If Music be the food of love....

... then what the hell is this?!

When I set out from the East, I had grand plans. Including making a whole bunch of new playlists of music that I would painstakingly craft, perhaps one of each region, or even leg of the journey. There is a scene in my head, that has been there for literally decades, which is how my motorcycle film, the film of my life, MY "ZATAOMM", will open: (It is actually the opening scene of the novel I began some time ago. But it involves a very fast sport bike, tears, a departure, winter lighting, and Bach's Der Kunst Der Fugue.) I imagined thousands of perfect "musical" moments like this as I looked forward to my trip.

Yeah, sure. So, let's talk about what actually happened.

As you all know, time was running short, and I was focused on trying to learn the GoPro (no, that has not really happened yet, but it turns out that the best internet connection to which I have access is the one at work, so I have been dutifully loading video to the web while I work on my office, and try to continue to dig it out from the 80's. (no, I only wish I were kidding)...

BUT: I didn't really have time to make all those wonderful playlists. So I was stuck with what I had - but as it turns out, that wasn't the worst thing. First of all, I have pretty good (read: eclectic) taste in music, and second of all, what I listened to was as often dictated by what would be audible at all, as it happened; and third of all, that didn't keep the magic moments from happening. In fact, they may have been even more impressive for involving music with which I was already pretty familiar, as you''ll see.

Before we even talk about the music, I have to make one thing clear: this is the first time I have ever traveled with an actual sound system designed for a bike. Even if it hadn't been for the entertainment value, I would have thought it necessary for this trip, just so I could hear the GPS. Also, it was supposed to let me control the GoPro (hah!) with my voice.* Before this, I have either lived with the sounds of my ride, naturally, or I have worn earbuds inside my helmet (and because when I was doing this, my earbuds were pretty isolating and very high quality, this was a great experience, because they really cut down on the surrounding engine and wind noise, and I could hear the music really well - while still being able to hear traffic sounds around me).

But, everybody said, no, get an in-helmet system, so I did. I had also bought a new helmet, because it well past time, but in retrospect, wish I had spent more on a quieter one. Oh well.

This is the helmet that I bought... and that little thing on the side is the sound system. Yes, that's it. I mean, there are speakers - wafer thin, that velcro to the inside of the helmet, and a microphone, also tiny and wafer thing that is supposed to do the same thing, but otherwise, that's it: amp, preamp, tuner (it has a radio) and Bluetooth circuits - plus rechargeable battery - all in that little thingy. We truly do live in the future...

 

One of the best things about it is that it holds a charge for ... well, for a long time - I could actually ride for a whole day, and into the night without the charge getting low. Which was good, because, the dance of the sugarplum charging cables every night when I stopped got to be a bit exhausting.... pull out the cables, sort the cables, take the sound system off the helmet, take the GoPro off the helmet, find the outlets, plug in first the computer, then the phone, then the big power bank and then the small power bank, then the cameras, then the sound system... Each of these devices helped with the whole journey, but they each took a toll on the "free and easy" part of being on the road. And then there was the time I lost all those charging cables.... I am really glad that the Scala Rider uses a pretty standard cable.

So - listening to music while riding. It's not, it turns out easy to find much motorcycle music, and one of the best motorcycle songs ever written or performed would be a dangerous earwig - Eye of the Hurricane, by the inestimable David Wilcox, is, while a great song, not something one should listen to overmuch before doing what I was doing.

Still - it's lovely, and reminds me of my mis-spent youth:

Eye of the Hurricane

 So, you can see that I might not have wanted this as a theme song starting out... (note: the caption below the picture is a link to the song on YouTube or Vevo....)

And "motorcycle music" has, in general, a decidedly "metal" edge, that is, mostly, not my jam... (top-songs-about-motorcycles)

As it happens, however, a song that starts several different 80's playlists of mine is, although I never really think of it this way, absolutely a motorcycle song. Also a song I like, for all its 80's excess; it maintains, still, a sort of lip-glossy, romantic hold on my perception of myself as a young man, and I always admired the creativity and "out of the box" thinking behind the iconic video. So:

Remember this video?

As a kid who grew up on Speed Racer, and who was totally into the actualized, short-haired women I was meeting in college, (yes, of course, one in particular, thanks, Lorri... ;-) I loved the video, and the fauxquality that it espoused. I imagined us as a team, she and I, navigating what was also the most theatrical environment we had seen yet on MTV, breaking through fourth, fifth, and sixth walls...

More importantly, this song can be heard in its entirety, even with the cycle going full throttle on the interstate. I must have heard it a hundred times on the trip.

