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elizillaI specifically scheduled myself two full weekends at home, the two weekends before the trip, so I could concentrate on getting ready. I had a list of upgrades I wanted to get done, and since I was heading out on a 7000 mile journey I didn't want to have any maintenance arrears either. The best laid plans of mice and men... The list didn't seem that long, but I still ran out of time and didn't manage to do all the things. I left the CB and the fuel cell at home and I didn't get the stainless steel rear brake line installed.
I did manage to install the new steering head bearings but it took all of one of my weekends; between stuck screws and the failure of my (almost new!) dremel tool, it turned out to be a huge job. Dave came over to help, and we installed the new stainless steel front brake lines during the week. The new tires got pushed back to the second weekend, along with the oil change. I had a little trouble getting the bead to seat on the rear tire that Sunday afternoon, because Erik didn't have the air chuck that works with no core in the valve stem. I had to finish on Monday after Erik went out and acquired this air chuck (thanks Erik!). I couldn't ride to work on Tuesday because I had to drop my sister off at the U-Haul rental place, so the tires were not scrubbed on Wednesday when I left. I silently pledged to be careful.
I had created a comprehensive packing list, which was good, because I didn't start packing until after midnight on Tuesday. Tuesday evening between work and midnight was consumed by reinstalling the Rifle fairing and fixing a turn signal that had stopped functioning. (A wire had come unplugged in the tail section. My high school English teacher would call this plot device "foreshadowing.") Fortunately I had the packing list, which made it very easy to assemble everything I needed on Tuesday night and stuff it into the new Givi cases, even though it was late already, I had skipped dinner, and I was stupid from exhaustion. I got it all put together and attached to the bike, and laid out my clothes for the morning. I was determined to leave town straight from my office.
I didn't go to bed until 3am, and I was too excited to fall asleep easily when I did get to bed. I must have slept, though, because I barely noticed when Michael got up at 5am to meet my mother and sister. Why was he meeting them, you ask? Well, about a month before my trip, my sister Anne announced that she was moving to New Mexico. When events conspired to put her into a U-Haul heading for that part of the country at the same time I was heading to the Waltz, she called and proposed that I put my bike in the U-Haul and share the drive down with her. I declined this invitation; what would be the point of taking a motorcycle trip and spending the first several days in a U-Haul? Besides, I was looking forward to the alone time. Michael took pity on Anne. He had been planning to fly down and join me at the rally, but he was willing to make the change in his plans and drive down in a U-Haul instead. Then my mother decided to join Anne's round of "America's Moving Adventure" as well. They would caravan to Las Cruces in the U-Haul and my sister's car. After unloading the truck, they would drop Michael off at the El Paso airport, where he would rent a car and drive down to the rally. After the rally he would drive back to the airport and fly home.
On Wednesday, I was to work a half day, and have the afternoon off. I planned to leave straight from my office. At 8:45 Wednesday morning, I had the Sabre sitting on the sidewalk in front of the house, fully loaded and warming up as I moved my truck and Michael's car into the driveway. I walked back to the bike and spied a six inch puddle of oil under it! Eek!
I called my office to let them know I'd be late, stripped off my 'Stich and helmet, and set to work on this problem. It turned out to be a simple one. When I changed the oil, I hadn't noticed this, but the adaptor-style oil mod had loosened, and when I put the filter on I hadn't tightened it enough to get both filter and adaptor tight. Oil was leaking from between the adaptor and the bike. I put an oil filter wrench on, and tightened it. It seemed to do the trick. I cleaned up all the oil, started the bike again, and waited until it was fully warmed up. No more oil leaked out.
I got to my office only twenty minutes late. Spent the morning in a meeting, and getting all the loose ends tied off. I needed to escape on time because I was meeting Doug Grosjean for lunch on my way south. Even so, it took me a half hour longer than it should have taken to escape.
Finally I was free, free!
Doug is really fun to hang out with, and I lingered long over that lunch. He provided me with one complete vest, a shell of a larger size vest, and some assorted bits and pieces to play show and tell with at the Waltz. Then I rode off down the road to Ottawa, Ohio, to pick up my first location for the IBET. I got the picture I needed, and continued over back roads down to US 30, and turned towards Indianapolis.
The weather was marvelous and I congratulated myself on making the packing list; it seemed to me that it had helped me escape the anxiety attack I sometimes go through as I ride away from home. "Did I close the garage door? What if one of the cats gets sick and I'm not there to notice and take care of them? Did I forget to bring something important?" I'm always nervous about this stuff for the first few hours after leaving on a trip, and I felt like I was coping pretty well.
On Monday, I'd visited the used record store and bought six new CDs for the trip. Four were from artists I knew nothing about; I just picked them because they were female vocalists in the folk music section. I like female vocalists for ride music, because they're easier to hear over the background noise of wind and engine, and because I'm more likely to be able to sing along.
I stopped at a rest area and put on one of the new CDs, "Kristina Olsen, Live From Around The World." I quickly decided this had been a good choice, the music suited me perfectly. Seven tracks went by, and I enjoyed them immensely. Just as it was getting dark, I got to track number eight, Dangerous, and all my usual insecurities about leaving home came crashing in on me with a vengeance. My head started to ache. I stopped for gas and discovered that one of my forks seals had begun leaking. I put in a different CD, hoping it would make me feel better, and just then, my Koss Plugs died and I was left with no music at all. My mood went into a terrible tailspin and I was suddenly exhausted. The bad inner voice, the one that finds fault with everything, started whispering in my head... What on earth was I thinking, setting out on a 7000 mile trip when I couldn't even maintain my bike well enough to keep the fork seals from leaking? I was such a crappy wrench, look how long it took me to replace those steering head bearings. And remember how Cordelia stranded me in North Carolina last time I entered a rally? I was probably jinxed and Spring Wind would die just before I got to this rally. The cats would be so lonely; they aren't that young anymore; what if one of them dies while I'm gone? What if my mother and sister are making Michael miserable? What if my bike dies and I get stranded 2000 miles from home?
I considered turning around and going home, right then and there, but if I did that how would I let Michael know? It would scare him to death if I wasn't at the rally when he arrived. I had planned to make this a camping trip, but I decided I just couldn't cope with camping, so I checked into a motel outside Indianapolis, completely discouraged. I sank down on the bed and wallowed in the depths of despair. Finally I took a couple of Tylenols and laid down. My eyes were closed before my head hit the pillow, and I slept like the dead.
