The Bun Burner

Since I had cut a day from my trip, my lodging plans had changed. I had a reservation for a night at a campground in Anacortes, but now a night earlier, they had no availability. Instead, I spent my first night of the trip in a hotel. It was a fortunate thing too as, after a week in the Pacific Northwest, it had finally rained. As I loaded up the bike and set off, it seemed as though I had missed the worst of it, with only a light mist in the air. As I approached Seattle though, I realized I was wrong.

I cut into the express lane, attempting to bypass the worst of the traffic, fortunate that motorcycles are nearly always allowed into the HOV lanes. As long as I kept moving, my windshield would deflect the rain off me. I had memories of wet rides on my other bike, where the rain would seep under my collar, soak my shirt, and pool at my gut, leaving me a cold and wet mess. That wasn’t my only motivation for wanting to stay on the move though. I was competing in an Iron Butt ride, attempting to travel 1500 miles in less than 36 hours. Every minute counted and I was fortunate the traffic leaving Bellevue was light.

The rain persisted as I journeyed through the Cascades, and though somber, I found the gray clouds and rain-slickend landscape pretty. As I ventured further into the farmlands of Washington, though, the once-gray skies began to gradually lighten, revealing patches of serene blue. The transformation continued as I crossed the Idaho panhandle and set crossed into Montana, where the vast expanse of the blue sky seemed to stretch endlessly across the low rolling hills, unobstructed by the scarcity of trees. It was a sight that truly embodied the concept of a “big sky.”

I pulled into a hotel in Butte, planning to get a few hours of rest before returning to the road once more. I hoped it would be enough. I had done a Iron Butt ride once before, though it was only the 1000 mile ride. The 1500 mile version I was on now had the potential to be more demanding due to the increased distance. Considering I had spent the past week camping, time would tell if the next day’s 850 mile ride, the last and longest leg of the trip, would be harder to endure. How much had my stamina worn down over the past week. How much would be recovered by the night’s rest?

As I set out in the morning, these were questions I didn’t know the answer to. What I did know however, was that it was cold. Far colder than I expected a June morning to be, it only seemed to worsen as I navigated the mountains of lower Montana, the air temperature gauge on my motorcycle dropping from to a low of 41-degrees.

I wasn’t prepared for this type of weather. The heated grips and heated seat only could do so much against the rush of interstate speed air. The backs of my hands ached and my core shook. I know my reflexes were slowed, but it seemed as if I were the only one on the road. Other than birds, that is.

A flock of seagulls sat on the road, roughly a quarter-mile ahead of me. I expected them to fly away but, as I sped closer, they stayed put, oblivious to my approach. At the last moment, they took to the air but it was too late. With a pop of something hitting plastic, I looked down and saw a pack of feathers. I had taken a chunk out of a wing while a bent turn signal was the only damage to me. It could’ve been worse, had the bird struck my handguard instead. Would the sudden impact have been enough to upset the steering and crash the bike? I didn’t know, and was fortunate not to have found out.

As my journey pressed on, I passed by Salt Lake City, a familiar feeling hit me. I had been on this same stretch of asphalt once before, on my last cross-country ride nearly a decade before. I thought back to the events of that ride, and how much that route had influenced my life since, and I wondered if this trip would be similar. Would this trip leave an imprint on my life like the other one had?

I continued making my way south, venturing into the arid terrains of southern Utah and Northern Arizona. The last remnants of trees faded from sight, replaced once again barren ground colored in the familiar hues of Nevada's desert. And as the terrain changed, so too did the temperature, the blazing sun pushing the mercury into the upper nineties. It was a stark contrast to the lush greenery and cool temps of the rest of my journey. Yet, this return to the familiar was how I knew I was nearing end of my trip’s end..

Exhausted, I pulled into the gas station down the block from my house. I refueled and checked the odometer. 1,497 miles. While not quite the required 1,500 I needed, no motorcycle manufacturer seems to get calibration 100% right. My own is about 2mph off from the GPS and radar signs. Since the mapped out route was over 1,500 miles, I felt confident that this was just a calibration issue and that I had completed the ride. 1,500+ miles in minutes past 33 hours. I just hoped the Iron Butt Association would see it the same way.

I finally arrived back home, greeted my family, and began to share the incredible sights and experiences that had unfolded during my adventure. Although the stories could be shared, the memories would stay mine, relived each time I cleared my prop and took to the virtual skies.