Frenchy's Rant

I remember reading that article a few years ago. The Motorcyclist magazine journalist in question was disqualified for admitting he drank a cup of coffee during his SaddleSore attempt. I would like to publicly admit that while I was jonesing for a hit on the ol’ java crack pipe, in the interest of following the IBA rules, I abstained from the unsafe activity of drinking a Grande Redeye.

Corn. Farm. Corn. Barn. Corn. Silo. More corn. There’s a lot of corn out there. Then, we stumbled onto a farm of a different sort. They were growing what appeared to be gigantic Mercedes logos, probably for all the new Smart Car dealership popping up nationwide.

Yeah. I know. Lame. Well, you have to make your fun when you can. Part of my fun was working on my new camera technique.

After many crap pictures of the sky or the road, I finally figured it out. Press the shutter button, count to fifty, and the camera will usually take a picture.

The long day started to take its toll.

With a little less than 500 miles to go, Abi and I stopped in a town called Blue Earth, Minnesota for a stimulant-free lunch in my favorite Irish restaurant, McDonald’s. A very elderly, very sweet looking couple sat down at the booth next to us. We must have been looking a little less-than-fresh by then, judging by the look on their faces.

“What have you boys been doing?”

I wanted to impress them with our tale. “Well, we left Elkhart, Indiana at 5:30 this morning, and we’re not stopping again until we get to Rapid City, South Dakota,” I bragged.

The woman smiled and said, “Well, isn’t that nice? You don’t have far to go now, boys.”

Stunned, I had no answer.

Distance, now judged by the tankful, became irrelevant. I became a part of the motorcycle, my hands became the grips, my feet became the pegs. Thoughts swirled, music blared, and the day progressed.

Two tanks later, we entered South Dakota. The end, a mere three-hundred and sixty miles away, was in sight!

The thought of finishing, or, more correctly, of getting off these damn bikes energized us both.

The next hours became a race with the sun. I didn’t like the idea of riding these dark, deserted South Dakota roads at night, so we set off in a very un-reckless manner to put as many miles behind us as possible. A photographic bonanza celebrated the sunset.

The darkness enveloped us, and we rode on. The miles between us and the end of the road ticked down, 60… 50… 40… Suddenly, the bright lights of Rapid City erupted out of the darkness. A surprising swell of emotions overwhelmed me for a moment, fortunately it was too dark for a picture of my swelling. Eighteen hours after leaving Elkhart, we made it!

With 1021 official miles added to the odometer, all that was left was getting our end time stamp and a witness. I pulled up to a gas pump at a Flying J rest stop for my final tankful.

And, no receipt came out. Of course. I went to find an attendant to get this final, most important piece of paper, and was doubly stunned. When Jethro BillyBob Gasguy printed out my final receipt, the one thing I needed to prove I finished in less than twenty four hours from when I started this foolhardy attempt; when I tiredly looked down at the piece of paper in my hand, there was NO TIME STAMP to be found anywhere on the receipt! Every single station we stopped at the whole day provided us with everything we needed, so naturally the most important one didn’t.

Oh, what the fuck?!? After eighteen hours of riding, I didn’t need this. I withdrew $20 out of the ATM in the Flying J, which would definitely have a time stamp receipt, so I thought I would be covered. Abi, who noticed my increasing frustration, didn’t bother fill his tank. We went down the road to a Mobil station, where Abi was able to get his final receipt. Knowing the Iron Butt rules are fairly strict; remember, something as harmless as drinking coffee can get you disqualified, I put $1 of unleaded into his tank, so I would also have a final, time stamped fuel receipt.

And when it was all said and done, I knew one thing for sure. Abi lied. The thousand virgins were nowhere to be found, but at that point it didn’t matter. All that mattered was sleep. Off the motorcycles, we quickly congealed. The desk clerks at the Fairfield Inn were happy to sign our ‘end witness’ Iron Butt forms. To honor our accomplishment, we changed our traditional ‘Best Day Ever’ toast, and officially finished the day by hoisting a hefty glass of Macallan to in a toast to the ‘Longest Day Ever.’ And that, as they say, was that. Heading to the comfort of clean sheets, we were silent in the elevator, then I looked at Abi and said, “I don’t ever want to do that again.”