Bite the Bullet
Here is a story I wrote a few years ago about the infamous Bite the Bullet ride. those of you considering the Raw Hide should read this carefully!
George Barnes
The story of this ride started at the finish of the California 24 Hour Rally. The finishers were told that, by completing the event they had just ridden, they were "qualified" to ride the "Bite the Bullet." It was a ride being put on a few weeks later by Steve and Jan of Reno BMW and Nevada 1100 fame. No one seemed to know anything about the ride, except to mention that Jan was one "cruel and sneaky guy", or something to that effect. There were rumors of riding 2000 miles in two days, but no one knew for sure what it was all about.
Upon arriving back home in Southern California, I called Reno BMW and asked them to mail me an application. Upon receiving the paperwork and reading the words "...in pursuit of the ultimate long distance ride, and in keeping with our zero tolerance of snivelrs, whiners and other anal retentives..." I knew I had to enter. The list of "required equipment" aroused my interest as well. There were the normal items for rides of this type; proof of insurance, current bike registration, motorcycle operators license, first aid kit, flares, etc. . There were also a few additional items that gave somewhat of a clue as to what this ride was all about; a fine cigar, a Polaroid camera and flash, a bra that fits. I sent in my entry immediately.
The ride was to start at midnight on a Friday night in July. The start point was the ever popular metropolis of Gerlach, Nevada. I left my home in Southern California around nine in the morning on Thursday, planning to leisurely ride the 550 or so miles to Gerlach. I was confident I had prepared my 1989 BMW K100LT properly. I had just had a major service performed, new tires mounted, and had installed an additional 3.5 gallon fuel tank with an auxiliary pump.
I hadn't, however, obtained all of the necessary items to complete my "required equipment" list. Oh sure, I had the flares, the paperwork, and even the Polaroid. But I still needed film, the cigar and bra. My wife had, laughing hysterically all the while, helped measure me for a proper fit of the last item. I stopped at the local K-Mart on my way out of town to pick up the remaining items. The film for the camera and the cigar posed no significant problems, although I wouldn't have known a "fine" cigar from one that had already been smoked. I decided that the higher the price, the finer it must be, and picked K-Mart's most expensive cigar. Then came the issue of finding a bra that fit. Have you ever noticed how large a selection of bras K-Mart has? It makes picking a new set of tires for your bike seem like child's play! After some searching I found one in my size, a 44, (cup size was not an issue). I went into the fitting room to make sure I could get it on. Upon confirming that I could, I went to the register. The clerk was very pretty and very young, which did nothing to lessen my embarrassment. Upon seeing the bra she asked "Is this for you?" Believing that honesty is the best policy, I simply said "Yes". She and another girl who was bagging my items broke into hysterics. The clerk simply said "Black is definitely your color". I tried to explain about the motorcycle ride and all, but they were laughing so hard I don't think they heard a word. The clerk took my money and, still laughing, said "Have a nice day". They're always so polite at K-Mart.
On the road to Gerlach I had an opportunity to test my new fuel tank arrangement and determine maximum range at high speed. My normal 45 miles per gallon at cruising speeds dropped dramatically to around 25 mpg at Higdon Three Vein speeds. Even with the extra fuel, I was going to have to watch my gas gauge closely.
I arrived at the start around 5 PM. There was the usual assortment of long-distance-equipped bikes in the parking lot of the motel. A few ST1100 Hondas and several BMW twins and K bikes, along with a mix of other bikes, all sporting high power driving lights and added fuel tanks of one form or another.
I checked in at the official sign in on the steps of the motel, presenting all of my required items. The paperwork was looked at, the presence of the camera and bra were noted, and the cigar was confiscated. (I later determined that the only reason for the cigar was the Steve and Jan like cigars and this was a great way to obtain a large variety, for free, no less!) I was told to be at the rider's meeting/banquet at 6 PM the next day in the dining room.
The whole idea of getting to Gerlach on Thursday was to get well rested before the ride. What a dream that was! Just try putting twenty or so hard-core, long distance riders in one place and then try to rest. Some of us went out onto the dry lake bed near Gerlach where the first high speed time trials were held years ago. We blasted up and down the lake but never threatened the official land speed record. Thursday night we went out and had a driving light shoot-out. Penetration, coverage and looks were all measured, but, alas, no clear-cut winner could be found. Friday found us doing last minute adjustments and modifications, drinking beer and telling stories (lies?)
At the rider's meeting Friday night we ate, drank, had a great time, and heard a little about what to expect on the ride. The route would take us through five states and there would be nine possible check points, or "Bullets". The idea was simple; follow the route, perform a few unusual acts, and get as many of the nine bullets as possible before returning to Gerlach on Sunday afternoon. No mention was made of any over-all mileage, we just knew that we had 38 hours to get back.