The first song on my workout playlist is Evanescence's huge first hit, Bring Me To Life. It became pretty iconic for me in the months after my knee-replacement surgery, as workouts became a fight to, not just keep up, but regain, some semblance of health. But it was  great for PT sessions that sometimes began before the sun was up, and usually with pretty severe pain. While riding, I often wouldn't know it was the next song on the list until a bit into it, because that intro is pretty quiet, even with Soundcheck on on the iPhone. (yes, I should have mentioned, all audio was provided, via Bluetooth, from my iPhone - really the most ridiculous multi-tasking tool for a journey like this.*) But when the bass line kicks inin, and my head starts to bang at 90 mph., well, there aren't many feelings like that, even if I HAD remembered to put Born To Be Wild on the darned phone (can you believe it?) Also - my workout mix was the perfect accompaniment for any road that was going to prove to be an actual workout - so I occasionally stopped at the beginning of what looked like a real sportbike run - there were a few - and reset to the top of this song:

Bring Me To Life

That's not the only song from my workout mix that made it onto the hot 100 rotation... many years ago, Meredith Sims fueled my love of Toad the Wet Sprocket, and I still rock out to this song regularly:

Of course, it also occurred to me that "Fall Down" might not be the best title for a song on this particular journey. But, god... I love it.

Leaping forward a whole decade, I listened to this song a lot, and it always takes me back to early Round House Theatre days, when I am sure we watched this video a hundred times on the floor of Veroncia Mariani's Home for Boys and Others;

Funny - no where in the song does she say "what's up...?"

I can remember when, in fact, "25 years and my life is still Trying to get up this great big hill" seemed so F___ing profound... But what I didn't remember is how amazing her voice is. Lisa... something. One hit wonders, as far as I know, but that song... still feels relevant today. And when I look at the band in the video, I am reminded that it's been awhile since the changes we are wrestling with now really started happening, for good - we just forgot when the first plane turned left into the north Tower. This is a great song for musing, and contemplating, and just feeling the vibe when you have a few open miles in front of you. You know, like, say... North Dakota.

Some songs on here should require no explanation. Nuff' said.

Yes, of course she is part of my workout mix. Because she's F___ing Joan Jett that's why. Also - if you let this video play through - it goes straight to the other JJ song in high rotation on my trip (and what used to be my ring tone)

I heard the next song over and over; I love KB, and go out of my way to point out to the ids that none fo their woke female superstars (or mine, for that matter - like the whole damned Lilith Fair) would have ever had a chance if it weren't for people like Joan and Kate Bush. But, somehow, it never occurred to me during the whole Ride that whenever I heard this song, I was almost Always. On. A. Hill. I like the song for what it offers in layers... the text, the subtext, and the lovely, heartrending video.

This really didn't occur to me until I was home...

I was always a Bangles fan, and I was surprised to find that only two songs made it onto the road with me - but they were both crucial to keeping my sanity. The first is on my workout mix, and is a cover, but this one is classic Bangles, and I have to credit it with propping my sagging spirits on some of the harder days, because it is just so damned perky:

Walk How?

Surprisingly, this is the ONLY Simon and Garfunkel I had on my phone when I set out:

But I love this cover so much.

Of course, I couldn't let this be the only S&G I had with me, especially, since one of their songs was the song I kept singing to myself as I prepared for this whole ridiculous undertaking... so one night in a motel (South Dakota, if I remember) I rectified the situation, because one simply cannot go on a cross country road trip without this song in one's repertoire:

"It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw..."

"And the moon rose over an open field..."

In all seriousness, I thought of this song all the time. Whether on my own, on a slightly exhilarating, slightly terrifying 24-hour trek, like when I took that picture, or when skirting the rim of Crater Lake, and marveling that so many others were simply traversing the same land I was, just traveling for the sake of travel and to see the sights that the land affords.

At night, I would often listen to music, trying to get to sleep - it can be surprisingly hard to turn off your brain, even through extreme exhaustion. I know there are some people reading this who can relate... and The Boxer came on often enough. I usually couldn't really hear it on the road, because even the live version (I have both on my iPhone) isn't loud enough, even with the volume all the way up on everything, to hear it clearly, and it is too great a song to not hear it clearly. But: it is one of the songs that sustained me - since sometime in my early youth, lying down to go to sleep, on an overnight with Chris Murphy, when I heard the song for the first time, it has been in the litany of ways I heep from giving up - whatever it is that vexes me.

There is music that I tried to use, more than once but gave up on: The aforementioned Der Kunst Der Fuge; Mozart's 3rd Violin, which I have ridden to before; Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, one of my very favorite pieces of music - all were simply not "loud" enough, consistently enough, for them to be appreciated, no matter how much I wanted them to be a part fo the experience. Some music, however, was surprising in its utility: either for mood, for a driving rhythm, or for some undiscovered appropriateness to the Ride. Dire Straits was a perfect example... and I played both ends of the spectrum...

As a special present, I am adding this video I had never seen before....

This is one of the songs I played most often - and hearing this song come on when i was nearing Notre dame, where i first heard it, was slightly surreal.

Seriously - just look around....

This song was somewhat ironic, as I rode through Wyoming, Montana, the Dakotas, and back through Nebraska; cowboys were all around. And, to be fair, there was a subtle shift in the dynamic between men and women, as I found my way through the "flyover" Plains; but not so much that i felt like throwing this song around. Whatever happened to Paula Cole? Such a talent...

Alannah Miles has been in my rotation for a while, right along with Melissa Etheridge, in a grouping that I like to play when I feel like rye whiskey or Budweiser, two vices I seem unable to abandon totally.

I mean, I'm not gonna drink it, but I still love the song....

