outing report, symptoms, and bonus or two.

[hall@entelos.com]

Hi everyone. I'm presently shopping for a dual sport and I'm trying to decide between the Suzuki DR650SE and the Kawasaki KLR650. I would like some advice on the relative merits of these two motorcycles and opinions on what would be better for me. I plan on doing mostly street riding (realistically, I'd say 80% street), mostly around town and weekend trips. A long time ago, I raced motocross and harescrambles, but now I'd like to start doing some trail riding on weekends. Some concerns I have about the DR650 include the seeming lack of available luggage, windscreen, and a relatively small fuel capacity. I look forward to and appreciate any of your advice! Thanks. -kevin-

[InWoods13@aol.com]

In a message dated 11/6/01 8:37:00 PM Eastern Standard Time, hall@... writes: snip<< Some concerns I have about the DR650 include the seeming lack of available luggage, windscreen, and a relatively small fuel capacity. I look forward to and appreciate any of your advice! Thanks. -kevin- >> Your concerns are real as fuel capacity and luggage go. If you're planning 80% street, the KLR650 is more of the right fit. The DR650 is a great DS, and will bring as many smiles as the KLR...the DR's more of a true 50/50 dualsport though. All best Scott A14 "thunderdog" Sorrento, Fl

[Devon Jarvis]

I've never ridden a DR650. I've ridden a DR-Z400 recently. If I lived 10 miles away from the good trail riding, I would want a DR or perhaps an XR. Since I live 100mi from the good trail riding, I am very happy with the KLR. Starting on a full tank, I can ride 100mi out to the trails, run 20 miles on everything from rocky hillclimbs to unmaintained dirt roads, and ride back home just hitting reserve as I'm getting back. Devon A15 hall@... wrote:

> Hi everyone. > > I'm presently shopping for a dual sport and I'm trying to decide > between the Suzuki DR650SE and the Kawasaki KLR650. I would like some > advice on the relative merits of these two motorcycles and opinions on > what would be better for me. I plan on doing mostly street riding > (realistically, I'd say 80% street), mostly around town and weekend > trips. A long time ago, I raced motocross and harescrambles, but now > I'd like to start doing some trail riding on weekends. > > Some concerns I have about the DR650 include the seeming lack of > available luggage, windscreen, and a relatively small fuel capacity. > > I look forward to and appreciate any of your advice! > > Thanks. > -kevin- > > Checkout Dual Sport News at > http://www.dualsportnews.com > Be part of the Adventure! > > Visit the KLR650 archives at > http://www.listquest.com/lq/search.html?ln=klr650 > > Post message: DSN_klr650@yahoogroups.com > Subscribe: DSN_klr650-subscribe@yahoogroups.com > Unsubscribe: DSN_klr650-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com > List owner: DSN_klr650-owner@yahoogroups.com > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/

[J. Gregory]

I would recommend the klr for that much street riding the klr seat is not the best for long trips but is much better than then a dr650 seat the following is a quote from a rider on the dr list about his old dr "I remember it being fairly light, tall, and had more bottom grunt than my current KLR. It also had no wind protection, poor range and had a wonderful "lift and separate" foam wedge seat. My personal experience? I'd recommend the KLR for street, and the DR for more dirt." I have a nephew with a dr and he actually carries a pillow to put on his seat after a few hours ride. Jim Arkansas

----- Original Message ----- From: To: DSN_klr650@yahoogroups.com> Sent: Tuesday, November 06, 2001 7:35 PM Subject: [DSN_klr650] DR or KLR? > Hi everyone. > > I'm presently shopping for a dual sport and I'm trying to decide > between the Suzuki DR650SE and the Kawasaki KLR650. I would like some > advice on the relative merits of these two motorcycles and opinions on > what would be better for me. I plan on doing mostly street riding > (realistically, I'd say 80% street), mostly around town and weekend > trips. A long time ago, I raced motocross and harescrambles, but now > I'd like to start doing some trail riding on weekends. > > Some concerns I have about the DR650 include the seeming lack of > available luggage, windscreen, and a relatively small fuel capacity. > > I look forward to and appreciate any of your advice! > > Thanks. > -kevin- > > > > Checkout Dual Sport News at > http://www.dualsportnews.com > Be part of the Adventure! > > Visit the KLR650 archives at > http://www.listquest.com/lq/search.html?ln=klr650 > > Post message: DSN_klr650@yahoogroups.com > Subscribe: DSN_klr650-subscribe@yahoogroups.com > Unsubscribe: DSN_klr650-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com > List owner: DSN_klr650-owner@yahoogroups.com > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ > > >

[PRBKLR@cs.com]

Lets see, mostly street, some trail riding, concerns about fuel capacity and luggage availability... Sound's like the KLR is the one for you. However, having raced MX, keep in mind that the KLR is no MXer, though it's amazing how high and far this monster can fly! Haven't ridden the DR, but just looking at the two, the KLR is far more suited for street and long distance comfort than the DR, IMHO. Paul Frisco, TX hall@... wrote:

