On Tuesday morning, August 19th, at 0600, I hit the road, riding the long way to Missoula to be present at the finish of the Iron Butt Rally. As I headed north on CO-52, I rejoiced in the LIGHT being cast up the road by my newly-installed driving lights. The only problem I note is that the lenses wrap around the outside of the metal housing and project light straight up onto my mirrors. (It will turn out that when the mirrors are clean, this isn't much of a problem -- when they're rain-streaked, it becomes one.) I could see spiders crossing the road 1/4 mile away.

As dawn broke, I was now northbound on CO-71, which ties into NE-71 south of Kimball. Through Kimball, through Gehring, around Scotts Bluff and I was into new country for me. As much as I love the mountains, I have to say that there is something about the plains that stirs my soul. Western Nebraska is magnificent! The road north of Scotts Bluff was not so magnificent. There was construction and there were lots of bumps. After riding for 125 or so miles, these bumps became a problem. It seemed that every time I hit one, my cruise control would disconnect. Annoying on long straight stretches, and since about half the trip would consist of long straight stretches, potentially *very* annoying. I noticed at about this same time that my voltages were up and down all over the place. I saw 12.0. I saw 16.4! Mostly they bounced between 12.7 and 14.2. Unusual, since what I usually see is 13.6-13.7. I wondered if my new driving lights were somehow responsible. Everything but the cruise control seemed to be working fine, so I hoped I wasn't frying my battery and pressed on.

199 miles from the house, I came to the little town of Crawford, Nebraska, and pulled off the highway to look for breakfast. After eating a good one and topping off the tank, I was into the Ogallala National Grasslands north of Crawford. They were absolutely stunning in their beauty -- and in their emptiness. I had this crazy idea: Why don't we steal this country from the Sioux Indians and herd them onto reservations and then do absolutely nothing with their land? Or even better, why don't we give it back!

The country changed when I crossed into South Dakota, and gradually transitioned into the Black Hills. More trees, more rocks, more turns. I bypassed Rushmore, as I rode from Hot Springs to Custer and then North to Deadwood and Spearfish. In the 23 years since I last saw it, the Crazy Horse Monument has gained a face and a *much* fancier entrance. I'm guessing that this thing will be finished sometime in the mid 3000's.

At Spearfish, I hopped on I-90 and headed to Sundance, Wyoming. As I was gassing up, a rider on a BMW K-75 rolled in. After talking a few minutes we decided to eat lunch together. He was heading to Buffalo and over the Big Horns between there and Tensleep, while I was planning on seeing Devil's Tower and crossing the Big Horns northwest of Sheridan, so we parted after lunch.

The ride to Devil's Tower got interesting as thunderstorms developed. I couldn't help but wonder how so many of the HD riders can stand riding without windshields, helmets, or goggles when it's raining as hard as it was. By the time I got to the Monument, I was out of the rain. I bought a new Parks Pass, stamped my Passport Book, took a few pictures, and rode southwest toward Moorcroft and more rain. The Nolan doesn't leak (well, a couple of drops, but not the problem the HJC Symax was), the 'Stitch still keeps me dry, and the cruise control worked in the rain.

By Gillette, Wyoming, the rain was gone and the temperatures were up into the high-80s. I droned on across the Powder River Basin, interrupted only by the disconnect in the cruise control, which was now being triggered by turn signal useage instead of bumps. At about 5:30, I was off the Interstate and onto US-14 heading toward Dayton, Wyoming and my stop for the night. Fuel in Ranchester, and then six miles to my "rustic cabin" at the Foothills Campground. I had expected a "camping cabin" for my $25, but I got a *rustic* cabin -- bathroom w/ shower, clean sheets, old furniture, a fan, cable TV, and a tiny room. Makes me wonder why there aren't more of these things out there. I slept soundly and comfortably -- after I rode into Dayton and ate a wonderful shrimp dinner.

The next morning, it was back to the same restaurant for an equally good breakfast and then up into the Big Horns. I'd never crossed them on 14 before and it was one of the best rides I've taken. From Burgess Junction on, I rode 14-A (the northern option) up way above timberline, before plunging down a series of switchbacks on a 10% grade into the badlands of the Big Horn Basin. Visibility had been reduced in Dayton and over the mountains because of fires, but down in the Basin, it was down to three or four miles, mainly because of the fires near Cody that had closed the east entrance to Yellowstone. I went northwest of out Lovell on US-310. The Pryor Mountains are dry and barren compared to the Big Horns and the Absarokas that I would ride through on my way over Beartooth Highway to Cooke City, Montana. At Bridger, I turned back to the south to Belfry (the home of the Belfry Bats -- the school has a steel sculpture of a bat in front), and then west to Red Lodge.

