A non-finishers view of the 2006 Land of Enchantment Endurance Rally
by Ron Schmidt
Fast forward to the banquet dinner after the end of the rally. Ira, the rally master, asked the last place finisher to stand up.
“Did you have a great time?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed.
Ira’s goal for this rally was, most importantly, to have no injuries. It was also important to him that each competitor would have a good experience. He would consider the rally a success if the last place finisher had had a good time. Little did he know that I, as a non-finisher, also had the time of my life and I considered the experience a personal success as well.
My friend Bob Torter had called about a month before that dinner to tell me that he had paid my registration for the 2006 Land of Enchantment rally to be held on Saturday, October 7th and Sunday, October 8th. He had requested that I ride it because it is such a fun rally. But, he also knew that my business was taking so much time that I would never sign up. Being a close friend, though, he also knew that I would never turn down such a gift!
The LOE rally is held annually and is mostly in Mew Mexico. The rally masters do an astonishing job of sending the competitors to many remarkable locations that we would otherwise never know existed. My hat is off to Ira and Jeff and crew for scouting out so many places for us to see.
Other than competing in the in the North West Passage Rally two years ago, I have no experience in these long distance rallies. Even in that rally, I did not experience “rallying” because I just tried to do the Canada to Mexico to Canada 55 hour extreme ride, rather than using any brain cells to get more points by riding smarter rather than harder. I have done a lot of high mileage days, completed the Iron Butt Association Saddle Sore and also the Bun Burner rides, but those are very easy things to do. I really did not know what to expect in a serious IBA competition rally like this one. I knew it would be a bunch of miles in 24 hours and that there would be some locations to take pictures of, but beyond that I was really clueless.
I have my R1150GS set up with an auxiliary fuel cell to meet the IBA maximum of 11.5 gallons; about a million candlepower of light and a lot of things to just make the bike easy to ride and deal with when I am tired. I loaded four different colors of highliters and a map of New Mexico into my tank bag, all my cold weather gear into the saddlebags, and with immense enthusiasm I was off.
The weekend of the rally timed perfectly with one of the worst autumn storms in the Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona area in many years. The 600+ miles from my home in Salt Lake City to the rally headquarters in Los Lunas, N.M. was done almost completely in the rain and horrible winds. When I arrived there, Bob and his wife, Sylvie, were concerned about my late arrival time.
Early Friday evening the competitors all met for a fun dinner of story sharing and words of wisdom from the “Big Dogs”. At 8 pm we were shuffled into a small room and given the “talk” by Ira and Jeff, the other rally master, explaining how this was to be a safe rally. Ira made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that any breach of good motorcycling conduct would be reason for disqualification. This rally would be won as much in the hotel room by planning, as it would be on the road riding. There would be no reason to do really big miles because he was going to take each riders total bonus points and divide them by the number of miles they rode, and that number would be the competitor’s score. So, unless the far away places were worth so many points that the extra miles would not hurt you, the best plan would be to stay close and get as many bonus location points as possible. The rules were pretty easy. We had to hit at least 8 bonus locations and ride at least 1000 miles in 24 hours to qualify for a finish. An extra hour grace would be available, but at huge penalty point costs, for the slow riders or over ambitious planners. For me, that hour grace period would be 17 minutes too little!
By 9 pm I was in my room and opened my rally packet. I wondered why the packet was so thick, thinking that if we had only eight bonus locations to worry about, each location must have been explained in detail on a couple pages. To my horror, there were 18 pages of bonus locations, each page having about a half dozen locations listed on it. There were different point values for each location. How was I to even begin to determine which to go to, or in what order? I almost called Bob to tell him I was ill and was going to drop out before I started.
After a few minutes, when I could once again breathe and hear the radio over my beating heart, I thought to myself, “OK, so this is the game! Let’s do it!” To determine a route, it was clear that I would have to find each of the locations on the map, then try to make a route to include as many as I could and still stay close to 1000 miles. It would be impossible to reach all the locations in a 24-hour period, so decisions had to be made about which ones to choose. This took some time because I had to look on the map index to find each location. I spent about an hour to get through the first four of the 18 pages, marking each location with a green Hi-Liter. Somehow, the green seemed appropriate for me at that time!