We drew numbers from 2 to 28 to determine our start position. It seems Steve Chalmers, the organizer of the infamous Utah 1088, had the honor of being the first starter and would leave at one minute past midnight. The rest of us would leave at one minute intervals until the last man was out. I drew number 18, thus my starting time was 12:18 am. We were told at the rider's meeting that the first bullet was a place called Denio Junction in North-Central Nevada. We had the option of taking either of two routes to Denio. The meeting was over around nine, giving us a few hours to rest before the start.
At 12:15 am I was given my rider packet containing the route and required bullets. I looked over the packet briefly, then, at 12:18, I started out. The temperature was a little on the cool side, as it often is in the high desert at midnight, but the adrenaline build-up of the last 12 hours was kicking in and keeping me warm. The roads were deserted, save for the occasional rabbit, and my speed began to pick up as I fell into the rhythm of the ride.
The route I chose took me west out of Gerlach to Cedarville on the Nevada-California border, then over to US 395. I had to take a detour to get gas in Alturas. There was only one gas station open and there were a few other entrants gassing up. We had traveled the 115 miles to Alturas in just over an hour and a half. After a quick re-fill I was on my way, leaving the others at the station.
I headed north to Lakeview, Oregon, then east towards Denio. After some twisties the road flattened and straightened out. I could see a taillight in the distance ahead of me, and I became determined to catch it. I kept increasing my speed until I had my bike wide open in fifth, but I couldn't reel in the other rider. I approached the checkpoint at Denio Junction expecting to find some form of civilization. What I found was two people standing under a street light at the junction of two roads. I pulled up just as another rider was pulling away. It was that rider's taillight I had been chasing for the last hour. One of the men at the check point was none other than Jan Cutler, one of the ride's organizers. He had cut almost all of his hair off in order to fit in with the other "person" standing under the lights. This man was dressed in a long, reddish- brown robe (a la Hari Krishna) and was insisting that I buy a fake rose for $5.00. He kept chanting something about how the rose would "be good to me". I gave him five bucks and stuffed the rose in my tank bag, not so much because I wanted it, but because I knew it would inevitably have some meaning. Besides, it seemed the quickest way to shut the guy up so I could get on my way. I pulled out and headed for Burns, Oregon.
My BMW had been sucking fuel like a Boeing 747, so I stopped at the first gas station I saw. After the attendant opened the station at six am, I quickly fueled up and was on my way, now heading north towards John Day. A rider on a Hurricane (with the obligatory added fuel cell, no less) caught up to me as I was cursing up Highway 7 towards Baker City. He stayed behind me as we made our way north and east. The next bullet was at a small country store in the middle of nowhere on route 7. We pulled in and took pictures of our bikes in front of the store with our Polaroid cameras and introduced ourselves. It turned out the other rider was Mike Heran from the Bay area of California. We had met briefly at the California 24. The next check was at the bottom of Hell's Canyon Dam on the Oregon-Idaho border.Upon arriving at the bottom of the dam I saw a guy standing at the side of the road motioning me to park my bike in a certain place. Another rider had already pulled up to a stop. Mike was right behind me. Upon dismounting I heard the guy say to all three of us, "OK, get out your cameras and your bras. Give me your cameras and put your bras on". The other rider was Dave McQueeny. He started to put the bra on over his riding jacket, but the man in charge said "No-way, you have to strip down to bare skin and then put them on". We all complied and he took our pictures in front of our bikes with the dam as a back drop. He kept the pictures, gave us back our cameras and sent us on our way. By this time it was about 9 in the morning and this silly diversion from riding was actually welcomed. (The pictures would find their way onto the wall of the bar back in Gerlach long before we would return).
From Hell's Canyon the route took us up Route 3 into Washington. As I was riding along at a fairly brisk pace, I was passed by a friend of mine from the LA area, Joe Mandeville. I followed him to the next bullet at a BMW dealership in Clarkston Washington. We had been told at the rider's meeting that we would receive a free lunch at this stop. When we pulled into the parking lot Joe got off his bike first. He was handed a sheet of paper by an attendant and told to proceed inside where our lunch was waiting. As he walked away reading the paper, he started to laugh. When I asked what was so funny he hollered back "You'll see", and continued to walk and to laugh. I got one of the sheets and, upon reading it, broke into laughter as well. The rules for the bullet required us to eat a sandwich that had been prepared by the rider arriving before him. In turn, each rider was required to make a sandwich to be eaten by the rider following him.
At first glance this doesn't seem so unusual. However, once we got a good look at the available ingredients on the buffet table, the joke became apparent. There was the usual stuff, of course; rolls, ham, turkey, cheese, etc. But it was the unusual items that caught one's attention; sardines, limburger cheese, whipped cream, chocolate frosting, M & Ms. Well, you get the idea. My friend, Joe, was actually pretty nice to me. My sandwich was ham, jack cheese, mustard, peanut butter and M & Ms on a French roll. After 12 hours on the bike eating nothing but Power Bars it actually tasted quite good. More important, however, was the chance to get off the bikes and laugh and wake up a bit.