From Red Lodge, the next 110 or so miles is one of motorcycing's great rides. The Beartooth Highway, or the Top of the World Highway (I've seen it called both), US-212 is an engineering/construction wonder built during the depression by WPA labor, an incredible experience, and offers some of the most amazing views I've seen. I was worried about the traffic, since the East Entrance to the Park was closed, but it actually wasn't too bad. I did pass a couple of vehicles when I had a double yellow, but in both cases, I could see way far ahead and knew the pass could be made safely, given Tumbleweed's acceleration. The guy in the Mercedes Benz 190D must have thought that he shouldn't be passed, because as I got along side, he eased across the center stripe as if he were trying to crowd me off the road. I rolled on a bit more throttle before he could do that, and hoped that he'd catch up somewhere so we could discuss his driving. He didn't.

I only stopped once to look down at the road twisting up the cliff below me and some glacial lakes above the road, and was into Cooke City by noon-thirty. I wandered the streets a bit, ate a burger, watched the myriad Harley riders pose, talked with four Canadian women on sportbikes who were having the ride of their lives, and got back on the bike. At the Northeast Entrance, my Park Pass got me waved to the head of the long line at the gate, and I rode through the prairies of that corner of the Park. Not so spectacular as some, but plenty of buffalo, a coyote, four or five elk cows, and a deer made it worth the trip.

I got to Gardiner at about 3:30, just beating a flock of sheep being driven down from the high country to the fairgrounds. I registered for my "wooden tent," went out to unload the bike, take a shower, and head to one of the best restaurants I've ever eaten at -- the Park Street Grill and Cafe. I turned on the key and the oil pressure light blinked red and then went blank almost instantaneously. I flipped the switch a few times and ----- nothing. The GPS said something about external power being lost, and invited me to push the Enter button for internal battery power.

My first thought was that my battery was gone. I asked the campground owner if there were any motorcycle batteries in Gardiner. He didn't think there would be, although he guessed that I'd be able to get a snowmobile battery in West Yellowstone. I figured that would be a long hike and a longer distance still to push the bike. I didn't have a voltage tester with me, but realized that my compressor plugged into a directly-wired connection. So, I got it out, plugged it in, hit the switch.... and it ran! Relief. Sort of. My next hope was that the problem would be a fuse and not a relay. Check all the fuses. All good. Hoped that someone in town would have a soldering iron if I needed to repair the J-box and hoped that I wouldn't need the relay that was sitting at home if the J-box was the problem.

By this time, there were three old(er) men standing around watching me sweat. As I pushed the compressor cord back into place, I noticed that it, and the other wires on the positive post of the battery were all moving. Screwdriver to the rescue, I turned the positive post screw a full turn and a half, and the negative screw 1/2 turn, flipped the key, hit the starter button and was *greatly* relieved when the bike ran smoothly. The old men were greatly impressed with my mechanical skills (little do they know!), but I told them that if there was one thing I was learning, it was that it was *much* better to be lucky than good.

The shower felt great and the meal at the Park Street Grill and Cafe was all I remembered. This is an excellent restaurant in an out-of-the-way place. It's worth the trip, even if you didn't get to ride roads like the Beartooth to get there. I enjoyed the families around me, overhearing interesting, involved conversations between parents and their children, who seemed to range in age from three or four to 12 or so. I told one of them how much I had appreciated their kids. No whining, no complaining, just lots of good talk. Maybe the American family isn't as bad-off as some would have us believe.

Part Two:

In the last installment of this opus, I had spent Tuesday August 19, riding from Ft. Morgan, CO, up through western Nebraska, the Black Hills, to Devil's Tower and then Dayton, Wyoming. The next day, I had ridden over the northern Big Horns, up to Bridger, Montana, west to Red Lodge and over the Bear Tooth Highway to Cooke City, into Yellowstone, and promptly back out at the North Gate to Gardiner, Montana. 888 miles -- nothing compared to what other riders were doing on *their* way to Missoula for the Finish of the Iron Butt Rally.