Realizing then that another critical part of this rally would be getting some sleep before the actual riding started, and doing a quick mental calculation, I realized that the ride would actually start before I even found all the locations on the map at the rate I was going. Ira, bless his little rally master heart, had put what quadrant of the state each of the bonus locations was located in. So, a decision based more on desperation than intellect, I decided to only look at the points in the western part of New Mexico, because I knew it better than the east side. Then, using the pink Hi-Liter, I marked the pages of the rally packet that had bonus locations that were in the western part of the state only. Then I went back to the map, found those locations, and Hi-Lited them with the blue Hi-Liter. I then chose the 12 with the highest points, mistakenly figuring that if we needed only eight to finish, 50% more than that would at least get me in the running!
I drew out what looked to be a reasonable route, then entered each location into my GPS, Emily. (I named it “Emily” because I was able to choose a very calm British female voice that leads me kindly yet assuredly from place to place. She just sounds like an Emily to me!) I pushed the “sort” button just for grins and found that Emily had chosen the same order that I did. That was most comforting. The route computed to 1145 miles and 21 hours driving time. Seemed like a winner to me. I was in bed by midnight, but I was way too wound up to sleep soundly. About 3 am Saturday morning, still mostly wide awake, I decided to redo the route and take out some miles and bonuses to get closer to 1000 miles. I was done at 4, slept until 5, then was up and ready to go. A few hours of sleepless rest and one hour of good sleep is not really enough to start a 24-hour rally on, at least not for me!
About 6:15 I saw Sylvie Torter standing by their K1200S, looking like the movie star she always does. She asked to see my route. When she reviewed it she looked a little confused. “Why are you going to the west when all the good routes are to the east?” she asked in her beautiful Argentinean accent. I was dumbstruck. Bob and Sylvie know about 29,000 times more about this planning stuff than I do, and there was Sylvie, their team route planner, amazed that I had chosen to go the wrong way. She did point out that one of the good things I did was to take the off-road short cut from the Valle Grande to Cuba N.M., since I was on the GS. Sylvie knows that I think paved roads are a waste of taxpayer money and that I spend a lot of time riding the GS off the beaten path. I told her I was not even aware it was a dirt road, and with all the rain in the last few days I would not take the chance anyway. I made a note to make sure to avoid the dirt part, and route around it.
At 7 am sharp we were released in an orderly manner. I entered I-25 North and was off for my first bonus picture. It needed to show at least four hot air balloons from the Albuquerque Balloon Festival in the picture with my GS. I pulled off the side of the Interstate, parked the bike, hung my numbered towel on the saddlebag by removing the lid and pinching the towel between the lid and the main bag, and got the shot. I was almost overcome with the feeling of accomplishment. My first rally bonus picture ever, and it actually came out! With glee in my heart and a song on my lips I headed out for my next bonus at the Valle Grande.
About five minutes later, feeling like a real pro rally contender, I realized that I had not removed my rally number towel from the saddlebag! That towel has to be in every picture, or they do not count. If you loose your towel, you might as well go home. Just like a Galaxy Hitchhiker, that towel is the most important thing in your life as a rallyist. Earlier that very morning, Bob and instructed me to write the following in bold letters on the top of my tankbag:
Time and Date
Mileage
Towel
He advised that these easy things are often overlooked and lack of having of any one of them renders the picture a no-score. When he told me that, I thought to myself, “How could anyone forget to do those three simple things without a note? Certainly I could not make such a stupid error!” Yet, there I was, making the mistake he warned me about at the very first bonus stop! I pulled off the road, and was relieved to find that the towel was still connected to the saddlebag. I vowed to never let that happen again. While I was stopped, I got a marker out of the tank bag and wrote on top of it:
Time and Date
Mileage
Towel
you stupid man
It was raining hard when I stopped at the Valle Grande sign and took picture #2. It was cold enough to make the required Polaroid picture take a bit of time to self-develop, but as soon as I was sure it would be clear enough to pass Ira’s muster, I threw it in my bag and was off to the Bandelier National Park entrance for picture #3.