>Hi everyone. > >I plan on doing mostly street riding >(realistically, I'd say 80% street), mostly around town and weekend >trips. doing some trail riding on weekends. > >Some concerns I have about the DR650 include the seeming lack of >available luggage, windscreen, and a relatively small fuel capacity. >

[Russell D. Stephan, Sr. Tech Analyst]

Hi all! I'm making another temporary appearance on the list. Sorry to say temporary, but volume is volume. Some of you may remember I picked up a cherry `98 KLR250 this summer for a song. The machine only had 700 miles of street riding on it and it appeared to be right off the stealer's showroom floor. I love motivated sellers! The machine was relegated to garage sitting duty and it was evident in the fuel system and the carburetor. Muriatic acid cleansed the gas tank of rust and a weekend disassembling the carb cured the varnish problem. The bike did see a few miles of travel running around the yard, but I had other pressing motorcycle endeavors to keep me busy and I didn't tag the bike until recently. However, after completing the 2001 running of the Iron Butt Rally I'm ready to devote some attention back to the little KLR. Although the machine saw a little yard duty, I didn't get a chance to really thrash it until I could drive it on the street. My first street session saw a serious crank case blow-by problem. Engine oil would literally be pouring from the spooge vent box leading from the crank case to the air box. Enough oil in fact to make Hardley sized puddles at stop lights look like mere drops. This is not good! At first, I thought I had over-filled the crank case. Two oil changes later, I figured I had the right amount of oil. I'm now thinking its a ring problem. Currently I'm waiting on the arrival of the factory Kawasaki manuals before I start the compression check and debugging phase of this little investigation. In the mean time, I'm still banging the bike around in the dirt at several office construction sites near my house. Too much fun! I just have to make sure I keep enough oil in the bike! Anyway, I just thought I'd let the list know what's going on. Plus, I may have a few questions to the small minority of 250 owners out there as I work through this oil problem. Below is a post I made to another MC list concerning some dirt fun from 10/28/01. NOTE TO THOSE EXTREMELY PC INDIVIDUALS... THE GIRL FRIEND BEATING COMMENTS ARE JOKES. I ONLY BEAT HER WHEN SHE DESERVES IT! Okay, here's one of those "cut her loose", "give her another chance", or "just beat the shit out of her and hopefully she'll learn" questions. I'm give this to the List because it involves other LMs, male pride, and of course, bikes. Girl friend arranges and pays for a weekend away at a lovely cabin buried deep in the Hocking Hills area of Ohio. This lovely cabin is equipped with a fantastic hot tub and all the peace and quite one could ask for. However, all weekend long, said girl friend keeps referring to how a certain southern LM living near Deal's Gap could treat her better and provide such a cabin and atmosphere on a regular basis. You know, LMs do borrow and crash bikes, but this is ridiculous! After this long weekend of little peace and little quite, I though I'd take my on-shaky-ground girl friend on a zippy tour of the neighborhood on the back of the KLR. Fun was had, mud was splattered, deer were spooked, rabbits were chased, creeks were crossed, etc. In a moment of what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking I pulled into a office parking lot and asked Ann if she'd like to try driving the KLR. My first clue there was going to be a problem should have been when she asked why the bike wasn't going after I released all the hand levers. Ann doesn't know how to drive a standard automobile, by the way. After just telling her to sloooooooooowly let out the clutch and allow the bike to putt-putt around the parking lot for this first lesson, she climbed aboard. She slowly let out the clutch all right, but something caused her to grab a handful of gas. Her first time piloting a bike and she pulls a wheelie! That is, for about seven feet. The bike came back down and fell to the left trapping her leg snapping the clutch lever. Personally, I'm voting for beating her ass! ================= To see Ann's comments from a dirt outing 11/04/01, please point your favorite browser to: http://hometown.aol.com/anapoletan/myhomepage/writing.html And since I never like to "take" from a list without first contributing, here are a couple of write-ups from my Iron Butt experience. PLEASE RESPECT THE AUTHOR'S INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS. THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNTS AND OBSERVATIONS MAY BE DISTRIBUTED FOR NONCOMMERCIAL USE AS LONG AS THIS COPYRIGHT AND THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR BANNER ARE INCLUDED. (C) Copyright 2001 by Russell D. Stephan. All rights reserved. email: rstephan@... ------- Iron Butt Rally, Leg one, Alabama to California, September, 2001 Sunk before the rally had barely begun. You have to head east before you can point the bike towards the west coast. As the rally started, the ST was traveling towards the first bonus of my rally attempt -- Tellico Planes, Tennessee. It was rather odd to be running this event and my first bonus was to get gas at a station I visit four to five times a year anyway. Now, being familiar with the Tellico Planes/Robbinsville/Smoky Mountain National Park area I wasn't going to get sucked into making the trip over the Cherohala Skyway to Robbinsville for the next closest bonus. There ain't a fast way in or out of Robbinsville! And, traveling south of the Smoky Mountain National Park is nothing if not a lesson