On Thursday morning, I woke for my final "push" to Missoula. When I got on the bike at 6:20 in Gardiner, the temperature was a moderate 56 F. Twenty minutes later, only ten miles down the road and about 2,000 feet higher, as I rode across Swan Lake Flats, enjoying the early dawn and looking for animals, I was FREEZING! Checking my thermometer, I saw why -- *it* was freezing. The temperature was 32! I had my trusty Gerbings jacket liner in the trunk, but I thought, "The sun will be up in a few minutes, it will warm up, and it's only 36 more miles to West Yellowstone -- I'll just turn up the heated grips and ride."

Well, I was partly right. The sun did come up. It was only 36 miles to West Yellowstone. The heated grips kept my hands warm. But the temperature didn't gain much ground in the 45-50 minutes I took to cover the 36 miles. It was 35 when I pulled up before the "Welcome to Montana" sign.

On my way through the Park, I rode with the elk -- a small herd of 30-40 cows and their calves in the shadows of the trees just before North Twin Lake. I saw bison grazing along the Gibbon River, and was glad they weren't congregating on the highway. Steam from the many thermal hot spots glowed in the sunlight. Gibbon Falls thundered over the rocks, and it was good to be in the Park. It was especially good because if you're on the road early in the morning, there is hardly any traffic -- I think I passed maybe five or six cars, and *NO* motorhomes in the 46 miles to West Yellowstone. I didn't meet many more cars than that. Some of the vehicles I saw were apparently workers on their way to destinations either in the Park or on the other side, because they were flat haulin'! There was one guy in an old Nissan pickup that I probably could have kept up with, but I wouldn't have been comfortable. Stopping to take a shot of an elk was a good excuse to let him get away. Local knowledge of what's around the next bend gives more speed, but I kept thinking about the critter that might not have been there when he went to work the day before.

Finally, just before I turned into a lump of ice, I made it to West Yellowstone. I went into a 50's style diner on the main drag to eat breakfast, get my caffeine fix, and warm up. The food was good and reasonably priced, and the place was interesting. The waitress, who I think might have been the cook's wife, had all the personality of a wet sock, but she *did* keep the coffee coming. I hadn't been there long when your prototype RUB-couple walked in, wearing what looked like about $3000 worth of HD-label clothing. She looked like a quart in a pint container, and he made me realize that chaps are the lineal descendants of the Elizabethan cod-pieces. He had on a leather imitation do-rag emblazoned with the Confederate flag and the HD-label. They looked at my 'Stitch lying on the other side of my booth and he said, "You a rider?" I said I was and asked where they were going.

I didn't really need to ask, since the roads had been flooded with happy Harley riders on their way to Milwaukee for "The Birthday Party." (Interestingly, I think that out of all the riders on HD's I saw, all but two out of what must have been 2000 waved at me -- out of the 20-30 BMW riders I saw, about 10-15 did.) But when I asked, he said, as if it should have been self-evident: "Milwaukee."

"Oh," says I. "Why would anyone leave Montana for *Milwaukee?*" "The Harley-Davidson Motor Company is celebrating their 100th birthday." "Really? And you got an invitation?" "Well, we bought tickets -- they've sold a half - million tickets." "Sounds like a crowd."

A long look and a long silence. "What are you riding?" he asked. "That purple Kawasaki Concours parked by the curb." End of conversation. Oh, well....there went a chance for bonding with the knights of the road.

After breakfast and about two pots of coffee (the heck with the IBA wisdom on caffeine!), I was back on the road. All during the day on Thursday, I kept seeing people who were different from the crowds migrating toward Milwaukee. I kept wondering if they were IBR riders, trying to grab a few more bonuses, but after I saw the bonus sheet for leg four, decided that they'd just been folks like me, out for a ride. As I saddled up in West Yellowstone, there were two riders on the other side of the street, getting off to go in for breakfast at another restaurant -- they were on an R1150GS Adventure and an R1150RT -- we waved as I rode past, heading north on US-287. Out of West Yellowstone, traffic quickly dwindled. I could see evidence of a fire on Big Horn peak, just outside the NW corner of the Park. Unfortunately, it wasn't the last fire whose smoke I'd see.

287 took me by Hebgen Lake on the Madison River, a beautiful lake in a beautiful setting, that had been caused by an earthquake dumping millions of tons of rock across the Madison River back in the 60s or 70s (I should have stopped and read the sign, but I was in my mile-munching mode). A few miles out of Hebgen Canyon, the road became practically dead straight, as it followed the Madison River Valley in its journey toward the confluence of the rivers that make up the mighty Missouri.

