How are they going to keep us home
on the farm after we've been to Niobrara

By Jim Winterer, Rider No. 177

This isn't so much a ride report of the 2002 edition of the Minnesota 1000,
"Two Wheels to Niobrara," but a thank you for Team Strange's efforts to help
us long-distance knuckleheads discover our roots, and a thank you for the
Pat O'Keefe single-cylinder award I brought home, snugly bungeed to the
front of my big-time auxiliary fuel cell. 

Almost every night since the rally, for a few minutes before falling asleep,
I read a bit from the collection of stories that Arlene Liska put together
for us and distributed at Niobrara. For many years before I discovered
organized long-distance rallies, I used to poke around remote places with my
Yamaha SR500. But I sure never poked around places like Danny and Arlene.
Wow.

Reading those stories makes me think that we've either inherited a gene
shared by the Liskas, we've all been infected by the same weird disease, or
it has something to do with aliens. And it's not just me, it was every
single rider who showed up for Two Wheels to Niobrara. 

Probably like most of us, I've tried to figure out where this compulsion to
ride long distances deep into the night comes from. I've pretty much given
up trying to figure it out. Now I simply enjoy it, just as I enjoy these
gatherings with others who love to keep riding long after most motorcyclists
have headed back to the barn. On one level, this is a widely diverse group
of riders who individually have little in common; yet on another level, we
have something very basic in common. 

And it's that "thing" ... whatever it might be ... that TeamStrange helped
us to think about for those four days down in Niobrara. When the Strangers
gave Arlene Liska a plaque, or clapped at her talk, or cheered when she was
welcomed to the TeamStrange inner circle of mischief-makers, we weren't just
honoring her. She was honoring us, and we were celebrating that thing that
defines who we are.

Pat O'Keefe, he had it too. It's why the people who loved Pat dressed him
for his wake last May in his Minnesota 2000 blue-denim shirt. I was thinking
about Pat quite a bit on my ride down to Niobrara for this year's MN1K.

I thought about the first time I met Pat. It was the night before his first
rally, and my second or third. We were waiting for our route sheets and
annual pronouncements from the ministers. I gravitated toward the BMW F650
single and started making drooly sounds when Pat walked up. We got talking
and somehow got around to the fact that he had entered his bike in the large
touring-bike class. Dummy me, I told him that he could enter the much
smaller Unique Class because he was on a single. He went over and switched
his entry, and beat me in that rally, just like he did every year after
that. 

Boy, could he ride that thing. During the Minnesota 2000, I rode my guts out
straight for Thompson in northern Manitoba, where I was going to get gas
before making a stab at remote Gilam. When I pulled into the little town's
24-hour gas station, Pat was sitting there on his Beemer, snoozing away. He
already had been there a long time and was well into his sleep bonus. I gave
up on trying to go to Gilam because there wasn't a gas station between there
and Thompson (this was in my pre-monster-fuel-cell days), but Pat made it. I
think he was the only one who had the guts, skill and machine to go for what
the rally bastards thought was a big sucker bonus. 

Pat and I would keep in touch during the winter with occasional e-mails,
and last fall, Pat did a really nice thing, probably because he felt guilty
for beating me all the time. He met me at one of the main checkpoints of the
Iron Butt Rally, and in a quiet no-big-deal way, said he'd like to help
sponsor me and Mark Kiecker. Mark and I had trailered our bikes to the start
of last year's Iron Butt in Alabama, and Pat offered to pay our gas tab
home. I'd bet there were lots of stories like that about Pat. 

If Pat could have made to the Niobrara rally, as usual I would have given
him crap about how I was finally going to beat him. And as usual I would
have done just about anything to outscore him. And as usual he would have
clobbered me. And finally, as usual, I would have been genuinely happy for
the guy. Go figure. 

So this was the kind of stuff swirling around in my addled, post-rally brain
when the Rev. Lovejoy announced that I had won the Pat O'Keefe Award. I
should have said a little something about Pat then, but "thank you" was
about right. I think everyone knew that I really meant it, and it was time
to get rolling. And anyway, I was kind of a ringer for the award. It's
pretty easy to win the outstanding-single-cylinder-performance award when
you're the only ding-dong who showed up on a one. Luckily, the old SR was in
fine form and we managed a respectable finish, so I didn't feel like a total
ringer.

I liked absolutely everything about this year's rally, and especially the
town of Niobrara. The saloon was the best rally headquarters ever created in
the universe; the townsfolk were incredibly welcoming, especially
considering we were a bunch of "bikers"; and even the little restaurant was
perfect, because it was the kind of place where you could go behind the
counter and refill your own coffee cup. 