Leaving Bandelier, I was once again feeling euphoric. This rally thing is a lot of fun, even in the rain and cold. I love riding motorcycles and this was a new way to enjoy it. Emily had led me right to each location with her calm and reliable tone. The bike was running faultlessly, I was feeling unstoppable! YAHOO!
“Turn right in 200 feet” Emily said. I followed without question. The sign said that Fenton Lake was near, but the road was impassable during Winter. Well, this is Autumn, and things were just going so well that I did not even think about the warning. The road turned to dirt shortly after, and I recalled earlier telling Sylvie that I would not be riding the dirt. I had taken my favorite Avon Distanzia dual sport tires off and installed a set of Dunlop D607 street tires for this rally, figuring that the smoother tires would be more appropriate for the kind of riding I intended to do during this event. The first many miles of the dirt were very easy, hard packed and even though damp from the rain offered a surface that allowed speeds in the 60 to 70 mph range, using most of the suspension travel on few occasions, but mostly just a good, fun dirt road.
Then it happened. I came over a rise to see the slithered tire tracks immediately recognizable to dual sport riders as the slime that clay based roads become after being soaked in too much rain. I used all the brakes that the stupid BMW IABS system would allow and somehow did not crash as the front wheel locked up from the mud being jammed between it and the front fender. I stepped off the bike to find a stick to dig the mud out. Huffing and puffing now, I got back on the bike, noting that my boots each weighed about five pounds more than normal from the mud stuck to them. I started the bike, tried to get it to move and when I slipped the clutch I was reminded of the last dual sport ride when I toasted it. That is the smell burning money makes! Usually, in my business, this is a good smell, because I am on the receiving end of the repair charges, but this time it just stunk. The bike moved about one wheel revolution and then the front wheel was jammed to a stop again. Another stick, another stink, another wheel revolution further down the road. Repeat over and over again for 90 minutes. By then I could see that the road just a few hundred feet away was in the sunlight and might be dryer. Hope was everywhere!
Then Edward came around the corner, sideways, in his old Ford 4 wheel drive truck. He stopped and asked if he could help. Edward is a Native American, thin as a rail, perhaps 17 years old. He suggested we lift the bike into his truck and he would haul me out the last ¼ mile to where the road was passable. When I told him the bike weighed about 650 pounds he decided that he would just help me push it. With his help and the slightly dryer surface, I was back to being in control of the GS in 10 minutes or so. I gave Edward my most sincere thanks, money enough to feed him for a week, and a bottle of Propel. He was grinning when I left, probably thinking something about how foolish white men are!
I limped the GS into Cuba. The mud was still packed into the fenders so hard that the tires were very hot when I found a car wash there. I spent about 10 minutes spraying about a cubic yard of mud off the bike and my boots. I filled the tanks, got a receipt for the fuel, which would pay big points for the Bandelier/Cuba combo bonus. My spirits were coming back toward positive as I headed out to the next bonus location, only 60 miles away.
N.M. Highway 550 across the Apache Reservation is beautiful. The light at that time of day, the enhanced colors from the rain, the great condition of the road, and riding my motorcycle all began to make the earlier struggle diminish in importance. I decided then that I would continue my planned ride until 7 pm, one half of the time of the rally, and then take a look at where I was as far as time and bonus points were concerned. At that time I would make a decision about re-planning my route if necessary. I knew that losing about 90 minutes in a 24-hour rally was terrible, but I would just continue on my plan and enjoy this beautiful scenery for now.
I found the Blanco Trading Post and took a picture, entered the mileage and time, ate a hand full of trail mix and was off in a flash. Things were indeed looking up.
The next bonus was the Aztec Ruins. There was a mess of road construction there, and it took several extra precious minutes to negotiate through it. Emily kept repeating “Recalculating, recalculating” as I was forced to take the detours that the road construction demanded. She finally did get me to the ruins, I snapped a picture and was off toward Shiprock.