In Ennis, I left US-287 for MT-287, swinging SW and then NW, through the old mining towns of Virginia City and Alder on my way up the Ruby Valley. Virginia City looked as if it was doing a credible job of turning itself into a historical monument and tourist draw. There was even a railroad that might have been narrow-guage that was in the process of re-establishing "passenger service." Through Sheridan to Twin Bridges, and then SSW toward Dillon, I rode, watching the changing environment go from the rich hay fields around Sheridan and Twin Bridges until suddenly, at Beaverhead Rock, things got dry-looking. South of Dillon, which was *much* smaller than I'd ever imagined it, I turned off of I-15 after only about 10 miles and headed west toward Big Hole Country.

Here in Colorado, we have "Parks" -- valleys surrounded on all sides by ranges of mountains. We've got North Park, where Walden sits and Leadville sits on the edge of South Park. In Wyoming and Montana, they call them "Holes." Jackson Hole is the most famous, but the Big Hole is the biggest I've seen. One sign designated it "The Land of Ten Thousand Haystacks." I didn't count, but that couldn't have been far off. At the tiny burg of Wisdom, I turned west toward the Big Hole National Battlefield for another stamp in my NP Passport book. In 1878, General Crooke and the 7th US Infantry caught up with Chief Joseph and his band of Nez Perces. Attacking just before dawn, they managed to burn many teepees and kill too many women and children, before meeting defeat and withdrawing from the battlefield. Joseph and the Nez Perce withdrew to the north, making it to within about thirty miles of the Canadian border and freedom before being surrounded and forced into surrender. It was Joseph who said, "From this day on, I will fight no more forever." A sadly beautiful place.

At Chief Joseph Pass, I crossed the Continental Divide for the first time and then ran into US-93 about ten feet inside the Idaho border, before I turned north back into Montana. Following the beautiful Bitterroot River, I met the first Concours I'd seen (other mine), riding southwards just out of Hamilton, where I stopped for luinch at Taco John's, the only fast food I would eat on the whole trip.

As I went downstream, the temperatures soared, and the visibility took a nose-dive. There were fires in the Bitterroots and in the Sapphires. There were fires to the north of us, fires to the south of us, fires to the east of us, and fires to the west of us. Visibility was *so* bad that I heard that the Missoula Airport was closed even to instrument landings. By the time I got to Missoula and checked in to my motel, ash was falling on everything.

After checking in and leaving a message at the desk for Jeff Just (who was sharing the room with me that night), I headed for the Parkside Holiday Inn and the official finish of the Iron Butt Rally. When I got there, one rider had finished, Rachel Dwyer on her Ducati Monster 800. I didn't see her, but I saw other "big dogs." I didn't talk to many of them, because the Rally Staff looked up to their eyeballs in organizational work. But I saw Warchild, Kneebone, Higdon, and Rallymom Lisa Landry.

I talked to Russell Stephan, whose IB ended ignominiously when he nailed a deer in the dark on the first night of the rally. His ST-1100 was a mess. Russell had bought a pickup to carry the bike, and gone to his folks in Las Vegas for a visit. The pickup didn't get him there, so he had to buy a second pickup (Russell said his Mastercard was "*SCREAMING!*" to get the poor damaged ST home. With Kneebone's encouragement, he decided that he had already paid for a banquet ticket, so he might as well come to Missoula and eat. The sticker on the pickup's tailgate asked the question: "Is it poaching if you don't use a gun?"

While talking to Russell, Dick Fish came in. Dick may be my #1 hero (partly because I talked to him) because of the competitive spirit he epitomizes. If I remember correctly, Dick had done a 49-state ride not too many days before the start of the Iron Butt. He'd had what he called a "brain fart" at the start in Missoula (didn't get something stamped, IIRC), so when he got to the 1st checkpoint in Primm, Nevada, he didn't receive any points. When he opted for the "red pill" he ended up choosing the option that would have taken him down 400 miles of bad road to Goose Bay, LABRADOR, for crying out loud! (As far as I can tell, no one went to Goose Bay.) Dick tried. He said that he had ridden about 60 miles east of Labrador City, when he started noticing a "zzzzppp, zzzppp" noise every time he hit a bump. Finally, he decided to stop and see what it was. The frame on his BMW R1150 GS was broken. The only thing holding the rear subframe (with loaded Jesse panniers and what must have been about a five-gallon auxiliary gas tank) to the rest of the passenger footpeg bracket!