Thursday morning dawned clear and breezy. Somehow everything seemed better. I decided I could keep an eye on that fork seal, wipe it down every time I stopped for gas. After all, I had a complete set of forks at home, they even had new fork seals, so I just had to nurse this one through the trip and make sure my brakes didn't get oiled. Heck, even if the brakes got oiled, I had new brake pads at home already too. I could replace the Koss Plugs as soon as the stores opened. The headache was gone; it was probably the result of a blood sugar crash, and I would have self discipline enough to eat properly for the rest of the trip. The cats would be fine, Marcus and Susan had both agreed to look in on them and they're both smart people; if the cats got sick then Susan or Marcus would see that they got to the vet. Michael is a big boy and can handle the stress of traveling with my family, and besides it was his own decision to do it. I could do this.
I stopped for breakfast and examined the atlas for IBET locations along my planned route. The only one in Indiana or Illinois that didn't seem too far from my path was Charleston, IL. I got out my grease pencil and wrote directions to Charleston on my windshield.
Terre Haute had a shopping mall right next to the freeway. I stopped and found the Sears, and went in to look for the Plugs. They didn't have any. The salesperson seemed very interested in helping me, so I asked him if there was a Borders in town, because that's the other store I've seen them in. He said they didn't have a Borders in Terre Haute, but that I would surely be able to find what I needed in St Louis, there were so many more stores there. I thanked him and went on.
I found the "Welcome to Charleston" sign, but it was on a steep hill and there wasn't anyplace to put the bike to take the picture. So I went on into town and followed another road out, seeking a city limit sign I could photograph. It seemed that every road in this town was under construction. Sand and gravel everywhere, orange barrels blocking off large portions of the terribly bumpy roadways. I finally found a city limit sign where the roadside wasn't blocked by orange barrels and where the gravel was at least level. I ignored the bulldozers thundering back and forth on the other side of the street, took the requisite Polaroid, and continued on my way.
Out on I-70 I overtook a caravan of couples riding Gold Wings and pulling little trailers, led by a guy on a Gold Wing trike. They looked like they were doing some serious traveling, and I wondered how far they'd come? I looked closely at their license plates, and all were from Illinois. Maybe they were just starting out. They waved, and so did I. They looked very happy.
Outside of Vandalia, IL, it started to sprinkle. At first it didn't look like serious rain, so I ignored it. Then the clouds started to get darker and lower, and it looked very rainy up ahead. At Mulberry Grove I pulled off the freeway to put rain covers on my gloves, boots, and seat. I found a gas station with a roof over the pumps, and pulled in. It was time for a break, so I went inside and got a cold drink and a snack, then came back out to the bike.
A beat-up car pulled up on the other side of the pumps, and some local yokels that had been hanging around by the door recognized the car and wandered over. As I dug through my side cases looking for the rain cover for my seat, I listened to them chatter away in that peculiar redneck language that consists almost entirely of four letter words. I hadn't heard such an extreme example of that vernacular since I left the small town I grew up in. I was chuckling to myself when the loudest fellow in the group came around the pump on his way to the store door, with his downtrodden looking female companion at his heels. He paused, scowled furiously and jutted his chin out. His voice dripped with scorn as he asked, "Can YOU handle that bike?" I responded by asking how did he think I got there? He snorted, tossed his head, and marched into the store, not looking at me again. The woman looked furtively at him, saw that his back was turned, and looked back at me. She grinned and rolled her eyes, and gave me the thumbs up, then hurried to follow him into the store before he noticed her disloyalty.
Back out on I-70, I passed the Goldwing caravan again. This time they were all wearing brightly colored rain suits. They looked just as happy as they had looked before. They all waved again as I passed.
By the time I got to East St Louis, the rain had stopped. I've heard all kinds of tales about the terrible traffic in the St Louis metro area, but I didn't have any difficulty. It was the usual freeway spaghetti one finds in large cities. I crossed the Mississippi River and admired the graceful proportions of the arch. Then I refocused my attention to concentrate on the road signs, making sure to stay in the correct lane for I-55 south when it diverged from I-70, then stay on I-55 until I found a place to change lanes and go west on I-44.
Once I got into the western suburbs, I started looking for shopping malls. I wanted two things: Koss Plugs and lunch. I spotted a Wal-Mart off to the right and took the next exit. As I went down the exit ramp, I thought I could see another mall on the south side of the freeway. From the end of the ramp, I saw that the Wal-Mart was under construction, not yet open, but there was a BigK across the street.
I tried the far side of the freeway first, and found a Borders store. They didn't have any Plugs. I returned to the BigK; they didn't have any either. I examined the choices at BigK very carefully, and selected a pair of Maxell earbuds that looked like they might fit in my old Plugs housing. Over lunch, I used the needle nose pliers and knife from my toolkit to pull apart both pairs. The Plugs came apart very easily. I discarded the speakers, the wires. I kept the plastic part that inserts in the ear, and the back that snapped into it. The Maxell earbuds were not that hard to pull apart, either. Soon I had freed the speakers from the plastic earbuds, with their wires intact. Unfortunately they were just a hair too large to fit in the Koss Plug housings. I tried to trim them a bit and squeeze them in, and ended up destroying them.
While I ate and messed with earbuds, another rainstorm came through, soaked everything thoroughly, and stopped. I looked at my clock and saw that it was almost 4pm. I looked at the maps and thought about how far I had to go, and decided it was time to get serious, no more messing around with speakers and wires. I splashed back to the freeway and headed west. I burned through the next five hundred miles without stopping for anything other than gas. Out on I-44 I saw a lot of signs for oddball tourist traps, and for historic Route 66. The countryside didn't hold much interest for me; it was pretty much like home, like all the countryside I'd traveled so far. I still wished I had more time to loaf along, to stop and see some of the sights being advertised, the caverns, the Indian artifacts, maybe eat some fudge. But I do have to say that even if I had all the time the world I'd skip the "Precious Moments" place. I must have seen a hundred billboards advertising pastel kids with big eyes, as if this was supposed to be a draw. I shuddered to think what that place must be like.
The sun set as I crossed the state line into Oklahoma. There were a lot of IBET sites along my route through Oklahoma, but it was dark, I was tired and I needed to make time. I skipped them all, deciding it just wasn't worth it to me to stumble around in the dark and perhaps drop my bike or get hit by a car, trying to take pictures of the Tulsa city limit sign in the dark. I paid my tolls and kept rolling. I did see two shooting stars in the sky overhead.