There was a gas receipt bonus in Shiprock, so I stopped even though I was not in need of fuel. I got the receipt and was so glad that I noticed that the time imprinted on it was incorrect. The receipt showed 13:34 (1:34 pm), the real time was 14:50 (2:50 pm). I knew that Ira would disallow that because with the correct time at the stop at the Ruins earlier, I would have had to average well over 100 mph to get to Shiprock that soon. Either I would be disqualified for reckless behavior, or the last bonus time would be disallowed. I convinced Tuyla, the attendant there, to sign my rally packet as a witness to the actual time, and to include her work phone number, just in case Ira wanted to verify my story.
While I was explaining why the time stamp was so important, a family of a few kids, a Mom, a Dad and Grandma overheard us. Grandma was fascinated by this crazy competition and wanted to know what the winner would be awarded. She was dumbfounded to find that the winner would only get a small plaque and the applause of a few other competitors. No money, no fame outside our small community, no free coffee at McDonalds, no adoring teenaged girls swarming about. Just the satisfaction of knowing that we do this just to do this. It is a competition of our riding ability, determination, some luck, good planning and time management. And, many of us would rather do this than just about anything else in the world. I saw a glimmer of understanding in her wise old eyes, and wondered what she had done in her life that she could equate to this. I wish I could have asked her, but I knew she understood, and the clock was ticking!
I was feeling remarkably first-rate, considering my lack of sleep, the time on the road, the pushing of the bike in the mud, and the stress of competition. I did know, though, that my next stop was many miles away, it would likely be dark when I got there and the temperatures would drop rapidly as the sun went to bed. I chose not to put on the warm gear though, because it would make me drowsily comfortable.
The ride south on N.M. 491 though the Navajo Indian Reservation toward Gallup is straight, wide open and barely patrolled, so I was able to make up some of the time I lost in the mud, hovering in the upper two digit speeds. South of Gallup, the evening critter crossings began as the light turned golden. I was surprised to see deer there, but they are just tiny compared to the ones here at home in Utah. Still big enough to ruin your day, though!
I stopped in Pie Town (really, I’m not making this up!) and got a picture of the Pie-o-neer Restaurant bonus. The owner, a pretty lady near my age, offered to give me a piece of her world famous pie if I would like one. It was very hard to say no, but I knew it would be easy to loose time I could not afford visiting with her and enjoying the pie. I did realize, as I drove away, that I had not eaten anything but a few handfuls of trail mix all day. I knew this was not smart, but continued anyway, my competitive nature winning over any form of good sense.
Five minutes before arriving in Datil, N.M. I began the final twelve-hour portion of the rally. I had traveled over 550 miles, had collected the minimum 8 bonus locations and was feeling a little tired. At that point, I could have taken a two hour nap, collected the rest bonus, and only had to average 45 mph riding up and down I-25 for ten hours and finished the rally. Or, I could continue my planned route, get some big bonus points for going into Arizona and maybe finish up higher in the standings, but more importantly, know that I had ridden hard, planned well and pushed myself rather than riding to just finish. I chose Arizona.
I fueled in Datil, NM, got the picture required of the Post Office, put on my heated jacket liner, installed the snap-on hand gators, and mentally prepared for the night ride west to Alpine, AZ.
The night sky was clouded, making it dark as the inside of a cow. The flashes of a major lightning storm ahead often punctuated the blackness. Each lightning strike would illuminate the clouds in brilliant showers of oranges and blues. It was exhilarating and wonderful. It was also directly in the direction I was headed.
I could tell by the GS’s reduced power that we were gaining altitude, and the falling temperatures verified it. Near the intersection of 12 and 180 it began to rain, then the rain turned to hail. The road became narrow and twisty, and I suddenly realized that I was VERY tired and hungry. I would get the needed picture of the Alpine Town Limit sign, stop there and get something to eat, and then continue toward Clifton, AZ to collect the big bonus points for hitting those two locations.