Okay - this is has been growing over the intervening months - and I need to simply decide that it is done. I may add more music from the ride sometime later for those of you, who are not too horrified to discover I am still writing about this...

Like the weirdness of listening to Dawes' A Little Bit Of Everything, after actually riding across the Golden Gate Bridge (I wanted to find a place to stop on the bridge to stop and play it - but that wasn't happening - I am still trying to settle an "EZPass-like" fine from the one time we crossed the damned thing...

Or the experience of listening to Hotel California while actually riding THROUGH the "warm smell of colitas..."  Hearing Annie Lennox sing "Love is a stranger in an open car..." when you are alone on the highway, at night in the dark, with one pair of headlights on I-80 that you haven't been able to shake for an hour. Trying to dance to Love Shack while descending a 77-mile set of twisties down a mountain that is trying to throw you off, because: what the heck. Why not go out in style.

But that will be another story.


*The iPhone 7 served as: Phone (not used often, but once I reached the areas where the Internet really is completely a LIE, I often had to call for reservations....; GPS; sound system source; monitor for the GoPro (it really is cool how that works - so I could see what the Hero7 could see while it was mounted on my helmet - astonishing that I still did so badly really...) Mileage log (I endorse MileIQ); text message manager; wallet; flashlight (yes, it's the one I used to set my tent up); weather lookout, complete with radar; calculator (handy for trig calculations when trying to dodge tornadoes); traffic news source (I was able to get traffic text messages in most states, which saved me a lot of time when a portion of I-80 got suddenly closed in Utah); I am sure I am forgetting a lot of functions, but, while I had backups for some of them, the iPhone replaced about twenty different devices, including repair manual for the cycle itself, and first aid manual. OH: ALSO PRIMARY STILL CAMERA. AND SCANNER FOR RECEIPTS AND OTHER DOCS. Also bookshelf - after wrestling with the idea, I decided not to bring any physical books with me. And sometimes I did that on the iPad, which i did have with me, but mostly as a backup for the phone.

So: Go Apple, at least in this case.

The Minstrel Bo-oy to the War Has Gone...

Some where in one of these posts I mention that I am never so happy as when I am trying to do too much. I am not really sure that that is true, but it seems to be the impression many people who know me have, and they make some valid points. But even I will admit that this whole venture has been a bit of a mouthful to bite off, and I am feeling very lucky and blessed to have made it this far.

And yet...

I mentioned in another post that one of the things I do every year, now, and that really was one of the major turning points of my life when I started it, is the Pennsic War. With the Ride, and all, I knew that I would have to give that up this summer...

Wouldn't I?

So first, I "pre-reged" - pre-registered - so that my land group (household) could have the land my registration would entitle them to. They have been very good to me in past years, and it seemed the least I could do. (For the record - Pennsic is the single least expensive way to go on vacation I have ever seen - assuming you are capable of being frugal and avoiding temptation - it's $175.00 for 17 days on site. If you are adept at camping, have the knowledge to feed yourself for that long with dry goods and preserved foods, and can avoid the siren song of the myriad astonishing vendors of crafts and wares, you need spend little more than that. Of course, almost no one does that.)

But then, since I was pre-reged, I talked to my householder and asked if - just maybe - if the gods smiled upon me - and I made it to the area of War (N.E. PA - Slippery Rock is the closest real "place" to Cooper's Lake Campground, the actual site) with my camping gear intact and enough time to spare - could I possibly camp with my household, even though I wouldn't be paying the full camp fees. Couldn't hurt to ask, right? And so, with his assent, I put it in the itinerary as a "maybe"...

So, "War" is the largest function of the SCA - The Society for Creative Anachronism. It is basically a medieval siege village of over ten thousand souls that is set up for more than two weeks - after day 8 or 9 they usually have to open a federal post office, it's so big. (10,000 plus). There is everything you can think of - armored combat, sword fighting, archery, crafts, a University with hundreds - literally - of classes, about forty different ways to volunteer to help the whole thing run, and of course, at night, the parties. Oh, the parties.

Even this photo doesn't quite show the whole thing... it's A Lot.

For info on the SCA, go here:

Society for Creative Anachronism

Here is a really good, quick news piece done on War a while back:

Meet The Scadians

Also:
Pennsic Official Page

The 50th anniversary of the SCA was just a few years back; the 50th Pennsic is only three years off. The stories are rife, and entirely apocryphal, but phrases like "the king who declared war on himself and lost" and "Loser gets Pittsburgh" give you a sense of the event. Unike most SCA events, which tend to take, at most a long weekend, War is huge, global (I have several Pennsic friends who come from Australia) and... a little less SCA than most events. Because of the scale of the event, Pennsic draws folk who might be really denizens of other cultures, but who want to fight in the War, or just hang out with Scadians and enjoy the culture and parties. There are serious, very academic reenactors, more than one entire clanne of early period Celts, Romans, and even the Tuchux, who actually predate the SCA at Cooper's Lake Campground (the formal name of the site) by most accounts, and are a fictional society of caveman-like "dogs" from an early 20th C. series of fantasy novels.