I stopped for gas and a short break in Chickasha, OK. The air was balmy at 3am, and this gas station had a fair bit of activity. A barefoot young woman asked me if I was really from Michigan, and I said I was. She goggled her eyes at me and expressed amazement that someone from Michigan would travel to Oklahoma, why on earth would anyone come here? She shook her head in amazement. There was a 70's vintage Gold Wing outside the door, and inside I spotted a man with a helmet who belonged to it. We chatted for a while. He bragged that he'd gotten the Wing from his brother in law, who had owned it since it was new and put only 17k on it. He'd had the bike only three years and he'd already put another 10k on it. His tone of voice implied that the brother in law was a poser. I admired the condition of the bike and showed him Doug's vest. Then I answered questions about the Aerostich and the Givi luggage, and why I wore earplugs.
Back on I-44, the stop had only rejuvenated me so much. It was getting close to dawn. I started having trouble staying awake. Suddenly I saw a large animal next to the road, about to dart in front of me. It looked like a three hundred pound raccoon, with a bushy tail like a squirrel. I reached for the brakes, then realized it was only a bush. Time for a nap. I pulled into the next service plaza and dozed on the bike for an hour, until the dawn light rimmed the sky.
The sun rose and I was in an alien landscape. The day before, the primary color of the world was green. In the light of the new day, everything had faded and the world was mostly a silvery color, and the sky was larger. I crossed into Texas and ate breakfast at a Denny's in Wichita Falls. I examined my road atlas while snarfing down the food. Still a lot of miles to cover, but I figured I could reach Fort Davis by 4pm.
Once I left Wichita Falls behind, US277 stretched out across empty, dusty land. It wasn't limited access, but it might as well have been, because there was nothing out there. I wondered what speed would be appropriate to travel on this road? I adopted a somewhat cautious speed, not much above the posted limit, while I contemplated the surrounding landscape and tried to decide how much enforcement they might have. A beat-up Ford Tempo quickly overtook me and blasted by at a speed that had to be in excess of 100mph. I decided this must be the answer, and wicked my own speed up just a little bit. A tanker truck turned onto the road up ahead. By the time I overtook it I was traveling at a speed well over the limit. I dropped back, let it get a half mile or so ahead of me, then matched its speed and followed.
Ten minutes later, I spotted that flying Ford Tempo on the roadside. The driver was messing around with the right rear tire. Uh-oh, I bet a car like that hasn't got a spare. I pulled up behind and stopped. The driver was the tiniest women I've ever seen. Turned out she didn't have a flat tire; instead she had pulled over because her rear bumper had fallen off. She was frantically reattaching it with duct tape but was having trouble holding it in place while managing the tape. I held the bumper for her and she patched tape all over it. Soon she was on the road again and roaring away. I decided to let her get well ahead of me; I didn't want to be close to her if (when) that bumper came flying off again.
The next several hours passed with nothing of note. The land lost more color, and even the silvery grass disappeared, replaced by sand and clumps of some kind of spiky looking vegetation. The sun got higher in the sky and the wind got hotter. I was someplace on I-20 west of Odessa when the heat really started making me sleepy. I hadn't seen any shade in at least two hundred miles, so I just pulled over into a parking area to drink some water and take a little nap even though I wouldn't be able to get out of the sun. The parking area was pea gravel. The first place I stopped wasn't at a good angle to put the bike on the sidestand. I decided to turn it 90 degrees. Dogpaddling it proved difficult on the scrappy surface, so I tried to start it again to use the motor to move it.
I turned the key and nothing happened.
Nothing.
Deader'n a doornail.
I got off the bike and pushed it into a position where the stand would hold it securely. I looked around. I could see for miles in every direction, and in all that space, there was not a tree or a bush or a building of any sort. I became aware that I needed to pee.
Well, nothing for it but to start troubleshooting. I took off my helmet, 'stich and boots, and put on my wide brim hat. I looked at my water bottle and debated whether or not to drink. Finally I decided that dehydration would be worse than peeing on the ground in a place with no bushes to hide behind. I took a long drink. I had to dig through everything in both side cases to find my pocket tester, but finally I unearthed it. I pulled off the side cover. The Sabre has a little metal strip for the main fuse, this can have invisible hairline cracks, so I took it out to check it. It was fine. I put it back in. I used my pocket tester to check the battery; it was fine. What's this? The connection to the negative terminal was loose! I dug out the proper wrench and tightened it down. I tried the key again, and the lights lit on my dash. Success!
I packed the tools and my hat, and put my riding clothes back on. I climbed on the bike and turned the key, the lights all came on as normal. I started the bike. It sputtered and coughed and the tach needle jerked wildly up and down. Then it died again, the lights all went out, and I was right back where I'd started. Argh!
I took my gear off again, and put my hat back on. I dug the tools out again. I pulled the sidecover off again and wiggled the battery terminals. I opened the main fuse holder again and examined it again.
I contemplated taking the fairing off to look at the other fuse box and my heart sank. I decided to call for reinforcements before I went any further. I dug out my cell phone and the confirmation card from the Prude Ranch and called the 800 number. I got a phone company recording saying I should check the number and dial again. So much for that idea. So I dug out my HRCA card and called them. The operator there said all she could do was arrange a tow. She didn't know how long it would take. I asked her to try calling the Prude Ranch on my behalf. She was able to get through, and she conferenced me in. I talked to a rider I'd never met, named Conrad. He was very soothing and said he'd arrange for someone to come out with a trailer if I needed that. I drew strength from him via that phone line, collected a phone number where I could call back, and told him to hold off sending anyone until I looked at some more stuff.
I hung up the phone and drank some more water, then set to work. Based on Conrad's suggestion, I disconnected the leads for my electric jacket, just in case it was shorted. Nope, the bike was still dead. I pulled off the fairing and the cover over the fuses. I checked each fuse to make sure they were all good and all seated properly. I took the fuse block off and checked each plug that goes into the back of it. All were seated properly. Just above the fuses and below the headlight, there's a plate that holds a whole bunch of plugs. I started checking these plugs. One of them fell apart in my hands, before I even squeezed the latch. Bingo! I plugged it in, careful to make sure it was latched, and tried the bike again. It started right up and ran like a top. Yayyyy!
I called the Ranch and asked them to give a message to the rally organizers that I was fine and would be there in about two hours. Then I buttoned everything back up, packed my junk, got back into my gear, and roared off down the highway. Less than two hours lost.