Dick, being a good Boy Scout, was prepared. He had two straps in his luggage, which he tied to the back of the sub-frame, tied together, and then dropped the straps around his neck, leaning forward to hold the fender off his tire as he rode the 60 miles *back* to Labrador City. I don't know how many doors he knocked on before he found a welder at home! With some newly fabricated non-factory gussetts (nicely painted, BTW), Dick made it safely back to Missoula. He finished dead last, with only the 4000 points from the final checkpoint to his credit, but, by gum / by golly, he finished!

After catching up with Jeff Just, visiting some with Eldon Cannon (the guy who, after he got home, would go to extraordinary lengths to get me a replacement lens for my brand new driving light which caught a rock its first day on the bike!), Jeff and I retired to Applebee's for dinner and hit the rack. Jeff was quicker to get off the next morning than I was. I didn't think about the fact that people would be finishing all night long. Why anybody would wait until the finish window opened to get to Missoula is beyond me now that I think about it.

But I was there when my other big heroes of the Rally came in. Ken Morton on his "Hopeless Class" GL-500 Silverwing, cleverly camouflaged as a BMW with a water-cooled Guzzi engine finished 35th. Go to the Iron Butt sight and check out Ken's bike. It's a classic which brought back fond memories of my first motorcycle, an '83 GL-650 Interstate. Only 16 minutes before the window closed, in steamed Leon Begemen on his Kawasaki Ninja 250!! Sporting a "custom" paint job (of spray-on truck bed liner) and elegant Rubbermaid hard luggage, Leon "the Animal," finished 11th. Incredible!

Paul Taylor, the winner finished strong just before the window opened. I believe he collected every possible bonus on the last leg, giving him a winning margin of slightly less than 2,000 points. I had talked with Paul's wife, Tricia, both on Thursday night and Friday morning. Even though she and Paul both ride BMWs, they are fond of COG. Trish had spent time with Dave Owen in BC on her Hyder ride last summer.

I saw Kyle Crippen, who finished 45th on his Concours (nicely outfitted with what I assume was a Sampson Auxiliary fuel tank) and I talked quite a bit with Harry Kaplan, who finished 21st on his nearly stock Connie. Harry had a hair-raising tale of running over a dead deer lying in the middle of I-90 in the early hours of Thursday morning, only 60 or so miles from Missoula. He said, "Connie saved my life! I *know* she went airborne when I center-punched that deer!" Apparently the same deer got hit by at least one other rider, someone on a Triumph who lost a hard bag in his encounter with dead Bambi.

I talked *very* briefly with Linda Babcock, offering her congratulations on her finish. She gave me this exhausted laugh and said, "I'm *SO* glad it's over!" I'll bet!

I was surprised at how fresh some of the riders seemed and how accessible they were. Almost all of them wanted to tell their story. I talked with Don Angell who rode a bone-stock ST1300 (as far as I know, the only mod he had was *maybe* a Throttlemiester) to a 28th place finish. Don was *very* reflective about his experience with the ST. The heat, he says, is a *real* problem, maybe a deal-breaker for him, living, as he does, in the DFW area where the weather provides all the heat you need. The high-speed weave is there and un-nerving. There was a 3rd issue Don had with the bike, but I can't remember what it was. Other than that, he liked it. :-)

I had thought I had a Banquet ticket, but it turned out that I had miscommunicated with Lisa Landry. I *might* have been able to get one (Jeff Just did), but I wouldn't have known until 4:30 or 5:00. I stood there in the parking lot on my aching knees, with my watery eyes, and thought, "Hmmm, I could be a *long* way down the road by 4:30 or 5:00.

So, at 10:15 I headed east. The farther east I got, the better visibilty got. By the time I was Drummond (having met one Connie westbound, a magnificent '99 -- was it you, Hork?), I could see for five or six miles, so I decided to take the "Scenic Loop" (I'm not really sure that there any *non*-scenic roads in Montana!) down past Phillipsburgh, another old mining town, Georgetown Lake, and through Anaconda. East of Anaconda, I was back on I-15, up and down over the mountains until I exited for gas at Three Forks. That put close to Willow Creek and I couldn't resist the opportunity.