I first came to War in 2007, (Pennsic XXXVI) when, after young friends in FRDNX, having badgered me for years to come try this thing they did - "we're pretty sure you'd really like it..." - forced my hand by being married there. The MD Shakesfest 2.0 was taking a summer off, and I had been riding motorcycles with renewed vigor, and had just discovered camping off of one, so there was no reason for me not to go, and as a cost-saving measure, I determined to stay in the camp instead of in a hotel like most of the "mundane" guests chose to do. 

My very first night in camp (after "trolling in" - registering - I was promptly put in charge of "cutting these into a rough dice" in the outdoor kitchen, taught to play Tamerlane's Chess, introduced to the very cute young minister, who immediately made me feel old as hell by announcing "wait: you're Joseph Musumeci? I studied you in college!" (remember, this is over a decade ago...). By the end of the next morning, I had my first set of real (if weak) garb, knew how to tie a ring belt, and had stolen a bridge from another camp for the ceremony.

The actual wedding was lovely, and brief. It involved a procession of actual knights, a lovely exchange of vows, and the bride's brother in law reading, rather drunkenly, from Shakespeare. It lasted 20 minutes. 

Max.

The groom and best man

The bride and her parents

The actual ceremony. Seriously - see how cute the minister is? She is also an entirely lovely person, but nothing kills a flirt like, "Hey, I studied you in college..." Yes, the BIL is definitely drunk, and reading from Shakespeare. In a Russian accent. Yes, I stole that bridge.

The reception... well, that was a different matter. It was no more than a hundred strong, probably less than 60 - we all fit under the newly expanded dining fly of House Hedgehog - but the feast and the entertainment were unparalleled in my experience. There were seven courses, all of meticulously documented period recipes, several courses of which I remember to this day, including sausage stuffed "hedgehogs" of fire-roasted meal, and a pear soup that was to die for. Each course was separated by a different flight of mead, and entertainment, ranging from a troupe of very seriously talented belly dancers to a woman of indeterminate but advanced age reading, from memory, Icelandic Eddas.

I miss that henna tattoo.

Two of the best cooks at an event that has a lot of them...

This is probably around course 4 or 5. I still don't know quite what to make of all this, but I already know I like it. And may, by this time, have secreted a bottle of buckwheat mead between the bride's mother and myself.

But this was only the private portion of the reception. At the end of the meal, and an approximately one-hour "honeymoon" for the bride and groom to catch their breath, the camp was opened to... well, War. HH is not a large household, by any means, but the yard and the street in front held at least 500 people, all clamoring for drink simultaneously, while constant musical and dancing entertainment went on around the fire pit: ATS dancers, Turkish, Gothic you name it, drumming, drumming, drumming, harps, sitars, brass instruments I didn't recognize. 

I don't know if I had ever seen live fire spinning close up. 

If you look closely, you can get a sense of how crowded the yard in front of the dining fly was... that's about 60 feet deep, and much wider than our (well, then, "their" camp...)

I was also introduced to clove cigarettes at this war. It still makes me smile to smell them.

I don't know whether i slept that night. But I spent the next day exploring all the rest that this Ridiculous, Amazing "event" had to offer. All I remember of Monday is watching my first battle - the Field Battle - with a soup tureen of mint juleps. And then I had to ride home.

Learning to play Tamerlane's Chess

I also wasn't kidding about the soup toureen. Just out of the frame,  thousands of people are whacking each other with sticks.

I came home with two new shirts, a pair of pants, a hat, a hat pin, a hangover, my first tribal tattoo (temporary, but it scared the shit out of my colleagues on Tuesday ;-) and a more than passing interest in a particular redhead. I have never looked back. This is the part of me that I had stuffed down for too long, that had almost died inside. I have been back, for at least a long weekend every year since, and I was proud to be made, a few years later, an official member of House Hedgehog, and to make my own contributions over time - for Pennsic, while for many the only and longest vacation of their year, is never easy, and requires an ungodly amount of prep and care to pull off each year.

A few years after the wedding, the HH household, ever eager to improve, turned their dining flies into a full-on pavilion, that bore the household badge; a few years later, our householder was lamenting around the fire one evening that he feared the pavilion was on its last legs, and he would have to dispose of it soon, as the canvas was no longer able to be repaired economically. As the legend goes, I piped up (possibly, adult beverages were involved) and said, "Milord, if that happens, I can design you a longhouse that will flat pack into our truck and go up in a day."*

Jaysus.

Needless to say, he threw the old pavilion away at the end of that war. So, I was stuck...

The story of the House Hedgehog Long House is an involved one, but it can be pretty much summed up in two words: Mission Creep. The original concept was something that would be, in essence, a glammed-up version of our main pavilion, with the appearance, at least, of solid-ish sides. The end result was a 24x36 foot adaptation of an amalgam of Norse longhouse styles adapted for the Pennsic weather, pushing the site-specific limitation of 16' tall, with a second floor on both ends.

The original dining fly - which had actually been more than doubled in size for the wedding.

Behind us is the new and improved main pavilion, sewn out of the dining fly canvas.

Go Big or go home. The gentleman to the right is one of the two other principal carpenters, and the one in charge of getting it up without me this year. I am very proud of him.