in over- crowded tourist traffic navigation. Nope, my plan of attack was to get the Tellico Planes bonus then head back out to I-75 up through Knoxville and over I-40 to Ashville before bagging the two easily reachable Blue Ridge Parkway bonuses of Mitchell and Pisgah. The way I figured it, if I could be back on I-40 heading west before my leg one countdown timer reached the 50 hour mark, I'd be on track time and distance wise. I managed to meet my goal only shy by thirty-five minutes or so. Once I did start heading west on I-40, I relaxed quite a bit. You see, I was relatively nervous about my decision to head east on this first leg of my first Iron Butt. Although, I wanted to do well, I also knew the kiss of death in an endurance event like the Iron Butt Rally is biting off more than one can stomach. By meeting my self-imposed fifty- hours-to-head-west deadline, I figured I'd met the challenge of walking that fine line of maximizing bonus points without jeopardizing my on- time arrival in California. I chased the setting sun via I-40 and settled into a comfortable freeway drone. Somewhere west of Knoxville and feeling the first signs of fatigue, I spotted a deer ten feet off the shoulder of the highway. Geeez, that animal is huge! It can't be a deer, must be a horse! What the fuck is a horse doing on a freeway? Hell, it's only the first day of this event and I haven't even started traveling though the seriously dangerous areas of the country with truly *big* wandering animals. That can't be a horse, too much fur around the neck. An elk?!?!? Did I just see an elk? I know I've been on the bike for a number of hours straight, but I shouldn't be tired enough to conjure up a nonexistent elk. Are there elk in Tennessee? Must be, I just passed one and it gave me a shudder. Still traveling on I-40 heading west in western Tennessee around 1:00am or so, I felt the need for an hour or two nap. As luck would have it, a rest area was just ahead. And, to my utter surprise, the rest area was closed for new construction. It's my lucky day! No cars, no trucks, no noise, and no worries; this will be my private little roadside nap area. The ST easily navigated between the gaps created by the orange barricade signs leading off the freeway and to the rest area. The parking area around the main under-construction/renovation bathhouse was completely devoid of light. None of the sodium security lights were activated. Makes perfect sense, the rest area was barricaded off and closed to travelers. Why would TDOT light the place up? Oh, am I going to get a comfortable rest here! I pulled the bike up to have the front wheel touching the raised sidewalk concrete and the ST's dual headlight illuminated the grassy area of the rest stop. Well, I'll be. Check it out! There's picnic tables there under a nice overhang. I gotta get me some of that! I'll definitely be able to sleep well on one of those picnic tables with my bike parked not but three feet away. With a little gas I nudged the ST over the raised sidewalk and proceeded to cover the fifty feet of wet dewy grass before the start of the overhang's concrete pad. Just shy of the pad I stopped the ST and played the gas/clutch/gas/clutch modulation game to get the bike's front tire across a small section of pea gravel and up on the sheltered picnic table pad. No sweat with the front tire! However, getting the rear tire to follow suit would take three to four hours and buckets of dirty sweat. Circumstance -- a condition, fact, or event accompanying, conditioning, or determining another : an essential or inevitable concomitant. Yeah, well, to Hell with Webster and his damned dictionary! Circumstance #1 -- The concrete pad of the overhang was surrounded by a foot and a half wide border of pea gravel. Circumstance #2 -- The pea gravel was about eight inches deep. Circumstance #3 -- The pea gravel "moat" was bound on one side by the concrete pad, the other side being a buried 2x12 plank of treated landscaping lumber acting as edging between the stream rounded stones and the grass of the rest area. Circumstance #4 -- Doofus ST pilot didn't carry enough momentum to completely clear the rear tire of the "moat". Circumstance #5 -- The "moat" happened to be just the right width to tightly swallow the ST's rear tire, but not tight enough to allow the tire to climb out under engine power. Circumstance #6 -- I'm under somewhat of a time constraint with which to deal with this "challenge". It was no big thing when the bike's rear tire first decided to settle in the pea gravel moat. Hey, a little gas and in no time at all I'll be putting down the side stand soon to be followed by putting down my head for a snooze! Not this time Spanky! I goosed the throttle and slowly let out the clutch. How many of you out there know that awful feeling of a tire clawing and bouncing around in a hole unable to find traction? If you are a reader of this account having never experienced this sensation, I hope you never discover its pain and stomach sinking drain because help is usually a long ways away. The high-pitched sound of a spinning tire trapped by circumstance is a death wail. It's like the blood curdling cry of a wounded and dying rabbit caught in the immobilizing hold of a snare. A rabbit fighting a snare is a grotesque scene in its play of fast, sleek, and quick against a standstill morass. The motionless ST might just as well been covered in cherry red blood rather than its `97 red paint scheme. Death to speed. Death to sleep. Death to covering distance. Death to the movement of life. No way to run from the death of my hopes. Death to time as the seconds give way to minutes and rotting minutes give way to decomposing hours. I continued spinning the rear