I left I-20 and headed south on route 17. The arid land was almost frightening. I couldn't imagine living in such a place. Route 17 crossed over I-10, and the mountains were visible on the horizon ahead. The sky over the mountains looked dark, like maybe it was raining there. I longed to be in those mountains, getting rained on, and out of the dry, oppressive heat. Instead of making a beeline into the mountains, though, the road turned west and ran parallel to them for what seemed like an eternity. Finally it turned south again and they started getting closer. I wanted that rain so badly I could taste it. The road started climbing, and curving this way and that. Soon I was in the hills, but it was still hot.
Finally, like a bit of heaven, the rain came down. I luxuriated in it for a few minutes, until it started raining really hard, and the wind picked up. Lightning started crashing all around me. Suddenly this storm was a lot less desirable. I looked for a place to pull over and wait it out, but there wasn't any shelter anywhere, and I couldn't see the surface on the shoulder well enough to dare to pull over. Then it started to hail, first little hail pellets tappety tappety on my helmet, then larger ones, which thwacked into me with increasing force. Whap! Whap! My right arm, between the shoulder armor and the elbow armor, started to hurt. Each hailstone that hit that spot stung a little more. They weren't hitting me hard enough to hurt anyplace else on my body, just the one spot. I was very happy to be wearing a full face helmet. I spotted a tree up ahead and thought about pulling over under it, but the only level spot was occupied by a car, so I kept going. Finally the hail let up, just as I got to the edge of Fort Davis.
I saw two bikes parked under a tree at the roadside, and stopped to say hello, to make sure they were OK, and see if they knew exactly where the Prude Ranch was. They were OK, they had stopped because of the storm, and while they were not in the rally, they were aware of it and they gave me good directions to the Ranch. They said they'd talked to folks who'd traveled a very long ways to Fort Davis for this rally, and their hats were off to the rallyists.
The Prude Ranch was a cluster of buildings surrounded by gravel. I think the only difference between the driveway and the pasture was that the driveway had larger rocks and a looser surface. It's all hazy in my mind, looking back on it now. I was exhausted. There were swarms of motorcycles everywhere. I saw Jack Tollett's face crease into a big smile when he saw me pulling in. I was sent to a large room where Jack's wife, Paula, guided me through my rally paperwork and gave me the best tasting Pepsi I've ever had the fortune to drink. She kept saying "Bless your heart!" as I told her my tales of the trip down, and she introduced me to Cissie Myrick, who I knew from the internet but had not yet met.
I carefully piloted my bike to the pole barn where they were doing the tech inspection. An older gentleman, Smitty, checked my VIN number against my paperwork and told me I couldn't ride the rally because it didn't match. I was very confused by this, since I'd just sat with Paula while she filled out that paperwork and my VIN number wasn't on it. It didn't even have a space for a VIN number! It turned out Smitty thought the drivers license number listed on the paperwork was a VIN number. Maybe I was the first rider he'd checked in? I dug out my insurance and registration cards. Smitty checked those VIN numbers against my bike, and grudgingly admitted they were OK. Then I was off for a quick run to the observatory and back for my odometer check.
Through all of this I saw no sign of Michael. I hoped that they hadn't fallen behind schedule with the U-Haul, that he wasn't lost in the wilds of west Texas. My worries ended when he arrived during dinner.
The rooms were in many different building scattered all over the property, and in the dark I could not see the landmarks listed on the map. After making two circuits of the driveways I realized I was so tired that I would just drop my bike if I kept riding it around out there in the dark looking for my room. I decided to wait until after the meeting and let Michael help me find it.
At the meeting I introduced myself to Joan Oswald. It was obvious to me that while I recognized her name from the internet, she had no idea who I was and couldn't have cared less. Jack handed out a list of the bonus locations, but he didn't tell us what the bonuses were or what their point values would be. He went over the rules, and people asked questions. Suddenly the meeting seemed endless. The questions were hard for me to focus on and seemed trivial.
After the meeting I decided to park my bike in the pole barn where they'd been doing tech inspections; it was one of the few places that had concrete to park on. Michael led me to the room. I didn't spend any time looking at the maps, none at all. There was a rose on one bed and I was too groggy to think about this, so I fell onto the other bed. I vaguely remember commenting on the stuffiness of the room, and Michael came over and put something cold on my wrists... the next thing I knew it was time to get up.
I walked down to the pole barn and had my mileage checked. While I was there, I remembered something I'd failed to do when I put my fairing back on - I hadn't plugged my horns back in. I plugged them in while Smitty fussed. Was I sure I was OK? Hadn't I ought to let him help? (Michael later told me that Smitty worried aloud about me all day, that I might be having trouble with my bike, out there alone.)
After breakfast there was another rider's meeting, and Jack passed out the complete info on the boni. I went back to the room. Michael had brought me a single red rose the night before. I smiled and tried to decide if there was any way to put the rose on the bike. I decided there was not. I sat at the table and made my ride plan.
The base route had three checkpoints. The first one was in Lajitas, down near the border; we were supposed to get our picture taken with the mayor, who might appreciate a beer. I'd heard the tales and knew that this was a beer drinking goat. The second checkpoint was in El Paso, and was the only one that was truly required - we had to check in with the volunteers at a Masonic Temple there between 5pm and 11pm. The third checkpoint was in Lubbock, where we had to collect a gas receipt. Each of these checkpoints carried a hefty point penalty if we didn't visit them. If we didn't check in with the volunteers in El Paso, we would be DNF (Did Not Finish). Lajitas and Lubbock were not truly _required_, we just got penalized if we didn't go there.
I thought of the landscape I'd ridden through the day before, the heat, the emptiness, the flat land. Would there be any interesting riding? No; it would be long flat miles, hours of highway hypnosis. Would the boni be interesting? No; it would be too dark and everyone would be too tired by then for there to be anything interesting about those boni. I decided I just plain didn't want to go there. I also realized that I was not a contender for the win, not when my butt was already dragging after my trip down. What was I hoping to get out of this, anyways? This was supposed to be fun. Lubbock didn't sound like nearly as much fun as the small boni near Lajitas. So I struck Lubbock from my rally plan. Just crossed it out. I didn't tell anyone of this decision, because I didn't want anyone talking me out of it.
I made quick work of the bonus listings. Any boni that were near my route from the Prude Ranch to Lajitas and over to El Paso, I marked on the map with my highlighter. Any that were scattered far from my personal base route, I ignored. I didn't worry about the point values, not even a little bit. Slowly a route began to take shape. It looked like a big figure eight, and the intersection point was Marfa, TX. The Lajitas loop could be run in either direction. On one side of Lajitas, all the boni I wanted to visit were directly on my path. On the other side, the boni would require detours. I chose to take this loop in the direction where I could hit all the boni that were directly on my route first. Once I got to Lajitas, I could evaluate the time and my condition, and decide which of the boni that required detours were worth visiting. As for the boni that could be found anywhere, I put that sheet in my map case for reference while riding.