Still in process: the shutters, half closed and half woven with wattle, that will make it look much more like an actual lomghouse/meadhall.  Notice the old banners flying from the ends of the ridge poles. Nothing wasted. And rarely anything thrown away ;-)

For the first three years of the longhouse, I arranged my attendance so that I could be there for setup weekend, including attending War Practice the first year so I could survey our land. This year, because of the Ride, HH was going to have to erect the house on their own, and without my help (there was ONE phone call, pretty desperate, mid-afternoon on setup Sunday, which, very fortunately, caught me on a rest stop. More accurately, caught me after the completion of the Iron Butt run, and just as I was checking into my room. Because otherwise, I would have been dead asleep.) We did a class beforehand, and I reid all the drawings, and lent them all the tools I had usually brought along. (I invested in some lightweight surveying tools the first year we did it - hard structures are less forgiving than tents...

Anyway - part of my interest in attending this year, if only for day or two, was to see how they had done.

But really - there are a few people I only ever see at War, and moreover, only see in their "natural state." When you know someone primarily as a professional pirate, or an ironmonger, or a belly dancer, or the renegade owner of a turkish coffee house, it's more interesting than knowing them as an IT security pro, a state house admin, or a corrections officer. So i was really trying to make at least a day at War happen, on the way home. Kudos and thanks, here to Chris and Elspeth (who is, herself, or: was? - baronesses stay baronesses, but not landed, I guess - nobility in the SCA) for letting me stay with them a second time, as I altered my homeward path from Des Moines, since that is where I wound up rather than Ames. It was a long-ish day to get to them, but so good to see them again, and one more long-ish day put me in Slippery Rock. 

It. Was. So. Much. Fun.

I haven't been for less than 10-14 days in at least seven or eight years - but even the almost exactly 40 hours were just enough to prime my pump and give me the energy I needed to get home again, refreshed, and re-entered into something like my homeworld. I saw friends I hadn't seen in ages, ate food I hadn't realized I missed so much, bought a new short tunic (because I hadn't been able to pack a change of garb - although I had some "bog pants" that would suffice for the short time I was there) and spent real quality time, if not as much as I would have liked, with most of the people I wanted to see. The household had done a great job of getting the LH up, although, not, apparently, without some soreness, and angst - and had added a kitchen to it that matched, and was very impressive.

And I got to take my last little video - one I have always wanted to have - the video of coming off the highway and into our little brigadoon. It really is a moment, when the bus lot gives way to the parking lot, and then the next thing you see are all the tents covering the fields. 

I didn't even need my tent - I slept on the loft level of the Longhouse, which was surprisingly comfortable, and while I had intended to buy all my meals at the food court up in the "Serengeti" - the flat part of the site up "topside" I was invited to take all my meals with my household while I was there.

Synn Vasallo, house mother of of Midnattsol, took this pic. I literally didn't pull out a camera, after rolling video as I entered the site on my bike. All of Midnattsol, I think, is comprised of former Hedgehogs - it's cool watching people grow and expand from their roots at War.

I stayed for two nights, and headed off late the following morning, and was ready, finally, to bring the ride to a close. Which, as I have already mentioned, Bonnie and I did the following Saturday at Rehoboth Beach.

Really, what could possibly top the summer I have had? Okay, fine: this was our private beach on Rehoboth Bay. I take no credit for this year's beach planning - i was just along for the ride.

As it were...

So, that's it for this installment of As The Two Wheels Turn. Tune in next week for Ooh-Ooh That Smell... and The Playlists That Kept Me Alive




* We say "milord" and "milady" a lot. It's polite. Let it go. Also, yes, there is increasing use of the gender non-binding, "good gentle." Also - as far as the "go up in a day" part goes... there is this household at War that holds two huge parties - they do so in a replica of an Italian villa that they spend their entire first week putting up, and most of their second week taking down. I may or may not be guilty of having said, on more than one occasion, "you know, if I had six decent stagehands I could put that up in a day - two max."

So, before I posted the "end of the road..." and the final mile tally, etc...

I was in Salt Lake City, my friend Eric had just left me to go back to his family and home in Pocatello ID, and I was trying to decide whether I should do this crazy "Iron Butt" thing.

For those who are unaware, the Iron Butt Society of America presents themselves as "The World's Toughest Riders," and they have a wide variety of quests on which one can go to prove it. In order to join the ranks, one must complete at least their "minimal" challenge, the "Saddlesore 1000": traveling a measured, documented 1000 miles in 24 hours or less. Trips of 1000 miles or more in a day are more common (though still taxing, and not recommended for amateurs) in automobiles and trucks - doing it on a motorcycle, even one specially prepped for the task, is a more daunting undertaking.

The Iron Butt Association of America

The fact that I was considering doing it on a sportbike after an already sometimes grueling trip of 5000 miles or so will be not be lost on my audience, but the IBA really doesn't care. Hard Core is where they live. These are the kinds of riders who regularly remove the passenger seats of their bikes to install additional gas capacity. I promised Bonnie I would NOT become one of those. (We'll see.)