wheel hoping for a traction bit and a continuation of forward travel. It wasn't happening. In short order, the rear wheel had dug itself deep enough into the pea gravel to bring the oil pan/exhaust system in contact with the edge of the concrete pad. There was probably a foot difference between the level of the front and rear axles. With a forceful and audible, "Fuck!" I mentally resigned myself to a couple of hours of "problem solving". The side stand and center stand were utterly useless considering I had zero clearance between the ground/concrete/pea gravel and the bike. Luckily, the machine was stable enough resting with the exhaust on the edge of the cement pad and leaning the left mirror housing against one of the shelter's roof support posts. Had I not been fortunate enough to be next to the support post, I would have needed to lay the bike down. With the tip-over wings higher than the rear area, laying the bike down would have probably complicated my life more than it already was. Gingerly, I bumped and prodded the ST's resting position to make sure it wasn't going to fall over as I removed the bike's luggage. Secure in the notion the bike was going to remain upright, I commenced removing the saddle bags and the bungeed Alaska survival gear. Hoping the lighted load would allow the bike to climb out of its hole under power, I gave it one more luggageless try. I didn't think it would work, but I had to try. After my failed extraction attempt, it took a few minutes for my eyes to readjust to the low level of light my mouth mounted mini-Mag light produced vs. the light produced by the lights on the ST. The sky was also completely black with no moon or stars to observe this struggling mortal fight with the whims and obstacles the gods throw down in front of adventurous souls. At note to those that travel with mini-Mag lights: Make sure you have a way to use the light sans hands. They sell a plastic bite piece that will allow you to comfortably use your teeth to hold the flashlight. I, however, opted for the cheaper, thick, parachute packing rubber band as a bite surface on the butt end of the light. The Tennessee early morning air was hot, humid, and not conductive to my physical efforts to continue west towards Pomona. I dropped my `Stich and Bohn back plate on one of the picnic tables under the shelter acting as my quagmire. I took a deep breath, drank most of the ice water in my half-gallon cooler, and took a step back to examine my options. Call someone. This was the first thing to pop into my head -- a towing company perhaps. Shortly, however, I decided that this would just turn this dark, off-limits rest area into a lit up scene ripe for some bored third shift LEO to stick his looking-to-strut-his-stuff attitude in my face. No, that would unnecessarily complicate my life. I only need one or two people to help me lift the rear of the bike out of this "moat". Maybe I could get on the hand held CB radio I have in my gear and ask for assistance from freeway passers-by. No, I don't think so. This would also act as chum in the LEO infested waters. In three or four hours, the work crews renovating the rest area will start arriving for their shifts. I think I'll just get some sleep until they arrive. They'll probably be more than willing to give me a ten- minute hand. However, I was still pretty keyed up and I knew I'd have to take a few minutes clearing my head before I could even contemplate sleep. Funny how needing sleep put me in this mess and now the mess was preventing me from a peaceful rest. As my mind ran with the options of getting me out of this situation, I also thought about how I could extract myself. The rest area was, after all, under construction and the site had a myriad of building supplies and tools. Gee, I wonder if there is a cable ratchet winch for stretching chain link fence lying around somewhere. I could use the shelter's exposed rafters and ratchet the rear out of the pea gravel. Hell, even a rope and a shovel handle to twist will do the same thing. Time to take a cool-down walk around the construction site to inventory possible extraction implements. Now I'm in my element -- problem solving. What can I use? What do I have to fabricate? With my trusty mini-Mag light, I toured the site. The bare dirt in and around the site was somewhat moist. My Combat Touring boots slipped and sloped as I poked my light into various locations for materials and ideas. God, it was humid! My exploration of the construction site had the opposite effect from calming me down for a nap. As a matter of fact, it ramped up my mind with strategies to get back on the road. I was unsuccessful in finding a ratcheting winch or a suitable length of rope. However, I did find a couple of trenching shovels. Trenching shovels are short implements of about three feet long from business end to the tip of their handles. They have long narrow blades and are mostly used for clearing cable and PVC pipe trenches. I took one of the shovels back to the mired bike and started digging at the grass and dirt behind the rear wheel of the bike. Although, I've tried to describe the situation I managed to find myself in, there's nothing like a picture to help with the image. Here's what I was faced with: NOTE: The following ASCII art diagram is best viewed in a fixed width font like system Courier. If you have an email client that uses some other font, copy the diagram and paste it to MS Notepad or some other basic fixed width font display application. | | || || || | | | | Concrete Shelter Pad | | / ------ | | / | | / Dig |-----------| |-----------| Area | Rear Wheel| |Front Wheel| \ |-----------| |-----------| \ | | \ ------ | | | ------------------------------------- | | | | |