I had a plan.
I did manage to install the new steering head bearings but it took all of one of my weekends; between stuck screws and the failure of my (almost new!) dremel tool, it turned out to be a huge job. Dave came over to help, and we installed the new stainless steel front brake lines during the week. The new tires got pushed back to the second weekend, along with the oil change. I had a little trouble getting the bead to seat on the rear tire that Sunday afternoon, because Erik didn't have the air chuck that works with no core in the valve stem. I had to finish on Monday after Erik went out and acquired this air chuck (thanks Erik!). I couldn't ride to work on Tuesday because I had to drop my sister off at the U-Haul rental place, so the tires were not scrubbed on Wednesday when I left. I silently pledged to be careful.
I had created a comprehensive packing list, which was good, because I didn't start packing until after midnight on Tuesday. Tuesday evening between work and midnight was consumed by reinstalling the Rifle fairing and fixing a turn signal that had stopped functioning. (A wire had come unplugged in the tail section. My high school English teacher would call this plot device "foreshadowing.") Fortunately I had the packing list, which made it very easy to assemble everything I needed on Tuesday night and stuff it into the new Givi cases, even though it was late already, I had skipped dinner, and I was stupid from exhaustion. I got it all put together and attached to the bike, and laid out my clothes for the morning. I was determined to leave town straight from my office.
I didn't go to bed until 3am, and I was too excited to fall asleep easily when I did get to bed. I must have slept, though, because I barely noticed when Michael got up at 5am to meet my mother and sister. Why was he meeting them, you ask? Well, about a month before my trip, my sister Anne announced that she was moving to New Mexico. When events conspired to put her into a U-Haul heading for that part of the country at the same time I was heading to the Waltz, she called and proposed that I put my bike in the U-Haul and share the drive down with her. I declined this invitation; what would be the point of taking a motorcycle trip and spending the first several days in a U-Haul? Besides, I was looking forward to the alone time. Michael took pity on Anne. He had been planning to fly down and join me at the rally, but he was willing to make the change in his plans and drive down in a U-Haul instead. Then my mother decided to join Anne's round of "America's Moving Adventure" as well. They would caravan to Las Cruces in the U-Haul and my sister's car. After unloading the truck, they would drop Michael off at the El Paso airport, where he would rent a car and drive down to the rally. After the rally he would drive back to the airport and fly home.
On Wednesday, I was to work a half day, and have the afternoon off. I planned to leave straight from my office. At 8:45 Wednesday morning, I had the Sabre sitting on the sidewalk in front of the house, fully loaded and warming up as I moved my truck and Michael's car into the driveway. I walked back to the bike and spied a six inch puddle of oil under it! Eek!
I called my office to let them know I'd be late, stripped off my 'Stich and helmet, and set to work on this problem. It turned out to be a simple one. When I changed the oil, I hadn't noticed this, but the adaptor-style oil mod had loosened, and when I put the filter on I hadn't tightened it enough to get both filter and adaptor tight. Oil was leaking from between the adaptor and the bike. I put an oil filter wrench on, and tightened it. It seemed to do the trick. I cleaned up all the oil, started the bike again, and waited until it was fully warmed up. No more oil leaked out.
I got to my office only twenty minutes late. Spent the morning in a meeting, and getting all the loose ends tied off. I needed to escape on time because I was meeting Doug Grosjean for lunch on my way south. Even so, it took me a half hour longer than it should have taken to escape.
Finally I was free, free!
Doug is really fun to hang out with, and I lingered long over that lunch. He provided me with one complete vest, a shell of a larger size vest, and some assorted bits and pieces to play show and tell with at the Waltz. Then I rode off down the road to Ottawa, Ohio, to pick up my first location for the IBET. I got the picture I needed, and continued over back roads down to US 30, and turned towards Indianapolis.
The weather was marvelous and I congratulated myself on making the packing list; it seemed to me that it had helped me escape the anxiety attack I sometimes go through as I ride away from home. "Did I close the garage door? What if one of the cats gets sick and I'm not there to notice and take care of them? Did I forget to bring something important?" I'm always nervous about this stuff for the first few hours after leaving on a trip, and I felt like I was coping pretty well.
On Monday, I'd visited the used record store and bought six new CDs for the trip. Four were from artists I knew nothing about; I just picked them because they were female vocalists in the folk music section. I like female vocalists for ride music, because they're easier to hear over the background noise of wind and engine, and because I'm more likely to be able to sing along.
I stopped at a rest area and put on one of the new CDs, "Kristina Olsen, Live From Around The World." I quickly decided this had been a good choice, the music suited me perfectly. Seven tracks went by, and I enjoyed them immensely. Just as it was getting dark, I got to track number eight, Dangerous, and all my usual insecurities about leaving home came crashing in on me with a vengeance. My head started to ache. I stopped for gas and discovered that one of my forks seals had begun leaking. I put in a different CD, hoping it would make me feel better, and just then, my Koss Plugs died and I was left with no music at all. My mood went into a terrible tailspin and I was suddenly exhausted. The bad inner voice, the one that finds fault with everything, started whispering in my head... What on earth was I thinking, setting out on a 7000 mile trip when I couldn't even maintain my bike well enough to keep the fork seals from leaking? I was such a crappy wrench, look how long it took me to replace those steering head bearings. And remember how Cordelia stranded me in North Carolina last time I entered a rally? I was probably jinxed and Spring Wind would die just before I got to this rally. The cats would be so lonely; they aren't that young anymore; what if one of them dies while I'm gone? What if my mother and sister are making Michael miserable? What if my bike dies and I get stranded 2000 miles from home?
I considered turning around and going home, right then and there, but if I did that how would I let Michael know? It would scare him to death if I wasn't at the rally when he arrived. I had planned to make this a camping trip, but I decided I just couldn't cope with camping, so I checked into a motel outside Indianapolis, completely discouraged. I sank down on the bed and wallowed in the depths of despair. Finally I took a couple of Tylenols and laid down. My eyes were closed before my head hit the pillow, and I slept like the dead.