After taking an afternoon and an evening to rest up in SLC, I came to the following conclusion:

• I made it this far - there was no point in not trying
• The IBA goes to some lengths to ensure that everybody stays safe
• No challenges require you to speed; I used to doubt this - but it's true.
• They will not accept any documentation that includes evidence of breaking the law.
• They do not allow you to register a ride before the fact - that cuts down on any pressure of the "peer" type...
• I had enough time to keep to my schedule and NOT do the Iron Butt - I would just have to break it into two relatively long, hard, days, rather than one very long very hard one.
• I trust you all not to mock me too badly if I set out for it and didn't finish.

I had my route ready from the beginning - it was on the original itinerary, to which I have been more or less able to keep. Start in Salt Lake City, UT,  go to Ames, IA. The remaining questions were: where and when to begin. After thinking it over, since I had not done much night riding, I didn't want to be doing it at the end of the stretch, when I would likely be the most tired. Since I was looking at a 24-hour span, I figured putting the dark hours in the middle would be the best plan. So: start off at or around noon, finish around noon the next day.

For the details of the challenge I was attempting, you can go here:

Saddlesore 1000

As you can see, the documentation requirements are pretty stringent. I had had the thought that Eric could be my start witness, but he needed to get back home long before I was ready to start out, so, fortunately, the manager at the gas station/store where I began was happy to be my "start witness". He was actually very nice about the whole thing, and agreed to take a selfie with me, as well. With my first gas receipt (Maveriks in SLC, 11:44a.m., MT) tucked into the top pocket of my tank bag, I hit the road for I-80, heading East.

I made pretty quick work of the rest of Utah, which was actually lovely, but in a low-key, desert-y kind of way to which I had become inured. The regular daily dose of absurdly beautiful landscapes can become debilitating, and blunt one's ability to appreciate beauty when it rears its head. So it took me a second, as I rode into Wyoming, to realize that everything changed, as if on cue, in subtle and not so subtle ways.

Utah is all reds and ochres and sharp contrasts...

Wyoming is more subtle (in the area I was in, anyway) and the chalky colors were fascinating to me.

For one thing, Wyoming is a different color, There is a green mineral in the lower strata of the buttes in Wyoming that renders the whole state a sort of wan, but cheerful easter palette. (please bear in mind that when I speak of a state in generalities like that, I am, of course, only speaking of the portion of the state visible from I-80. I'm locked into a narrow passage, here, and am grateful, actually, that most states (I'm lookin' at you, Nevada) have let the Interstate run through some of the more attractive terrains they have to offer.

You have to blow up the picture, but you can see the faint green at the bottom, the color fo lichen, more than anything else I can think of...

Wyoming is also Big. I mean, freakin' HUGE. My goal, having to get through both Wyoming and all of Nebraska as the main parts of the ride, was to kill off Utah and Wyoming in the first 12 hours, and Nebraska and what I needed of Iowa in the second half day. Things were going well - I had originally planned to ride 40 minutes and rest 20 minutes, rinse and repeat, until complete. It became quickly clear that the rhythm of available gas stations and rest stops was NOT going to cooperate with that schedule, so I adjusted on the fly: 1 hour riding, 1/2 hour resting, repeat, etc. Eventually, what actually worked was simply to ride as long as I could, until pain or the need for gas or a pee made me stop, and then rest for exactly half as long as I had ridden. I stopped in Evanston, WY and in "Little America" which seems to actually be a place name, but also a travel oasis kind of place, with a truckers oasis, a family/car/bus oasis, camping, and even regular rooms. It is also the weirdest thing to see this grove of pine trees rising for no reason out of the high desert. I think I forgot to take pictures there, but here are some from the internet...

In case you think I am exaggerating about Little America being an oasis of green in the middle of the desert...

I planned on two real meal breaks, and the time for dinner coincided exactly with the advent of Rawlins, Wyoming. So to Michael's "Big City" diner I went (no lie)...

This - thing - was outside Michael's Big City Bar and Grille. I think it's... art? Yes, that's real barbed wire.

It was... interesting. But more importantly, somehow, they managed to take an hour to cook a freaking cheese steak, so I didn't even get to eat my dinner. When I asked to take it to go, they were disappointed for me, but obligingly brought me a "to-go" container. Now, I have been wearing my motorcycle armor jacket the whole time in the restaurant - I have the helmet with the audio hookup and the GoPro on the seat next to me - it can't be a surprise that I am riding a motorcycle. (The timing thing, I excuse - I never made it clear that I had a deadline, and should have, as soon as I realized that the one waitress was very overwhelmed... it was a busy night for them, they had customers...) But when they brought me a giant bag with not only the fries I had just specifically said to leave out, but a big bowl of au jus - they have a special idea of what  Philly Cheese Steak is... well, I just left the au jus on their bench outside, and took the styrofoam clamshell and crammed it into the bungee net holding my gear on the back of the luggage rack (remember this - it's important-ish...)

And got back on the road. It's now after 7 pm, and I have been on the road for seven hours, about 5 of which have been actual riding hours, and I have gone about 300 miles. If I make a mere 200 miles in the remaining 5 hours before midnight, I will be right on track. The next stretch goes without a hitch, I am riding with the sun setting behind me in Wyoming, and I have to say, it's kind of pretty, but I am trying to focus, and there is a lot of traffic because of construction on I-80. Single tracking with semis coming at you three to six feet away with a closing speed of 140 mph is a little nerve-racking, and also creates wind artifacts that require concentration.

