register said, in a very chipper tone. I didn't want complimentary. I didn't want chipper. It was after 3 AM, and I wanted to pay.
I guess you could go back to the 2003 Blue Knight West Coast Conference convention in Clackamas, Oregon, to find the reason why I was trying to pay for free water. I was having a beer in the hospitality room at the host hotel. Al Loudon, president of WAII, asked me if I would come up to Washington if his chapter won the bid for the 20005 WCC convention. I said sure. The next morning at the business meeting it was determined that Washington II would be the host for 2005. I figured I better keep my word to Al, so I started to make plans for a ride north to Tacoma in August of '05.
A few months before the 2005 convention I checked Nevada II's web site. Just as they had done in 2003, the Nevada chapter was offering a 1K - 1WAY - 1DAY ride from Reno to the WCC convention as part of their annual Blue Butt Rally. That sounds like fun I thought to myself, Reno to Tacoma in less than 24 hours. Rides like that always sounds like fun when you're home, rested, relaxed, and in front of your computer with a cup of coffee.
"Saddle Sore" rides like this, 1,000 miles in 24 hours, are best done solo, or at the most, with a very small group of experienced riders. I did try to get some other riders interested. Fellow Blue Knight, Mike Harrold, from the Sacramento chapter (CAI) agreed to ride with me. We planned to meet and leave from A & S BMW in Roseville mid-morning on Friday. That way we could get over the Sierras, and into Reno ahead of the worst of the California weekend traffic.
Thursday afternoon I got a call from Mike. It seemed he was on a local road in the Sacramento area when he rode into an open manhole. Mike kept the bike up and got over to the shoulder without any injury to him. The same could not be said for his K1200LT. Mike got the bike hauled to A & S, where the service department began to assess the damage. The guys at A & S told Mike they were going to try their best to get him on the road Friday. We agreed to delay our meeting time for another hour.
I arrived at A & S and took my cell phone of out my tank bag. There was a message from Mike who told me the ride for him just wasn't going to happen. The more the service department looked, the more damage they kept finding. There was no way Mike was going to make the Blue Butt, and even getting to Tacoma at all was now doubtful.
Riding solo I made short work of I80 and the few miles of US395. I arrived at the Reno Peppermill Hotel Casino just a little after 1 PM. Lunch and a cold one kept me busy while waiting for my room. Later that evening the Nevada II crew held the riders meeting.
This year's charity was for the family of Washoe County Deputy Wiberg who died in a traffic collision while responding to an armed robbery. Wiberg's wife was on hand at the meeting. I'm sure everyone in attendance was moved by her presence and very willing to help her and her family in what small way we could.
I learned that with Mike out of the rally, I was the only rider running the 1K route. Woo-Hoo, a guaranteed first place finish for me! As usual, the rally staff kept the exact route hush-hush until the 0700 departure time Saturday morning. NVII did give us the usual pre-rally lecture, which included a warning to me about a treacherous set of railroad tracks some 100 miles away or so. Apparently the Nevada guys had pre-rode the route and that crossing was very rough. I nodded okay, and immediately started to try and figure out in my mind where all the railroad crossing where north of Reno. After handing out the five and ten-year awards to many of the attendees, we were wished a goodnight and a see you in the morning. We all shuffled out of the meeting room, many filtered out the casino floor and the lounges. I went to bed.
Nevada II Knights talking with Al Loudon (light bue vest). Photo taken a few days later in Tacoma.
At first light I was packing my saddlebags, then I had a light breakfast in the Peppermill's coffee shop. I pulled my R1150RT away from my motor lodge room and slowly rode the few hundred feet to the rally staging area, letting the boxer motor warm up. At 0700 the crowds gathered at the 250-mile, and the 500-mile tables to receive their rally instructions and review their respective route maps. There was no worry for me about gettingcrushed in the crowd; I had the 1,000-mile map all to myself.
I was to head east on I80 to Wadsworth, then up Nevada SR447 through Gerlach. Cool, I thought, I haven't been on 447 for at least a couple years. Continue north on 447, crossing into California and to Cedarville. Once in Cedarville I was to go west on California SR299 all the way across the state to US101 at the coast. Up 101, then continue northeast on US199 to Grants Pass. From there the route was straightforward, Interstate 5 to Tacoma. That's a very easy route to remember, and all on roads I'd traveled before and enjoyed. Well, except for enjoying the interstate. But the rally director's logic was sound in putting riders on the interstate after dark. There are way too many deer on the two-lane highways after sundown. Also, the interstate is less challenging when you have been riding for hours.