Thursday morning dawned clear and breezy. Somehow everything seemed better. I decided I could keep an eye on that fork seal, wipe it down every time I stopped for gas. After all, I had a complete set of forks at home, they even had new fork seals, so I just had to nurse this one through the trip and make sure my brakes didn't get oiled. Heck, even if the brakes got oiled, I had new brake pads at home already too. I could replace the Koss Plugs as soon as the stores opened. The headache was gone; it was probably the result of a blood sugar crash, and I would have self discipline enough to eat properly for the rest of the trip. The cats would be fine, Marcus and Susan had both agreed to look in on them and they're both smart people; if the cats got sick then Susan or Marcus would see that they got to the vet. Michael is a big boy and can handle the stress of traveling with my family, and besides it was his own decision to do it. I could do this.
I stopped for breakfast and examined the atlas for IBET locations along my planned route. The only one in Indiana or Illinois that didn't seem too far from my path was Charleston, IL. I got out my grease pencil and wrote directions to Charleston on my windshield.
Terre Haute had a shopping mall right next to the freeway. I stopped and found the Sears, and went in to look for the Plugs. They didn't have any. The salesperson seemed very interested in helping me, so I asked him if there was a Borders in town, because that's the other store I've seen them in. He said they didn't have a Borders in Terre Haute, but that I would surely be able to find what I needed in St Louis, there were so many more stores there. I thanked him and went on.
I found the "Welcome to Charleston" sign, but it was on a steep hill and there wasn't anyplace to put the bike to take the picture. So I went on into town and followed another road out, seeking a city limit sign I could photograph. It seemed that every road in this town was under construction. Sand and gravel everywhere, orange barrels blocking off large portions of the terribly bumpy roadways. I finally found a city limit sign where the roadside wasn't blocked by orange barrels and where the gravel was at least level. I ignored the bulldozers thundering back and forth on the other side of the street, took the requisite Polaroid, and continued on my way.
Out on I-70 I overtook a caravan of couples riding Gold Wings and pulling little trailers, led by a guy on a Gold Wing trike. They looked like they were doing some serious traveling, and I wondered how far they'd come? I looked closely at their license plates, and all were from Illinois. Maybe they were just starting out. They waved, and so did I. They looked very happy.
Outside of Vandalia, IL, it started to sprinkle. At first it didn't look like serious rain, so I ignored it. Then the clouds started to get darker and lower, and it looked very rainy up ahead. At Mulberry Grove I pulled off the freeway to put rain covers on my gloves, boots, and seat. I found a gas station with a roof over the pumps, and pulled in. It was time for a break, so I went inside and got a cold drink and a snack, then came back out to the bike.
A beat-up car pulled up on the other side of the pumps, and some local yokels that had been hanging around by the door recognized the car and wandered over. As I dug through my side cases looking for the rain cover for my seat, I listened to them chatter away in that peculiar redneck language that consists almost entirely of four letter words. I hadn't heard such an extreme example of that vernacular since I left the small town I grew up in. I was chuckling to myself when the loudest fellow in the group came around the pump on his way to the store door, with his downtrodden looking female companion at his heels. He paused, scowled furiously and jutted his chin out. His voice dripped with scorn as he asked, "Can YOU handle that bike?" I responded by asking how did he think I got there? He snorted, tossed his head, and marched into the store, not looking at me again. The woman looked furtively at him, saw that his back was turned, and looked back at me. She grinned and rolled her eyes, and gave me the thumbs up, then hurried to follow him into the store before he noticed her disloyalty.
Back out on I-70, I passed the Goldwing caravan again. This time they were all wearing brightly colored rain suits. They looked just as happy as they had looked before. They all waved again as I passed.
By the time I got to East St Louis, the rain had stopped. I've heard all kinds of tales about the terrible traffic in the St Louis metro area, but I didn't have any difficulty. It was the usual freeway spaghetti one finds in large cities. I crossed the Mississippi River and admired the graceful proportions of the arch. Then I refocused my attention to concentrate on the road signs, making sure to stay in the correct lane for I-55 south when it diverged from I-70, then stay on I-55 until I found a place to change lanes and go west on I-44.
Once I got into the western suburbs, I started looking for shopping malls. I wanted two things: Koss Plugs and lunch. I spotted a Wal-Mart off to the right and took the next exit. As I went down the exit ramp, I thought I could see another mall on the south side of the freeway. From the end of the ramp, I saw that the Wal-Mart was under construction, not yet open, but there was a BigK across the street.
I tried the far side of the freeway first, and found a Borders store. They didn't have any Plugs. I returned to the BigK; they didn't have any either. I examined the choices at BigK very carefully, and selected a pair of Maxell earbuds that looked like they might fit in my old Plugs housing. Over lunch, I used the needle nose pliers and knife from my toolkit to pull apart both pairs. The Plugs came apart very easily. I discarded the speakers, the wires. I kept the plastic part that inserts in the ear, and the back that snapped into it. The Maxell earbuds were not that hard to pull apart, either. Soon I had freed the speakers from the plastic earbuds, with their wires intact. Unfortunately they were just a hair too large to fit in the Koss Plug housings. I tried to trim them a bit and squeeze them in, and ended up destroying them.
While I ate and messed with earbuds, another rainstorm came through, soaked everything thoroughly, and stopped. I looked at my clock and saw that it was almost 4pm. I looked at the maps and thought about how far I had to go, and decided it was time to get serious, no more messing around with speakers and wires. I splashed back to the freeway and headed west. I burned through the next five hundred miles without stopping for anything other than gas. Out on I-44 I saw a lot of signs for oddball tourist traps, and for historic Route 66. The countryside didn't hold much interest for me; it was pretty much like home, like all the countryside I'd traveled so far. I still wished I had more time to loaf along, to stop and see some of the sights being advertised, the caverns, the Indian artifacts, maybe eat some fudge. But I do have to say that even if I had all the time the world I'd skip the "Precious Moments" place. I must have seen a hundred billboards advertising pastel kids with big eyes, as if this was supposed to be a draw. I shuddered to think what that place must be like.
The sun set as I crossed the state line into Oklahoma. There were a lot of IBET sites along my route through Oklahoma, but it was dark, I was tired and I needed to make time. I skipped them all, deciding it just wasn't worth it to me to stumble around in the dark and perhaps drop my bike or get hit by a car, trying to take pictures of the Tulsa city limit sign in the dark. I paid my tolls and kept rolling. I did see two shooting stars in the sky overhead.