I hated not being able to spend time looking at this, perhaps catching it just as it went down....

At the Pilot in Laramie, the sunset still lingered in the western sky, even though it was dark for all practical purposes.

By the time of my fourth stop, it was genuinely dark, although there were still signs of the sun setting in the west behind me. I stopped at the Pilot in Laramie, WY, which was weird only because while stopped I received a message from one of my colleagues about a possible workshop at school with Tectonic theatre group, the company that famously did the Laramie Project. A sign? While in Laramie, I ate the first half of my cheesesteak, (by now cold, but still, actually, a fine sandwich), crammed it back into the bungee netting, and took off. By now, I imagine, it is nearly 10pm (I have times on the gas receipts - but I didn't perhaps foolishly, keep time notes on my log entries for each stop) and it's starting to get much cooler, so I put on the first extra layer I have with me - the fleece under-layer.

I stop once more in Wyoming, sometime before midnight, in Cheyenne, at - wait for it - another Little America? I gas up, and add the windbreaker that I hope will get me through the night. I also eat the rest of the sandwich I got from the Big City (tee-hee) and threw the styrofoam clamshell away (the fries were a horrid gelatinous mass) and got back on the bike and drove off again. (paying attention?)

At 12:10 am, I hit the Loves in Sidney, NE. For the first time, when I gas up, the pump won't print a receipt, so I get a duplicate from the clerk inside, and also fill up on a coffee and cocoa. I check the weather ahead, and it still looks like I am going to be able to dodge the growing storms around me - there has been obvious recent rainfall at my last two stops, but I am watching the radar and my timing is working. Apparently, I will, over the course of the evening/morning, miss serious storms, and in one case, a nearby tornado, by less than ten minutes. For the first time, having gotten out of Wyoming on time, and feeling still really fine, thanks to my full day of rest, I think that I am going to be able to do this.

During the next leg, I see a sign in the dark: Scenic Overlook. Now, I am riding through Nebraska. It's dark, to be sure, but I am pretty confident of my assessment of the surrounding terrain, and the word "scenic" sounds like it might be hyperbole. But I decide I am due for a little leg stretch, anyway, so I pull off, somewhere near Big Springs NE. I am really not sure what they think I am supposed to be looking at during the day - it looks like a plain, plains field, going on forever, though there is train off in the distance to the south, but as luck would have it, on this night, the moon is behaving  very scenically. I snap a photo and send it to Bonnie, even though I know (or at least certainly hope) she is asleep.

This really was lovely. I still haven't figured out why this spot is a "scenic" overlook, but, hey...

I get back on the road, and my next stop is in Gothenberg, NE, at 4:20 a.m., at Cubby's Travel Plaza. I expect to be on the ground for at least a half hour, so I go to unpack the charging cable for the FreeCom (helmet audio) because no one wants to be trying to stay awake on the road without tunes.

Okay, now go back three paragraphs, to the end of the graph... what don't you see? I threw out the sandwich package... do you see where I refastened the bungee net before I took off again? Yeah.

Neither do I.

...the top half of the bungee net is hanging limply around the big bungee cord that serves as a backup for the whole "back rack pack." (thank goodness for redundancy...)

Right up to this point, I have been feeling shockingly good. I have been on the road for 16 and a half hours, actually riding for more than ten of those, and I have covered 700 of the requisite 1000 miles - I am on a good pace. But I am sure I don't have to explain the gut-blow that comes from finding you have done something blindingly stupid, and possibly debilitating... I stop and assess the damage - I have lost the GoPro bag, and it had most of the adapters and charging cables for the whole venture in there. I have lost my pillow - no big deal, but it makes me sad, because I liked it... I have lost the Purple seat pad. Expensive, but I was only using it in the first leg of each day, anymore, anyway. And I have lost the Bonneville Salt Flats hat I bought as "my" souvenir. Everything else has been saved by the redundant bungee cord. Phew. (Ask me sometime about why I am so paranoid a packer, and I or one of my closest friends will explain why ALL the semi-formal clothes I owned for a full decade wound up on the side of the PA turnpike one October....)

So:

There won't be any video for a while - oh well. I have to charge the audio - but that's a USB to micro-USB, and I find one inside the Cubby's Travel Plaza convenience store. Now I can charge the audio, and the only other thing that really matters is my trusty iPhone 7, which charges off its own cable on the bike. The rest can wait. Off we go.

Aurora is the last stop in Nebraska - breakfast and gas, at about 7am. I vow to take the whole hour until 8am. I am not sure I can make it to Des Moines (my adjusted destination) on the full tank of gas, but I can get close. Now, since Gothenberg, a lot has happened. 1) I am still adjusting to the stupid loss of the stuff - mostly not essential, but expensive, and it's more my pride than any thing else. 2) Also - remember, I have been in Nebraska since around midnight - and I haven't seen it. Since the sun went down in Wyoming, I have, with the exception of the brief, romantic respite of the moonscape in the scenic overlook, been inside a video game. There are lines to the right of me, there are lines to the left of me, (here I am, stuck in the middle with...) and whizzing past me incredibly fast, and sometime only feet away, are headlights coming the other way. That's it. Some rain, but very little, thanks to my father's insistence I learn trig at an early age, and some cold, but that's it. Dark, speed, and the occasional truck stop for about 7 hours. Frankly, not even a very good video game.