By the time I reached the Alpine sign, it was hailing so hard that it was difficult to tell where the road was. I saw the sign and got my number towel out. The sign was about 50 feet off the road, about as high as I could reach, and it was hailing so hard that it actually hurt. Try as I might, I could not find a way to secure the towel to the sign so I could get the two in the picture. I finally managed to pull the corner of the sign away from the steel post to which it was mounted, stick the corner of the towel between the two, hold the adjacent corner with my left hand, hold the Polaroid camera with my right hand, stretch out as far as I could and shoot the picture. I ruined the first picture by getting it wet; the second would not develop because it was so cold. I held the third attempt over the cylinder of the GS to get it warm enough to develop, but to my horror, it showed that the towel had blown over itself and I could not see my number clearly. The fourth attempt yielded an acceptable image. I shivered back to the bike after about 20 minutes of failed photography and being unplugged from my heated jacket. I was miserable, cold and hungry. This was not fun.
It was 8:30 pm when I slithered into Alpine proper and stopped at the only open restaurant in town, the Bear Wallow Cafe. I was certainly the focus of attention of the staff and locals as the fool on the motorcycle in a hailstorm messed up the floor of the restaurant with sloppy wet riding gear. The hail was coming so hard by then the main street looked like a river of hail.
I ordered a cheeseburger and fries and a cup of coffee. My server, Shaylyn, was very friendly and asked why I was riding a motorcycle in these conditions. I explained the rally, and she said she would go tell the cook to hurry up so I could get on my way as fast as possible. She returned moments later and asked where I was going.
“Are you out of your mind?” asked the man at the next table when he heard me tell Shaylyn that I was headed to Clifton. “You will never make it over that pass tonight. You could not get over that pass in a four-wheel drive truck. When it hails here, it will certainly be snowing and icy on the pass. My God, man, that road kills many motorcycle riders every year in the daylight in summertime because the turns are so tight!” He was obviously disgusted with me and every other stupid motorcyclist on the planet. He actually stomped out of the room, not wanting to even be near such an imbecile.
Shaylyn helped me spread out all the water soaked rally receipts onto various tables so they could dry out. She got some Ziploc bags for me to put them in. While I ate, she dobbed the receipts and pictures with napkins to dry them. A few of the patrons stopped and offered alternative plans how to get back to Los Lunas without going to Clifton. Their enthusiasm and willingness to help me finish the rally on time gave me a burst of energy. So often strangers can be amazing.
I suited up, paid my tab and a large tip that was far less than the Thank You I really wanted to convey, left the restaurant and got on the bike. I was really excited about finishing. It seems sometimes that the more difficult something is to obtain, the bigger value we place on it. A finish at this point was still possible, though very difficult to do in the 24-hour time limit before the penalty points for the one-hour grace period began. The hail had stopped, being replaced with a cold rain. I got to the intersection where a left turn would take me over the dangerous pass and to the high point paying Clifton. A right turn would take me the safe way, to an almost guaranteed finish, but I would miss the big Clifton bonus points. I though to myself “If this rally stuff was supposed to be easy, it would not have much appeal at all.” I turned left.
Behind the scenes, this was happening. Unbeknownst to me, I left my wallet in the cafe. In the wallet was all my cash, credit cards, ID, everything that one would not want to loose. Shaylyn saw it lying on the floor a few minutes after I left. She called the local sheriff, Web, who then called the sheriff in the next town, who agreed to go to the road they thought I would be on and stop me long enough for Web to get there with my wallet. You just have to love the small town people. Of course, I never showed up because I was on the impossible route to Clifton. I understand that they spent hours trying to find where I had run off the road and crashed! After the rally was completed, I called and found that my wallet was in Web’s care and he was kind enough to mail it back to me after the rally.
The road and weather to Clifton was just what the man at the Hungry Bear predicted. The snow started within 30 minutes of leaving the restaurant. There were many turns marked 10 mph and in these conditions, 10 mph was mighty fast. Not long after I crested the summit, I came to some tracks of a truck that had turned around. The snow was only about two or three inches deep, but the surface under it was ice. I spent many miles riding on the shoulder so there was a dirt surface under the snow that offered more grip then the ice on the tarmac. It was mentally exhausting as I watched the time slide away. Emily gave constantly updated predicted time of arrival at the final destination, and the chance of a finish was looking grim. Yet, I soldiered on. At that point, what choice did I have?