I stopped for gas and a short break in Chickasha, OK. The air was balmy at 3am, and this gas station had a fair bit of activity. A barefoot young woman asked me if I was really from Michigan, and I said I was. She goggled her eyes at me and expressed amazement that someone from Michigan would travel to Oklahoma, why on earth would anyone come here? She shook her head in amazement. There was a 70's vintage Gold Wing outside the door, and inside I spotted a man with a helmet who belonged to it. We chatted for a while. He bragged that he'd gotten the Wing from his brother in law, who had owned it since it was new and put only 17k on it. He'd had the bike only three years and he'd already put another 10k on it. His tone of voice implied that the brother in law was a poser. I admired the condition of the bike and showed him Doug's vest. Then I answered questions about the Aerostich and the Givi luggage, and why I wore earplugs.
Back on I-44, the stop had only rejuvenated me so much. It was getting close to dawn. I started having trouble staying awake. Suddenly I saw a large animal next to the road, about to dart in front of me. It looked like a three hundred pound raccoon, with a bushy tail like a squirrel. I reached for the brakes, then realized it was only a bush. Time for a nap. I pulled into the next service plaza and dozed on the bike for an hour, until the dawn light rimmed the sky.
The sun rose and I was in an alien landscape. The day before, the primary color of the world was green. In the light of the new day, everything had faded and the world was mostly a silvery color, and the sky was larger. I crossed into Texas and ate breakfast at a Denny's in Wichita Falls. I examined my road atlas while snarfing down the food. Still a lot of miles to cover, but I figured I could reach Fort Davis by 4pm.
Once I left Wichita Falls behind, US277 stretched out across empty, dusty land. It wasn't limited access, but it might as well have been, because there was nothing out there. I wondered what speed would be appropriate to travel on this road? I adopted a somewhat cautious speed, not much above the posted limit, while I contemplated the surrounding landscape and tried to decide how much enforcement they might have. A beat-up Ford Tempo quickly overtook me and blasted by at a speed that had to be in excess of 100mph. I decided this must be the answer, and wicked my own speed up just a little bit. A tanker truck turned onto the road up ahead. By the time I overtook it I was traveling at a speed well over the limit. I dropped back, let it get a half mile or so ahead of me, then matched its speed and followed.
Ten minutes later, I spotted that flying Ford Tempo on the roadside. The driver was messing around with the right rear tire. Uh-oh, I bet a car like that hasn't got a spare. I pulled up behind and stopped. The driver was the tiniest women I've ever seen. Turned out she didn't have a flat tire; instead she had pulled over because her rear bumper had fallen off. She was frantically reattaching it with duct tape but was having trouble holding it in place while managing the tape. I held the bumper for her and she patched tape all over it. Soon she was on the road again and roaring away. I decided to let her get well ahead of me; I didn't want to be close to her if (when) that bumper came flying off again.
The next several hours passed with nothing of note. The land lost more color, and even the silvery grass disappeared, replaced by sand and clumps of some kind of spiky looking vegetation. The sun got higher in the sky and the wind got hotter. I was someplace on I-20 west of Odessa when the heat really started making me sleepy. I hadn't seen any shade in at least two hundred miles, so I just pulled over into a parking area to drink some water and take a little nap even though I wouldn't be able to get out of the sun. The parking area was pea gravel. The first place I stopped wasn't at a good angle to put the bike on the sidestand. I decided to turn it 90 degrees. Dogpaddling it proved difficult on the scrappy surface, so I tried to start it again to use the motor to move it.
I turned the key and nothing happened.
Nothing.
Deader'n a doornail.
I got off the bike and pushed it into a position where the stand would hold it securely. I looked around. I could see for miles in every direction, and in all that space, there was not a tree or a bush or a building of any sort. I became aware that I needed to pee.
Well, nothing for it but to start troubleshooting. I took off my helmet, 'stich and boots, and put on my wide brim hat. I looked at my water bottle and debated whether or not to drink. Finally I decided that dehydration would be worse than peeing on the ground in a place with no bushes to hide behind. I took a long drink. I had to dig through everything in both side cases to find my pocket tester, but finally I unearthed it. I pulled off the side cover. The Sabre has a little metal strip for the main fuse, this can have invisible hairline cracks, so I took it out to check it. It was fine. I put it back in. I used my pocket tester to check the battery; it was fine. What's this? The connection to the negative terminal was loose! I dug out the proper wrench and tightened it down. I tried the key again, and the lights lit on my dash. Success!
I packed the tools and my hat, and put my riding clothes back on. I climbed on the bike and turned the key, the lights all came on as normal. I started the bike. It sputtered and coughed and the tach needle jerked wildly up and down. Then it died again, the lights all went out, and I was right back where I'd started. Argh!
I took my gear off again, and put my hat back on. I dug the tools out again. I pulled the sidecover off again and wiggled the battery terminals. I opened the main fuse holder again and examined it again.
I contemplated taking the fairing off to look at the other fuse box and my heart sank. I decided to call for reinforcements before I went any further. I dug out my cell phone and the confirmation card from the Prude Ranch and called the 800 number. I got a phone company recording saying I should check the number and dial again. So much for that idea. So I dug out my HRCA card and called them. The operator there said all she could do was arrange a tow. She didn't know how long it would take. I asked her to try calling the Prude Ranch on my behalf. She was able to get through, and she conferenced me in. I talked to a rider I'd never met, named Conrad. He was very soothing and said he'd arrange for someone to come out with a trailer if I needed that. I drew strength from him via that phone line, collected a phone number where I could call back, and told him to hold off sending anyone until I looked at some more stuff.
I hung up the phone and drank some more water, then set to work. Based on Conrad's suggestion, I disconnected the leads for my electric jacket, just in case it was shorted. Nope, the bike was still dead. I pulled off the fairing and the cover over the fuses. I checked each fuse to make sure they were all good and all seated properly. I took the fuse block off and checked each plug that goes into the back of it. All were seated properly. Just above the fuses and below the headlight, there's a plate that holds a whole bunch of plugs. I started checking these plugs. One of them fell apart in my hands, before I even squeezed the latch. Bingo! I plugged it in, careful to make sure it was latched, and tried the bike again. It started right up and ran like a top. Yayyyy!
I called the Ranch and asked them to give a message to the rally organizers that I was fine and would be there in about two hours. Then I buttoned everything back up, packed my junk, got back into my gear, and roared off down the highway. Less than two hours lost.
I left I-20 and headed south on route 17. The arid land was almost frightening. I couldn't imagine living in such a place. Route 17 crossed over I-10, and the mountains were visible on the horizon ahead. The sky over the mountains looked dark, like maybe it was raining there. I longed to be in those mountains, getting rained on, and out of the dry, oppressive heat. Instead of making a beeline into the mountains, though, the road turned west and ran parallel to them for what seemed like an eternity. Finally it turned south again and they started getting closer. I wanted that rain so badly I could taste it. The road started climbing, and curving this way and that. Soon I was in the hills, but it was still hot.