Wait - is that GREEN on the side of the road...?

But, at around 5:45, I sensed that the sky ahead was getting just a little less black than the rest of the panorama, and I drove into sunrise. I say sunrise, but of course, that would imply that the sun rose. Really, I drove into a lovely sort of cloudy greyscape, and a tinge of pink and salmon grew around its edges as the luminance increased. Slowly, I began to realize that I was in a completely different world than the one I had said good night to a few hours before - truly - I could have been home. East Nebraska is much flatter than my stomping grounds of Central and Western maryland, but not nearly so flat as SoMd or the Eastern shore - otherwise, it was a doppelganger for the east coast - deciduous trees, deep green fields, even crops I recognized. It was, honestly, slightly demoralizing, as it felt like the first little signal that this adventure was coming to an end - but at the same time there was the comforting familiarity of "home" - when a little comfort was certainly welcome. As I flew further east into the growing light, I began to wonder if I should pull over and put the rainsuit on again, because it looked as though the sky ahead was growing dar-

Poof. Everything was gone.

What has appeared, in the early morning light as though it might be clouds ahead, had actually been a pea-soup fog bank much closer than if it had been clouds. Every single vehicle seemed to be taken by surprise, and there was screeching, braking: a flurry of cars, semis, and me slowing but not slowing too quickly, putting on our hazards, feeling out the distance so that we could all see each others tail lights, but no closer, and

Phew.

No collisions, no accidents at all, that I was aware of, but that may have been the most hairy moment of the whole trip for me. It was the densest fog I think I have ever been in, and were all going 80 mph. Later, and it would have shown up as white, and we would have known what it was; earlier, and someone might have died, because it wasn't a gradual push into a deepening fog - it was like flying into a cloud. But, every one's luck held out, and onward we went - the fog petered out, before we got into Iowa, which looked even more like home.

It is around 10 am. I am in Iowa, and I am less than two hours away from my goal. And this is when I hit the wall. Like the fog, it came out of no where. One minute, I am feeling great, and the next I realize I don't remember the last 10-15 minutes. I pull over to a rest stop (remember, it's full daylight, by now, and it's sunny again.) It is a perfect, summer day in West Iowa, and I feel like I am underwater. One thing I haven't mentioned is that my dear friends Chris and Mike have both been watching this. They have (along with Bonnie and one or two other familial types) have had access to my GPS, and have been able to track me in real time. Since I launched off on the Iron Butt Run, they have been tracking me and being encouraging, noting my progress, even, apparently, in Mike's case, zooming in on Google Earth to look at what I am seeing, on occasion. They didn't know it, but in the last hour and a half, their encouragement was the main thing that kept me going. I puled into a rest stop, and took serious assessment. I had caffeine, which I hadn't really used since the one coffee the night before. More importantly, I had sugar. I looked at the distance, at my gas, and decided i had made it this far, I would set out cautiously, and singing and reciting the multiplication tables all the way, I headed out for West Des Moines, where I would have definitely have covered a thousand miles, in definitely less than 24 hours, and there was a Motel 6 room waiting for me. Now I had some concern that I was hallucinating at first - but no, there really were giant fan blades on the road with me. Iowa, more in evidence than any other state I went through, is really serious about wind power. I passed two farms, just in the first third fo the state, that dwarfed any I have seen (and I have seen some really big ones in southern IN) and was CONSTANTLY passed on the road by trucks transporting... blades. i don't know what else to call them. I had seen one on a truck, once, on I-95, but ti was a distance way from me. Having them pass right by you is another thing entirely.

You just can't have any idea of how huge these are. Each vane is over 100 feet...

One more brief, not-even-logged stop at a truck pulloff (where I got to take this pic of a windmill) just to catch my breath, and I ran into West Des Moines and the QuikTrip where the manager agreed to be my stop witness - and to take a selfie, too...

12:08pm.

Now, if you remember, I left at 11:44 a.m. ... but that was Mountain Time. This is Central.

11 hours, 36 minutes. 1070 miles.

I have often wondered if there would be any pleasure for me in this sort of riding - riding for the sheer distance and time of it, just to be on the road, the kind of miles that truckers put down. Now that I have done it (badly - for believe me, success or no, this was badly done - wrong bike, sketchy weather, etc.) I can see how it has its own unique charm - it is, really, not about the destination, or even the side show - it is about pure riding. The road slipping by beneath you, the changes in the vistas, the sun coming up on a completely different landscape than the one on which it sank. I would not do this (or, save a few days about which I have already waxed.. poetic?, any of this trip again on the sportbike I had available. But with a sport touring bike, and a little more rest between legs. Sure. I could see doing another serious distance run - maybe for my 60th birthday I'll try the 50CC (that's where you cross the country in 50 hours or less ;-)

Special thanks to all of you who were pulling for me, and to Chris and Mike for buoying me up when I needed it.

next up... deja vu.