>>>|----------------------------------------------------------

^ 2x12" Edging ^ Lumber ^ I spent the next forty-five minutes digging, sweating, and drooling with the mini-Mag light hanging out of my mouth illuminating my late night mining activities. My hands became covered in mud as I grabbed some of the bigger clods of turf I cut out from behind the bike's rear wheel. Slowly, the rest of me began to attract mud and dirt as I kneeled at the excavation work. With the preliminary digging complete and a hole three to four inches deeper than the trapped rear wheel, I took a break for more water and another psych session. Now, how do I deal with that 2x12 still hemming in the bike? With the shovel acting as a pry bar, I worked on the corner of the edging material. This turned out to be one of the trickier tasks. The corner 2x12's were nailed together rather well. Finally, I managed to free the corner side of the 2x12 restraining the ST. I was still stuck, however. The 2x12 planks were ten feet long. The bike was only three or four feet from the just-freed corner of the 2x12 and there was no way I was going to be able to remove the whole ten foot section of 2x12. In short sweaty order, however, I started working on the edging plank to the left of the trapped bike. It took me a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to work the left side of the plank like I did the corner section before I realized using the shovel as a pry bar wasn't going to work. I dropped to my knees and used the edge of the trenching shovel as a hatchet, chopping at the edging and working my way through the twelve inches of treated wood like a beaver. My hair and sweat drenched face became a haven for the small bits of flying wood pulp and chop chips. Finally, with the 2x12 cut, I removed the four or five foot section of the edging plank from behind the bike. For an instant I thought about digging out the gravel around the rear wheel. No, that will have to wait. With the material directly behind the bike removed, I walked over to where the construction site had received numerous bound pallets of red brick. A couple of the pallets had broken their bindings and allowed the bricks to spill to the ground. I retrieved two to three dozen bricks for the next phase of my extraction project. My hands started to hurt. In my normal day-to-day existence the only thing my fingers pound is a keyboard. The digging, the drying effects of the mud, and my manual labor were playing havoc with my office-soft hands -- the sharp edges of the heavy bricks only cut up my hands more. Handling the bricks also made me careful not to crush or smash a finger. That's all I need from this, a hand injury! With a pile of bricks staged near the rear of the bike, I leveled the bottom of the excavated hole placing the pavers end-to-end and side-by- side. I then mounted the ST for the first time in an hour and a half. I double-checked my footing and proceeded to give the handlebars a serious couple of yanks in a backwards direction. Slowly but surely the ST inched out of the gravel and rolled back on the pavers I had just put down. The front wheel was now at the edge of the concrete pad. That's far enough! At least the bike is now moving! My small success was soon dampened by the fact that I still couldn't use the side stand. Now that the bike is almost completely off the concrete shelter pad, I can't lean the machine against the roof support column. I muttered another expletive and took a pause to consider this next hurtle. I needed to get off the bike. The effort of holding it up seemed to distract my mind from coming up with a solution to this new dilemma. I checked my footing again and forcefully shoved the bike back to where it was previously. Three steps forward, two steps back. Coming up with a solution to this problem wasn't too much of an effort. I needed to fabricate a side stand of some kind and there was plenty of scrap 2x4 scattered around the construction site. Although, I had the bike support problem worked out, I took a moment to try and think ahead to any other problems I would encounter as I willed this project forward. The rear wheel isn't a concern. I'm just going to build a brick ramp out of the hole and drive the bike up on to the pad. Once on the pad, though... Ahhh, there's a pea gravel moat on the far side of the shelter pad I'll have to deal with in order to get the bike back on the road. I could just make sure I carry enough momentum to cross the moat. No, that isn't too bright. Back to searching for lumber. A ten-foot section of 2x12 was called into service to bypass the pad egress and act as a bridge. At the bike, I pulled it away from the support pole, rolling the rear wheel on to the pavers. Using the scrap 2x4's I found, I wedged the sections between the bike's tip-over wings and the ground. The temporary supports worked like a charm. I was, however, careful as I continued to work under the bike as I thought allowing the ST to fall on me like a blanket would further ruin my night. With my trusty shovel I worked the pea gravel area and repeated my dig and brick laying efforts as the sparse traffic continued to drive by unconcerned about struggle going on a few hundred yards off into the darkness. Finally, with my work as complete as it could be, I was ready to chance my escape. I watched the freeway for a break in the appearance of headlights before firing up the ST and aggressively applying the throttle to pop the bike completely on to the concrete pad. Geez, that was a non-event! Quickly, I scampered the bike across the bridge 2x12 plank spanning the pea gravel moat on the other side of the shelter pad and motored back to the rest area's parking lot proper before shutting down the ST. My heart was pounding. I quietly listened to the Tennessee roadside darkness as if waiting for a Candid Camera crew to show up and inform me the world had giggled and laughed at my predicament and struggle. Unceremoniously I walked back the shelter through the dew covered grass to retrieve the ST's luggage and my riding gear. I returned the trenching shovel to where I found it and made another pass around my work area checking for anything dropped or forgotten. I was still sweating profusely as I geared up my muddy body for riding. It felt strange to have everything back together and ready for returning to the