Some time after passing the summit and going to lower altitudes, the snow turned into rain, and a while later the road dried up completely. I put on my race face and was running full throttle or full brakes, both about the same amount of the time, as the straights were very short, the turns tight. The adrenalin overcame my sleepiness and I was literally laughing and screaming as I watched Emily show some possibility of finishing this thing on time after all!
As I pulled into Clifton and turned off the bike to get the needed picture for the big bonus for the Alpine /Clifton ride I was literally euphoric. It was about 1 am Sunday, the rain had come back, but lightly, I was warm from my heated jacket and most importantly, I was back on time! I shot the picture, turned the bike on and……….nothing happened. The battery was so dead that the clock even quit. What he #$%@! Then I remembered. BMW had released a Service Bulletin about how track riders can kill the battery by repeated and aggressive use of the servo assisted brakes on bikes equipped with the new IABS system. (Note: I have since removed the IABS system from the GS, after hating its operation for the last 50K miles. If my skill level is insufficient to operate the brakes on my motorcycle without the help of a computer and servomotors, I might as well just quit riding!)
So, there I was, 1 am on a deserted road with a dead motorcycle. I cursed like Meg, threw a temper tantrum like a spoiled three year old, kicked the Clifton sign which only hurt my foot, threw some rocks at the sign and mentally wrote a hate mail letter to the BMW engineers that came up with the IABS system. Then, with that stress released and in my sleep-deprived state, I began to laugh hysterically. I had made it though the mud, conquered the snow and hail, made Polaroid film develop in a freezing hailstorm, and had ridden hard enough to get back on time. Then, there I was, with a dead motorcycle killed from a device that was designed to save my life. I had to laugh. The bike was now completely safe because it would not start! So THAT was how IABS would save my life!
I was still not willing to accept defeat. I got out my flashlight and waited to see if anybody might come down that road. I saw some headlights and waved my flashlight and jumped up and down, knowing that the reflective parts of my riding suit would attract attention. The car was coming my way!
The Arizona Highway Patrol officer stopped and turned on the cruiser’s red lights. “Why are you here and why do you have all the lights turned off on your motorcycle parked on the roadside?” he asked, almost accusing me of breaking some law. I explained my dilemma and asked if he would just give me a jumpstart from his car.
“No, I will not. It is not my problem that you are here with a dead battery. If I was to stop and give a jump start to every Indian’s car that would not start, I would not get anything done.”
His lack of humanity was only overshadowed by his racism. I was appalled, more about his slam on the Indians than by his callousness of my condition. How such a man can be allowed to wear a badge and represent his state is a mystery to me.
“Sir”, I accused, “have you ever read what is on the door of your cruiser? It says ‘to protect and to serve’, of which you are doing neither. Are you going to help me, or should I just get your badge number and talk to your boss tomorrow?” Not the best tactic. He slammed his door, sprayed rocks all over me as he sped away.
A bit later, a Suburban with a family from New York came by. They stopped, but did not have jumper cables. The driver offered to give me a ride to the next town, but I declined because I was sure Officer Friendly would have loved to push my bike right off the road into the ravine below if he saw it was unattended.
Several minutes later a lowered Honda car with one of those loud mufflers that sounds like extended flatulence came by. The driver was a Native American youngster. He did not have jumper cables, but his friend who lived about five miles away did. He was off like Mario Andretti to awaken his friend at two o’clock in the morning to borrow his jumper cables to help this stranger out. Those damn Indians, anyway! This was the second time in 20 hours that I was being helped by a Native American who did not know me. Officer Friendly could take some lessons from these folks that he obviously knows little about.
My new best friend in the world was soon back and gave me the jump. I went to pull out my wallet to offer him some thank you money, when I realized that it was lost. I asked him for his name and address so I could send him a token of my appreciation when I found my wallet. He declined saying, “Sir, this is a small town; this is just the way we are. I would not take your money if you had it. Just promise me that if you can help someone one day that you will.” Now, there is an American we could all try more to be like!