Willow Creek is the site of one the best novels I've read. The name of the book is "Blind Your Ponies," by Stanley Gordon West. Willow Creek is home to a basketball team that's lost 90 consecutive games, a struggling school district, a struggling cafe / saloon, and people with ghosts in their pasts. I recommend the book! The real Willow Creek is at the end of the road, but didn't seem to be struggling quite so much as the book had made it sound. The school, while small, was clean and neat -- people in Willow Creek take pride in it; the United Methodist Church (since I'm a United Methodist minister, I *always* check the United Methodist Church) was beautfiul, and the Willow Creek Cafe and Saloon was wonderful. I asked my waitress if many people came down the road because of the book. She said that quite a few did but that more came because of the restaurant's growing reputation as one of the best places to eat in Montana. She had started the restaurant's copy of "Blind Your Ponies," but someone had walked out with it.

After Willow Creek, back on the Interstate past Bozeman, Livingston (just east of Livingston, I met the last Connie I'd see on the trip), Laurel, and Billings. I made it to Billings just in time for what passes for a rush hour on the slab in Montana. I stopped for gas in Hardin, just west of the Crow Reservation. It was 6PM and 100 F. Too darned hot! I talked for a bit with a couple on Harleys (heading for Milwaukee -- imagine that!). They wondered how I could stand the heat in my 'Stitch. I wondered how *they* could stand the heat in T-shirts. I still don't see how you could keep from heat stroke dressed like that -- it just doesn't seem possible that you could stay hydrated with that much skin exposed to even a 60mph windblast at 100 degrees. But, hey! They were riding and it's the ride that counts, not the choices you make about how to dress or what to ride. Well.....maybe. Maybe not.

From Hardin, I rode past the Little Bighorn Battlefield -- a place that always makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I expected to see the bluecoats of the 7th Calvary littering the hillside around the monument where Custer died, and the teepees of the Sioux and their allies in the willows along the Little Bighorn. But I made it through safely, arriving in Sheridan to spend the night. After I checked in, two men (one on a Harley, one on a Vulcan) who had ridden some of the same roads I had been on and were heading back to Rapid City talked to me for a half hour. They both kept shaking their heads and asking, "Don't you worry about riding so far all by yourself?" I didn't know quite what they were really asking -- was it a question about what I'd do if I had a breakdown or a question about loneliness vs. self-sufficiency?

On Saturday, it was up and at 'em. I looked at the map and decided that I'd *driven* I-25 south of Buffalo enough not to need to subject myself to *riding* it. So I took US-14 SE out of Sheridan. Paralleling the interstate almost to Buffalo, but out of sight in another drainage, 14 finally bends to the east and then the north-east, going through Ucross (pop. 5) which is one of those places that convinces me that there is *NO*where in the country where someone won't build a million-dollar home. Up the road in Clearmont, there was a style of grain-elevator I'd never noticed, still carrying the trademark of the Sheridan Flour Company, long since out of business. It was like two or three 70 foot-tall tubes joined together. I saw two or three more of these before I got south of Gillette.

After I crossed Clear Creek, it seemed as if I must be in country where horses had played a significant role. Every creek had "Horse" in its name. My favorite town was Spotted Horse (pop. 3), which had ... a spotted horse (plastic, but a horse) in front of the only building in town, the combination bar/post office/general store. You'd want to have gas before you set on this loop, but didn't switch to reserve until about 10 miles from Gillette. North of Gillette, the country was dry and empty except for gas pumping stations (not *gas* stations, but pumping stations for gas pipelines), and then a couple of huge open-pit coal operations.

The firefighters were out with the "Boot" in Gillette, collecting for Jerry and his Kids. I ate breakfast at a restaurant where half the staff hadn't showed up. The food was OK, but the service was way slow. South of Gillette on WY-59, the scenery was dominated by the distant towers of the coal mines, Burlington-Santa Fe coal trains thundering south toward the power plants of Texas, and the occasional pronghorn antelope.

By the time I got to Douglas, I was willing to settle for the slab as a route home. Past Glendo, Wheatland, and Chugwater, to Cheyenne, where I dropped over to US-85, taking it past the windmills lazily and easily generating "free" electrical energy for the Denver Metro area, to Greeley, US-34 and home. I got here after riding only 2,244 miles -- a mere drop in the bucket for the IBR riders, but plenty for a cotton-butt like me.

Phil Tarman
Ft. Morgan, CO
COG # 3547
Colorado AAD
'99 Concours "Tumbleweed"
CDA #0016(a-g)
IBA # 5811: SS1000, BB1500