freeway. It seemed like the world could really give a shit that I had managed to extract myself from this situation. I felt somehow cheated that no one was there to witness my efforts, my successes, and my stupidity. As I started moving, dodging the construction office trailers and large piles of foundation gravel, I ignored an almost alarming desire to return to make sure I didn't leave anything important behind. For some reason, it seemed my mind did not want me to continue. Maybe I was worried about other challenges the Iron Butt would throw my way. My premonitions wouldn't be that far off. Once out on the freeway, the moving air felt wondrous as it cooled off my body. My sleepy state from pre-stranding was gone and would it be absent for almost the next 36 hours. ================================================ PLEASE RESPECT THE AUTHOR'S INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS. THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNTS AND OBSERVATIONS MAY BE DISTRIBUTED FOR NONCOMMERCIAL USE AS LONG AS THIS COPYRIGHT AND THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR BANNER ARE INCLUDED. (C) Copyright 2001 by Russell D. Stephan. All rights reserved. email: rstephan@... ------- Iron Butt Rally, Leg three, Washington to Maine, September, 2001 My murder would mean a welcome rest. I arrived in Hyder, Alaska around 3:00am for the obligatory photo of the town's entrance sign. Now, time for some sleep before gas is once again available at 7:00am. It had been raining off and on for the last twenty seven hours so a building with some type of an overhang was high on my list of places to find. Thankfully enough, I had been paying attention as I motored towards Hyder, because I spied a school building in Stewart, British Columbia that had a nice concrete entrance pad with a large overhang. So even before I bagged the Hyder photo I already had a place scoped out for snoozing. One Polariod snapshot later, I returned to the school and hunkered down for a couple of hours of sweet sleep. Had this been a regular long weekend tour, I probably would have broken out the Thermarest and sleeping bag for my nap. However, this was the 2001 running of the Iron Butt Rally and I didn't have time to futz with such luxuries even though I was carrying them (including a tent) for a possible remote Alaska weather emergency. Nope, this nap was gearless -- well, almost. My Bohn spine protector serves quite well as a mattress I can wear. The hip pads of the AeroStich also do a fantastic job of keeping me somewhat comfortable on less-than-ideal sleeping surfaces. Retained ear plugs for street noise, my helmet still on, a bandanna folded a few times for blocking the security lights from the eyes, and I was off like the proverbial thrown switch. I have no idea how long I was sleeping before I felt a tap and/or a kick at one of my shoulders and heard the ear-plug muffled words of, "Hey, biker dude." Okay, I'm sleeping at the main entrance to an elementary school. My first absolute thought was the rouster was a local LEO. Considering I get rousted by LEOs on a regular basis when catching forty winks during my "normal" touring and the fact that I received such attentions during my travels to Alabama for the start of the 2001 IBR, this was not an unfounded train of sleepy thought. Slowly, I got up as I loudly announced every move I was making. I kept my arms out away from my body and proceeded to tell my observer that I was about to remove the bandanna from my eyes. When I removed the bandanna, I was greeted by a woman teetering back and forth from the wind swept tide of a few too many adult beverages. As I quickly surveyed the scene, I saw that she was with a female friend. The female friend was the wise one and managed to stay well away from my position. A hard assed projecting LEO is what I was expecting, two relatively small women, I was not. Both women seemed my junior in terms of age. I would also say they both looked like they were in their thirties. However, their late twenties was probably more accurate. A life of hard living does add years to someone's appearance. The drunk woman responsible for my sudden awakening from slumber, grabbed my arm saying with a stumbling tongue, "I'm not letting you stay out here in the rain. You're coming home with me!" The male pig in me wondered why such an invitation had to come when the *only* thing I was even remotely interested in was actual sleep. The woman kept tugging at my arm and I tried to explain her offer was more than generous, but I was just fine right here at the school. My benefactor would have nothing of my answer. She said she wouldn't hear of me refusing her invitation. I looked at her friend and asked the up- until-this-point-silent-one if she wasn't scared about waking strangers sleeping in public places at 3:00am in the morning. She nodded her head and sheepishly said, "Uh huh." My drunk antagonist continued to pester me letting me know she was still wound up from the booze and her mind was made up about "offering" help to this apparent-to-her down-on-his-luck biker. Somewhere in our exchanges, each of the women told me their names. However, my sleepy mind did not allow me to retain the information. I was tired. No, I take that back. I wasn't tired -- I was exhausted. My level of fatigue was such that I agreed to accompany the drunk woman in order to get some level of rest. I don't think she would have left me alone otherwise. Besides, she mentioned the fact her husband rode and would love to hear about my travel stories. This last part put me somewhat at ease about taking up her offer of lodging. At home, I've opened up my house to fellow motorcycle traveler's looking for an overnight stay. Also, with the rise of the Internet, I've become somewhat accustomed to other avid riders offering bed space and hot showers to cross country bike travelers. After I agreed to accept the sofa sleeping arrangements, my hostess had a moment of clarity and seriousness. She looked me in the eyes through the face opening of my helmet and said, "I have two small daughters at home. You're going to be good, right?" Her question concerned me. Not because she asked it of me, but because it surfaced in her mind and she still made the judgment call to invite me, a total stranger, home with her. As the next few hours unfolded, I would see that