Finally, like a bit of heaven, the rain came down. I luxuriated in it for a few minutes, until it started raining really hard, and the wind picked up. Lightning started crashing all around me. Suddenly this storm was a lot less desirable. I looked for a place to pull over and wait it out, but there wasn't any shelter anywhere, and I couldn't see the surface on the shoulder well enough to dare to pull over. Then it started to hail, first little hail pellets tappety tappety on my helmet, then larger ones, which thwacked into me with increasing force. Whap! Whap! My right arm, between the shoulder armor and the elbow armor, started to hurt. Each hailstone that hit that spot stung a little more. They weren't hitting me hard enough to hurt anyplace else on my body, just the one spot. I was very happy to be wearing a full face helmet. I spotted a tree up ahead and thought about pulling over under it, but the only level spot was occupied by a car, so I kept going. Finally the hail let up, just as I got to the edge of Fort Davis.
I saw two bikes parked under a tree at the roadside, and stopped to say hello, to make sure they were OK, and see if they knew exactly where the Prude Ranch was. They were OK, they had stopped because of the storm, and while they were not in the rally, they were aware of it and they gave me good directions to the Ranch. They said they'd talked to folks who'd traveled a very long ways to Fort Davis for this rally, and their hats were off to the rallyists.
The Prude Ranch was a cluster of buildings surrounded by gravel. I think the only difference between the driveway and the pasture was that the driveway had larger rocks and a looser surface. It's all hazy in my mind, looking back on it now. I was exhausted. There were swarms of motorcycles everywhere. I saw Jack Tollett's face crease into a big smile when he saw me pulling in. I was sent to a large room where Jack's wife, Paula, guided me through my rally paperwork and gave me the best tasting Pepsi I've ever had the fortune to drink. She kept saying "Bless your heart!" as I told her my tales of the trip down, and she introduced me to Cissie Myrick, who I knew from the internet but had not yet met.
I carefully piloted my bike to the pole barn where they were doing the tech inspection. An older gentleman, Smitty, checked my VIN number against my paperwork and told me I couldn't ride the rally because it didn't match. I was very confused by this, since I'd just sat with Paula while she filled out that paperwork and my VIN number wasn't on it. It didn't even have a space for a VIN number! It turned out Smitty thought the drivers license number listed on the paperwork was a VIN number. Maybe I was the first rider he'd checked in? I dug out my insurance and registration cards. Smitty checked those VIN numbers against my bike, and grudgingly admitted they were OK. Then I was off for a quick run to the observatory and back for my odometer check.
Through all of this I saw no sign of Michael. I hoped that they hadn't fallen behind schedule with the U-Haul, that he wasn't lost in the wilds of west Texas. My worries ended when he arrived during dinner.
The rooms were in many different building scattered all over the property, and in the dark I could not see the landmarks listed on the map. After making two circuits of the driveways I realized I was so tired that I would just drop my bike if I kept riding it around out there in the dark looking for my room. I decided to wait until after the meeting and let Michael help me find it.
At the meeting I introduced myself to Joan Oswald. It was obvious to me that while I recognized her name from the internet, she had no idea who I was and couldn't have cared less. Jack handed out a list of the bonus locations, but he didn't tell us what the bonuses were or what their point values would be. He went over the rules, and people asked questions. Suddenly the meeting seemed endless. The questions were hard for me to focus on and seemed trivial.
After the meeting I decided to park my bike in the pole barn where they'd been doing tech inspections; it was one of the few places that had concrete to park on. Michael led me to the room. I didn't spend any time looking at the maps, none at all. There was a rose on one bed and I was too groggy to think about this, so I fell onto the other bed. I vaguely remember commenting on the stuffiness of the room, and Michael came over and put something cold on my wrists... the next thing I knew it was time to get up.
I walked down to the pole barn and had my mileage checked. While I was there, I remembered something I'd failed to do when I put my fairing back on - I hadn't plugged my horns back in. I plugged them in while Smitty fussed. Was I sure I was OK? Hadn't I ought to let him help? (Michael later told me that Smitty worried aloud about me all day, that I might be having trouble with my bike, out there alone.)
After breakfast there was another rider's meeting, and Jack passed out the complete info on the boni. I went back to the room. Michael had brought me a single red rose the night before. I smiled and tried to decide if there was any way to put the rose on the bike. I decided there was not. I sat at the table and made my ride plan.
The base route had three checkpoints. The first one was in Lajitas, down near the border; we were supposed to get our picture taken with the mayor, who might appreciate a beer. I'd heard the tales and knew that this was a beer drinking goat. The second checkpoint was in El Paso, and was the only one that was truly required - we had to check in with the volunteers at a Masonic Temple there between 5pm and 11pm. The third checkpoint was in Lubbock, where we had to collect a gas receipt. Each of these checkpoints carried a hefty point penalty if we didn't visit them. If we didn't check in with the volunteers in El Paso, we would be DNF (Did Not Finish). Lajitas and Lubbock were not truly _required_, we just got penalized if we didn't go there.
I thought of the landscape I'd ridden through the day before, the heat, the emptiness, the flat land. Would there be any interesting riding? No; it would be long flat miles, hours of highway hypnosis. Would the boni be interesting? No; it would be too dark and everyone would be too tired by then for there to be anything interesting about those boni. I decided I just plain didn't want to go there. I also realized that I was not a contender for the win, not when my butt was already dragging after my trip down. What was I hoping to get out of this, anyways? This was supposed to be fun. Lubbock didn't sound like nearly as much fun as the small boni near Lajitas. So I struck Lubbock from my rally plan. Just crossed it out. I didn't tell anyone of this decision, because I didn't want anyone talking me out of it.
I made quick work of the bonus listings. Any boni that were near my route from the Prude Ranch to Lajitas and over to El Paso, I marked on the map with my highlighter. Any that were scattered far from my personal base route, I ignored. I didn't worry about the point values, not even a little bit. Slowly a route began to take shape. It looked like a big figure eight, and the intersection point was Marfa, TX. The Lajitas loop could be run in either direction. On one side of Lajitas, all the boni I wanted to visit were directly on my path. On the other side, the boni would require detours. I chose to take this loop in the direction where I could hit all the boni that were directly on my route first. Once I got to Lajitas, I could evaluate the time and my condition, and decide which of the boni that required detours were worth visiting. As for the boni that could be found anywhere, I put that sheet in my map case for reference while riding.
I had a plan.