I liked all the rally options. Coming up with the best route, and the best
time to leave, gave us plenty to think about. It was fun sitting down with
Peter Dean at a big table at Two Rivers Saloon and sorting through all the
possibilities. We never planned to ride together, so it was kind of a
surprise when "that Dean feller" and I wound up heading out of town together
Friday night after Arlene Liska's talk. We rode together much of the night,
and picked up that nice fat dirt-road bonus near Lusk, Wyoming. We almost
picked up a performance award that night, too. I was in the lead at the time
and just got a little warning flash from the trooper, but he decided to pull
Pete over. Luckily, Dean got off with just a warning. 

Pete used to ride a Kawasaki single in the Unique Class, and you could tell
he was no stranger to rough roads. He really could handle his big BMW on
that 10-mile stretch of dirt to the Lusk prostitute's grave site. There were
some pretty good washboard sections on that road, and I wondered if the
"choppa" would attempt the bonus. Judging from all the parts that broke or
fell off that bike on the highways, it's probably good he stayed away from
the prostitute's grave yard. It might have been the choppa's graveyard, too.
I hope we see that old thing at future rallies, but I think you should lose
penalty points for every major part that falls off.

Pete and I stuck together until reaching the interstates in Wyoming. Those
pesky headwinds meant the SR500 was not going to be able to keep up with
Pete's BMW, and besides, I had to stop and make some quick clothing
adjustments. I kept feeling this burning sensation in my side and decided to
figure out what was going on. What do you know; it felt like a burning
sensation because I actually was being burned. For some reason, the
connector plug for my electric vest fried a quarter-size blister on my
stomach. (Now that it's healing, it looks pretty cool. The scar kind of
looks like I got shot.) 

I didn't see him again until I reached Niobrara, but it turned out Pete and
I, and Fergus Hand from Manitoba, all went to exactly the same places and
wound up with identical scores.

After Lusk, I headed to Hell's Half Acre in Wyoming, and then started
high-tailing it back home. Along the way, I stopped for bonuses at the
Devil's Tower monument (where we all obeyed those 20 mph speed limit signs),
the cool little general store at Aladdin, and the monument at Chamberlain.

I got a little pre-rally ribbing for the Garmin Street Pilot I was using for
the first time this year. But the thing sure came in handy. For awhile, out
in Wyoming, I almost was sure I had bitten off more than I could chew and I
wouldn't make it back before my deadline of about 7:30 p.m. Saturday. Even
though I was running late, I couldn't resist those two fat bonuses at
Devil's Tower and Aladdin. As the day wore on, I kept checking the mileage
numbers on the GPS to see if I'd make it under the wire. As I approached
Chamberlain, it was clear it was going to be close, but I decided to go for
that one last bonus. 

This year, I think for the first time, you would get a big, fat DNF even if
you were one second late in getting back to the start/finish line. The
change in rules (we used to get penalty points for being a little late)
definitely added some thrills and chills to the weekend. And some
disappointment, too. You couldn't help but feel bad for some riders who were
time barred.

I wish the winds would have been more cooperative. My pre-rally strategy was
to head west at night when the winds were light. In the day, when the
westerlies are usually stronger, I'd use them to push me back home. Instead,
we had a bit of a headwind at night, but had a nasty headwind all the way
home, too. I left the SR wide open all day and tried to tuck behind the
windshield. Usually we could keep up with freeway traffic, but when those
prairie winds really kicked up, the SR and I would have to scurry over to
the slow lane and try to draft a truck or motor home. 

That last 75-mile stretch -- from the interstate directly south to Niobrara
-- will be one of the most memorable of my life. It was the essence of what
a rally should be ... making some scary choices and cutting it right to the
wire. For the first time I finally had a tail wind, we had plenty of gas,
the SR and I were both wired, and after a few miles of some frustrating
detours, the highway was smooth, straight and wide open. My eyes kept
darting from the road, to the GPS, to the speedometer, to the clock, to the
Sigma odometer. What a relief to finally see that beautiful bridge over the
Niobrara River. We had 15 minutes left on the clock, and that bridge meant
we were just a couple of miles from the finishing line. There's lots of ways
to put it, but man, was that ever fun. 

That evening, after cashing in on my free rally meal in the Two Rivers
Saloon and hanging out with other finishers, I curled up in my tent in the
Niobrara state park and soaked up a great night's sleep. In the morning, I
pigged out at the $4.95 all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch at the little
restaurant. What a great way to wind down. The rally format seemed to keep
us busy, but also gave us plenty of time for kicking back and telling lies. 

The Airheads really dug themselves into a big hole this time ... how are
they going to top Niobrara? And dang it, O'Keefe would have loved it.