errors in judgment would seem to be familiar ground with this woman and her family. The ride to my warm and dry place of rest was short. The town of Stewart, British Columbia isn't what one would call large. With their car in the lead, I followed on the ST into a small mobile home/trailer park of maybe eight to ten residences. I parked the bike next to the trailer appearing to be the woman's home. My host and her friend emerged from their car and started walking towards the trailer's entrance. With the sweeping arm gesture of a drunken boaster my hostess said, "This is my trailer. I'm trailer trash." Once again, I was admonished to be good because of the woman's small daughters. We entered the foyer of the trailer and I immediately disrobed from my wet `Stich and helmet. I also began to take in my surroundings. The trailer's interior was clean and neat. It was a bit crowded with furniture and fixtures, but I was impressed with the fact that someone was proud of this home and it showed. It wasn't but two or three steps before the three of us entered the main part of the trailer at the kitchen and the sight that was to be the most surreal of all my Iron Butt Rally experiences. At the table in the kitchen was a man of similar age as the women that led me to this place. He was rather small in stature at about one hundred and twenty pounds. He was unconscious and leaning at a very uncomfortable angle towards surface of the table. He was wearing only a pair of brief-type underwear and a gray tee shirt. The human mind is an interesting entity. Its thought patterns and what it denotes as important have always been something I've found interesting. As a motorcyclist, my mind is very talented at threat evaluation. Cars, trucks, and errant drivers on cell phones; which ones will possibly cause me harm and which ones must I avoid? Of course, to ride means that I cannot completely remove myself from the dangers any vehicle can unleash. Riding in traffic is a series of threat evaluations that remain anything but static as objects and vehicles enter and leave the circle of close striking distance around me. My mind did the same type of evaluations as soon as this half-clad male entered my perception. Unconscious, GOOD. Small in stature, GOOD. Drunk or under the influence of some substance, BAD. No weapons or implements on table, GOOD. On the whole, my mind moved from a very narrow focus of this man and any possible danger he represented to the larger kitchen scene. And it was then every alarm and klaxon in my head went to full, straight-pipe Hardley on! The white kitchen floor was covered in a sea of still-wet blood and dried, dark ruby footprints. The porcelain pure refrigerator also contained the smudges and hand prints of a struggle. My mind was racing. The three of us, my hostess, her friend, and I, stood there for what seemed like hours as each of us took in the bloody site of the stained white kitchen. But of course, it wasn't hours. At the most, it was a few seconds before the quiet of our sight survey changed into a cacophony of shouts and rousts. The wife of the passed-out male rushed over to her husband and hit him in the shoulder multiple times with the open back of her hand in attempt to wake him and discover the reason for the grizzly mess. Like any disturbed drunk, the man slowly came to, with crossed and unfocused eyes. He looked at his wife, his wife's friend, and then me towering over all of them. At 6'3" (6'5" with Combat touring boots) I was a monster among this collection of Stewart, B.C., residents. The wife now was directing the same amount of determination she used to get me to agree to her lodging offer towards her husband. Where did all the blood came from? Of course, being the only sober one in the room, I began to put two and two together. One of the man's arms was full of lacerations, some of them still oozing blood as he moved. Glass was crunching under my boots as I moved around in this Charles Manson-like crime scene experience. I moved towards the couple now arguing about the mess. "He needs medical attention", I said nodding towards the injured arm. The drunk husband heard my statement and denied he was hurt beyond a slight cut or two. Arguing with drunks is a futile effort. I never mentioned external medical services again. The friend noticed the glass all over the floor and started to clean up the larger shards. She ended up cutting her stocking shorn foot. I attempted to offer her aid so that she didn't cut up her fingers as she attempted to remove the piece from her foot. Once again, I was rather forcefully dismissed by the injured individual and rebuffed from providing assistance. At this point, I though it best that I leave these people alone to handle their dysfunctional lives. "I'm going back to the school." The woman that offered me the couch space turned her attention away from interrogating her husband and tried to reassure me that it was okay for me to stay. Maybe from her point of view... She disappeared down the hallway away from the kitchen and shortly appeared with a sheet and a comforter. She put the clean sheet over the sofa and placed the comforter on one end of the sofa. Being tired and extremely weary, walked over to the sofa and sat down as if drawn to the piece of furniture like a magnet. I sat there on the edge of the sofa for at least five minutes listening to the cries of fatigue emanating from my own body and the boisterous three-way conversation/argument taking place seven feet away in the trailer's kitchen. I really should leave, my thoughts raced. This is a situation having few positive outcomes and a multitude of horror scenarios. Hell, I may end up with a steak knife in my chest before the coming of dawn. I'm so damned tired, though. Sitting at my computer and writing this now, I feel compelled to convey the utter loss of motivation I had to leave this horrific scene. This account will be read by a number of people other than Iron Butt Rally participants and they will, no doubt, wonder how I could arrive at any other conclusion besides vacating the trailer at once. For those not familiar with the Iron Butt Rally, it is a motorcycle event run once every two years that involves the circumnavigation of North America in eleven days. It resembles a scavenger hunt involving a whole continent! As you can imagine, such an event