In the rally packet were my directions for successfully completing the rally. There were some questions to be answered along the way, and I needed an ending receipt from a specific location in Tacoma to finish. The receipt needed to show the date and time. That time needed to be before 0700 the next morning. I reviewed my rally questions. First question: What year did John Fremont camp at what is now Gerlach? The answer would be on a historical marker in Gerlach. My route instructions also told me that on the south side of Gerlach was where the rough railroad crossing was located.
A little less than two hours later, after taking the railroad crossing at about 5 MPH, I was stopped in front of the historical marker. The Fremont party came through this area in 1843 and camped. Gerlach isn't much of a town; it was built for the railroad that came through decades after Fremont. There's a gas station, a couple saloons, and a run down motel. Even now in the 21st century, this part of Nevada is still very barren, and a rough place to live. Existing there in the mid-nineteenth century must have been brutal.
Okay, next question: at the Trees of Mystery, in Klamath, California, who built and who designed the large wooden figures of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Ox? I guess I'd better go see.
I made pretty good time to Cedarville in spite of the somewhat rough condition of 447, and in spite of a near miss with a low flying turkey vulture. The large bird was in the middle of the road, pecking away at a small carcass. I slowed and honked my horn. The bird raised its bald red head and glared at me as if to say, "Can't you see I'm busy?" I slowed even more. The disgusted buzzard slowly began flapping his wings to get lift. His take off angle was almost directly towards me. Instinctively I ducked my head as I rode underneath him. Out of the corner of my eye I think I saw him flip me off. Great, wildlife with attitude.
In Cedarville I began west on 299 towards Redding. The weather so far had gone from cool and pleasant, to warm, to hot, to feeling like the air was on fire! Riding behind me in a rear seat bag was a half-gallon water jug. The water drinking tube that ran out of the jug was clipped to my riding jacket. I was sipping on the water tube a lot by now as I passed through Redding. West of Redding the highway began climbing in altitude and I hoped the temperature would soon drop.
I could feel myself getting hungry, and the heat was sapping my energy away. I decided to stop for a short break in Weaverville. I didn't want to take the time for a sit down lunch so I pulled in to a 76 station. I topped off my tank, and bought some orange juice and a power bar. The sun was really beating down, and there was no place to conveniently park in the shade at this gas station. Across the street, however, was a closed gas station. The overhead roof for the gas pump island was still in place, making a large shaded area. I parked there.
As I was munching the power bar I could hear the sound of tires slowly rolling over the asphalt behind me. I turned around to see a Volvo station wagon stopping on the other side of the island. The man behind the wheel rolled down the passenger window and said, "Excuse me"
"Hi"
"Are you from around here?"
That made twice this year I was asked if I was "from around here". I must look like I know something. I really don't. The first time I was asked that question this year was back in May. I was stopped in a small ranching town in New Mexico while riding in another rally. I was dressed in full synthetic motorcycle gear, holding a small rally flag, and standing next to my BMW LT touring motorcycle with California plates. With my full face helmet on I must have looked like a Martian on expedition. And in spite of the fact that there were three other people standing near-by, who were obviously locals by their dress, a guy in a delivery van pulled up and asked me if I was from around there. I politely answered him no. But I was thinking that if he'd paid more attention to detail he might not have gotten lost in the first place. At least here in Weaverville, to this guy's credit, my license plate matched the state.
"I'm trying to find an address.", he said.
I shrugged, smiled, and said, "Sorry, just passing through myself."
He drove away to the west. I got back on my bike a few minutes later, and did the same.
Several miles later the highway began down in elevation and I kept hoping for the temperature to go down as well. I was baking. For miles I went on feeling like a bug under some sadistic kid's magnifying glass. But at the town of Blue Lake it was as if someone finally turned on the AC. What relief! The cool Pacific air was a shot of energy. I made a quick pit stop in McKinleyville, just north of Eureka, where I actually put on my electric vest under my lightweight, mesh, riding jacket.
At the Trees of Mystery it was no trouble finding the large, towering, carved wooden statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Ox. They are right out in front of this campy roadside attraction. The carved sign below the duo told me that Ann Cooper and Ward Berg were the designer and builder. I took time to scratch the answers on my rally sheet, and take a photo, but I didn't stay long after that. Like swarms of locusts, there were hordes of screaming rug-rats scurrying around. They drove me back to the open road.
US Highway 199 braches off of 101 just north of Crescent City as it meanders its way northeast to Oregon. This is a very scenic ride, with the highway following the Smith River for some distance. The sight of the rushing water, curling, and white capping on the rocks in the riverbed below is beautiful.