Note: I now carry jumper cables!
With electrons flowing properly, I asked Emily to re-route us the very fastest way back to Los Lunas. I would bypass all the rest of the bonus locations.
The fastest way back was still many hours away, and the road through Mule Creek, past the Gila Cliff Dwellings and toward Silver City was tight and slow. There were patches of fog that were like pea soup. On top of all that, the rain came back again. And, I was VERY tired.
I came around a corner and saw a man with a huge backpack near the side of the road. As I rode by, I realized it was not a man, just a bush. A few miles later I saw a bear. When I went by it, I realized that it too was just a bush. I was aware of my errors, and decided to follow my “three mistakes rule”. I would stop as soon as I made even one more minor error. I had barely finished the thought when I saw the giraffe.
I immediately pulled off the road, got my squealing alarm out and laid down in the dirt under the saddlebag to try to get out of the rain a little. I set the alarm for 15 minutes, did not even take my helmet off, put the alarm on my chest and closed my eyes. The alarm seemed to go off immediately, but 15 minutes had indeed passed. I was surprised and pleased that I felt not just a little better, but fantastically better. I got back on the bike and headed toward Silver City.
I noted that both fuel tanks were very low as I came into Silver City. Even though I had no wallet, I was going to be OK because I keep $20.00 in quarters on the bike at all times just in case my cell quits and I need to make emergency calls from a pay phone. However, Silver City was in a deep sleep. Many gas stations had 24-hour service by using your card at the pump, but nothing was open that would take quarters!
I continued on, hoping to make it to Truth or Consequences where I knew there would be fuel. When I saw the car lights on I-25 in the distance, I was showing one bar of fuel on the main tank, the auxiliary tank was completely dry. I might just make it!
The Chevron Station in T or C was lit up and open! I made it. I ran to the counter, put the two rolls of quarters on the counter and asked the cashier to turn on pump #1.
“I will not take quarters for fuel”, the young girl cashier stated.
“What?” I responded incredulously. “You have to, it is all the money I have. Turn the pump on NOW”
“No, I will not take the time to count the quarters. The Indians do this to me all the time, and I refuse to do it.”
I just lost it. Those of you who know me well know that I am generally a very easy guy to get along with, and it takes a lot to make me really mad. But, I was way too tired, sick of the prejudiced comments, and was already into the penalty hour. I took the rolls of quarters, slammed them on the counter to open them and yelled at the little bigot “Start counting, turn on the #$%@#$ pump and do it now or there is going to be trouble here.” I guess she took me seriously, because by the time I got to the pump it was on. I put the fuel in the rear tank because it is faster to fill, sped out of there and was back on I-25 in less than six minutes from when I pulled into the station.
Emily showed the time of arrival to the finish line to be 7:27 am. NO! NO! NO! I had been through too much to see that I would be time barred by less than thirty minutes. A quick mental calculation made it clear that if I were to run just over 100 mph I would get there moments before the grace period ran out, finishing the rally, but loosing so many of those hard earned bonus points, but at least I could be an official finisher. I pegged the throttle wide open and watched the sunrise.
Less than one mile later, the miles of red “Road Construction” signs came into view. The road was narrowed to a single lane in each direction, and the speed limit was reduced to 45 mph, with warning signs that stated the fines for speeding would be doubled in the construction areas. I came up behind an 18-wheeler that had slowed to 35 mph on the grade. It was impossible to pass because a red sign every 30 feet occupied the space between the lanes. I considered passing on the shoulder. I recognized that if I were caught at 100+ mph with no driver’s license or ID of any kind on me, in a construction zone, I would probably get hauled off to jail.
I made the first correct decision of the entire rally. I followed the truck to the first place that was safe to pull off the road, stopped and dialed the Rally Master’s cell number. “This is Ron Schmidt, rider # 17. I am OK, but will not make the finish before the grace period runs out. I will see you at the banquet later today.”
I pulled into the finish area at 7:17 am. A most successful D.N.F.