requires a tremendous amount of stamina. A rider may have a huge reserve of stamina, but over eleven days that stamina is going to wear thin. During my experience in this trailer, my level of stamina was virtually nonexistent. Obviously, my judgment was suffering as well. I just want to lie down and go to sleep. There's an interesting parallel I can draw with a few weeks of hind site about my sofa-sitting lethargy. My mind was telling me to leave. My body would have none of the argument. In 1996 a number of Mount Everest climbers lost their lives to a sudden and violent storm that caught a few climbers during their descent from the summit. The definitive chronicle on that ill-fated climb is _Into Thin Air_ by Jon Krakauer. One of the dead climbers in Krakauer's book was Rob Hall. Mr. Hall was an Everest expedition leader guiding a number of paying clients in their summit attempts. Mr. Hall spent the last few hours of his life slowly freezing to death, exhausted and weak from attempting to save some of his charges. For hours, members of Mr. Hall's support team talked with him via 2-way radio from a base camp. "Get up! Start making your way down," his team demanded. Mr. Hall kept saying he needed just a few more minutes of rest. He never appeared to move. I used to think, "How could anyone be so tired?" After my Stewart, British Columbia experience, I'm now somewhat familiar with that level of exhaustion. By the way, those of you that haven't heard me discuss Krakauer's books before, I would suggest them as rather apropos reading for individuals participating in extreme activities. I count running the Iron Butt as an extreme activity. In Stewart, in the trailer, and on the sofa, I listened to the trailer's occupants' loud argument/discussion taking place ten feet away from me. I looked up on the trailer's opposite wall to the pictures of some very adorable children. My mind registered sadness as I thought about the environment in which these two little girls were being brought up. No doubt, the children were loved, but loved by two people with deficiencies in successful life navigation. I was now catching bits and pieces of the three-way, drunk, slur-fest going on in the kitchen. Apparently, earlier in the day the husband and the wife had a little domestic turmoil. The wife left the trailer to put on a liquor buzz, and the husband stayed in the trailer to tie on his own drunk. The husband in his post argument frustration, punched out a door with a glass window causing his injuries and the kitchen mess. Although, I never could discern the reason for the original husband and wife spat, it appeared this guy was feeling a little inadequate due to his complaining and moaning about his wife now bringing home strange men. At this point, I'm wondering whether or not the morning sun will be casting a sundial-like shadow across my chest with a protruding knife handle serving as a gnomon. I sat there on the edge of the sofa and removed my boots. God, it was an effort to get them off! As I took the boots off, I again looked across the trailer's living room to the opposite wall. Hanging on the wall were framed pictures of the two little girls the mother had mentioned at the start of this rather bizarre story. In the pictures, the girls were smiling and appeared to be very happy and healthy. The portraits contrasted greatly with the image of this family now occupying my senses. It's hard to describe the heavy sadness that poured over me as I kept a watchful eye and an attentive ear towards the noise still emanating from the kitchen. The behaviors and lifestyle of the adults in this trailer had no effect on my sad mood. I'm used to seeing such dysfunction. The hours and hours I've spent touring Appalachia has pretty much exposed me to all kinds of social rot. But the images of the two small girls hanging on that trailer wall really drove home a hopeless sense of helplessness. The sins of the father and mother will certainly be visited upon the children of this trailer in the form of undeveloped and malformed relationship skills. With my boots finally off and all the wall portraits examined, I leaned back and stretched out over the sofa. My long frame required me to prop my feet up on the far armrest. For a minute or two longer I listened to the kitchen noise. The three Stewart residents were still busy with their drunken slurred speech exchange. Eventually, the tone and frequency of the words coming from the kitchen table changed. They now sounded occupied, like the way a room gets quiet as socializing guests sit down to eat. Curious, I lifted my head up and peered lengthwise down the sofa passed my raised feet to the table five feet beyond. There in the middle of the trailer's kitchen table was now a cookie baking sheet pan with a relatively large mound of dope. And just when I thought it couldn't get any stranger. Thankfully, I wasn't put in the position of turning down an offer for a toke or two. I put my head back down on the sofa and due to the now lowered noise level, I instantly fell unconscious. In what seemed like only a moment or two, light was spilling in the trailer's living room and kitchen area. I sat up quickly knowing I had slept longer than I really wanted. The clock above the sofa said 8:00am. Damned! I was hoping to be waiting for the gas station to open at 7:00am. Quietly, I put on my boots and crept to the kitchen. The blood marks were all now the color of deep red ruby stains. I wrote a quick thank you note on the white board calendar mounted on the refrigerator. I also wrote down my email address. Deliberately and patiently I put on my back plate protector as well as my `Stich. I picked up my helmet and slowly turned the doorknob leading out of the trailer. In a matter of moments, I was pushing the ST towards the entrance to the small trailer park. At the trailer park's entrance I climbed aboard the bike, thumbed the starter switch, and made a beeline for the nearest gas station. I still have yet to receive an email from my overnight hosts. Thanks, *************************************************************************** Russell D. Stephan, Voice: (614) 760-3065 Senior Technical Analyst Fax: (614) 760-3360 Technology Management Consulting, Inc. email: rstephan@... 9980 Brewster Lane, Suite A. russell.stephan@... Powell, Ohio 43065 URL: http://www.tmconsult.com