I was having a great time. I was in my stride on this stretch, running smoothly through the forested scenery, and the sweeping asphalt curves, until a few miles short of Grants Pass when I came up to two slow moving vehicles. The lead vehicle was a farm tractor going perhaps 25 MPH. The driver was trying his best to keep as far to the right as he could, but there wasn't much shoulder. He was taking up about half of the northbound lane. The vehicle behind the tractor, and in front of me, was a Buick sedan. On the left rear bumper of the Buick was a bumper sticker that proudly stated, My Grandchild Is An Honor Student At North Middle School. On the other side of the bumper was, I Love Macrama. Except the bumper sticker didn't actually read the word love, it used that cutesy red heart symbol instead. Sticking up above the driver's headrest I could see a mop of gray curly hair. This macrama loving granny was obviously in no hurry to get around the tractor; she held her position smack dab in the middle of the lane -- at 25 MPH.
I looked in my mirror and I could see a line of vehicles stacking up behind me now. Many of them I had all ready overtaken and passed in the passing lanes up to this point. I let out a low groan in my helmet. This was getting nowhere fast. I waited until I had at least a marginally clear line of sight in the on-coming lane. I dropped another gear, twisted the throttle and shot passed granny and the farmer. The line of cars quickly shrunk in my mirror. As I cruised into Grants Pass several minutes later, not one other car came up from behind.
The Eisenhower Interstate Highway system is a wonderful place to ride if you like to make good time from point A to point B, and if you like trucks, lots of trucks. The Interstate is not good, in my opinion, for enjoying a motorcycle ride across America. On the Interstate, or "the slab" every mile of asphalt meets federal guidelines; lane width is regulated, maximum curve radius is mandated, exit and on-ramp specifications are standard. The gas station/mini-marts at every exit all look the same. Every fast food joint serves the same, lame, pre-made food. Every assembly line burger is the same. All the salads are pre-packaged the same way at every stop. Every clerk looks like the same 19 year-old minimum wage employee I saw at the last exit. But with the sun going down and now being over halfway to Tacoma, I welcomed the chance to grind out the final miles in the point A to point B mode. I got on northbound I5 in Grants Pass.
Well into the night I took a 30-minute dinner break at a McDonalds in some typical interstate exit business cluster. I have no idea what the name of the nearest town was. I reviewed my rally instructions. When I got to Tacoma I needed to go to the Emerald Queen casino. Once at the Emerald Queen, I needed to go inside to the cafe, and get a receipt with the date and time to finish the rally. The receipt had to show me being there in less than 24 hours from my Reno start. I got back on the bike and churned out more miles. I made one more fast gas stop, and then it was full speed ahead to Tacoma.
I exited I5 in Tacoma at the off-ramp noted on the rally instructions, I could see the host hotel for the convention not too far away, and I found the Emerald Queen quickly. It was late Saturday night, actually Sunday morning. The parking lot was packed with cars, and groups of people coming and going. The Emerald Queen was not a total dive, but it wasn't a high-class resort either. The Emerald Queen was what it was -- a place for people to get drunk and lose their money. This general area of Tacoma did not strike me as a place that was trouble free, either. I parked my bike under a parking lot light and I took my helmet with me instead of leaving it hanging on my handlebar like I do most everywhere else. I made my way past a few people staggering back to their cars. The security guard at the door eyed me in my riding gear for a moment, but then nodded to me and said hello as I walked inside.
The cafe was close to the front door. I was tired; I just wanted to buy something, anything, to get the timed receipt. There was a young girl working the counter. Next to her was a stack of half liter bottles of water. Perfect I mumbled to myself a bit out loud. I grabbed a bottle and set it on the counter in front of Tiffany. At least that's what her nametag read.
Tiffany said, "Oh, the water is complimentary, sir."
"I need a receipt."
Tiffany's head tilted to one side like a puppy when it hears a strange noise. "But it's free."
"I need to prove I was here." I said. Tiffany's head tilted to the other side.
I slowly exhaled. My eyes scanned the overhead menu of fast food items available from the grill. "May I have an order of small french fries, please?"
Tiffany's face lit up, "Certainly!"
She rang me up for the buck something that the fries cost. She pulled the receipt out of the register, wrote number 29 on the slip, and handed it to me with my change. "Your number is twenty-nine, sir." Tiffany happily said.
"Thank-you." I replied. I took my water, the time and dated receipt and left. To this day I still wonder how long poor Tiffany stood there, with an order of small fries in her hand, forlornly calling out, "Number twenty-nine."
Copyright 2005, Tom Lashbrook