Upon leaving Clarkston we headed Eest into Idaho. Joe, Mike and I decided to ride through Idaho together. The highway patrol in that state have a zero tolerance for speeding, and we figured three sets of eyes and four radar detectors (Joe had two on his BMW K1100RS) were a good combination for avoiding problems.
The next bullet was at Big Twins BMW in Boise. When we arrived late in the afternoon there was no one to be seen. We took pictures of our bikes and had a cold soda from the bucket that had been left out for us. Joe and Mike said that they were getting tired and were going to look for a motel and get some sleep. I told them I was going for all nine bullets and would see them at the finish. I headed east on I-80, then south on Route 51 into Nevada. I was headed for Eureka and bullet number six. I began to get tired a couple of hours after the sun set, having ridden for 20 hours with a total of only 2 hours off of the bike. I figured I would stop in Eureka and do some exercises that I have developed over the years to wake me up. Also, after bullet six we had the option of getting the next three in any order we wanted. I was going to use my time in Eureka to map out my strategy for the final checks.
As I approached an intersection a few miles north of Eureka I saw some flashing lights. I slowed and, as I got closer, saw two motorcycles parked. There were a couple of people standing by the bikes and something laying on the ground that looked like a blanket covering a person. I thought, "Damn, an accident. I don't really want to stop, but I know I have to". Well, the two guys standing turned out to be the check crew and the thing on the ground was a sleeping bag that they had been getting into to stay warm. It seems that they thought it would be of help to the riders if they moved the check point out of town, since we would just have to come back this way anyway. So much for my planning.
Upon dismounting I was again asked for my camera. It was getting pretty damn cold and I decided there was no way I was going to put that bra on again. This time, however, I was in for a completely different experience. I was handed a small, plastic, inflatable lamb. It was one of those kinds that are sold as "sexual aids". It had an orifice at the back, for what purpose I could only guess. I was told to "Practice safe sex, hold the lamb in position". I held it in front of me where I could only assume it should be held, and, again, my picture was taken. All of this had two profound effects on me. One was, again, to promote a great deal of uncontrolled laughter. The other was to bring me to a wide-awake state. As I pulled away from the checkpoint at two in the morning I was smiling and looking forward to the next leg of the journey.
I traveled West on US 50, then south on Route 378 towards Tonopah. In Tonopah I got gas and looked at my map to determine the best route to take. I decided to continue south. I stopped in Goldfield and took a picture of a bar that was part one of bullet number seven, then headed west again to the small town of Dyer, Nevada. I took a picture of a gas station sign in Dyer, (the second part of bullet number seven). Then it was over Westgard Pass towards Big Pine, California, as the sun began to rise behind me. Believe me, dawn is the absolute best time to ride this road, the colors of the mountains and the sky were breathtaking! The scenery and challenge of the road made me forget I had been riding for almost 30 hours. I stopped and took a picture of my bike in front of the Big Pine sign for bullet number eight, then I drove up to Bishop. I had my first real meal at Jack's Waffle Shop. I had determined that I had eight hours left to reach the finish and I only had about 350 miles and one more bullet to go. It was somewhere on Route 361 in Nevada that I had a near terrifying experience. I was riding along at a sedate pace and, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw something very large and yellow in my left mirror. I looked at it more closely and saw that it was a warning sign indicating a sharp turn ahead (behind me) with a "40 MPH" written on it. Apparently I had just come through a 40 mph turn. I looked down at my speedometer at saw that I was doing 75. The terrifying part was that I didn't remember rolling off the throttle, leaning or anything!
My summation was that I had dosed off, but I wasn't sure why I hadn't just ridden off of the road. I was shocked into a state of being wide awake by the whole experience. As I rode on down the road I began to formulate a theory as to how I negotiated the turn. It goes like this; when we drive a car we don't usually have to think about moving the wheel to make a turn, we just do it. Something in our subconscious has learned to drive for us. I think the same thing might be true on a bike. After several million corners, our subconscious has learned how to make a motorcycle corner. I was on "auto pilot" for a brief moment and, luckily, survived it. The final bullet was at Carroll Summit on Nevada Route 722. Since I hadn't seen another entrant in over 400 miles I was surprised to see several bikes parked at the top of the summit. As I pulled up I was asked by a very friendly lady "Which hand?" I asked what she meant, then she asked "What color do you want?", (yes, she answered a question with a question). As she said the last question, she held out five bottles of nail polish, all of different colors. I figured out pretty quick what was going on and began to laugh again! A red that looked like it belonged on a Honda ST1100 was my choice, and I gave her my right hand. As she was painting my nails, a man walked up and said "I'll give you five dollars for a rose". I knew it! I knew it had some meaning. I pulled the rose out of my tank bag and proudly handed it over. It didn't look quite as nice as when I had bought it, but no one seemed to care. After letting my nail polish dry a few minutes, I stuffed the $5 bill in my pocket and headed out, bound for the finish. A few hours later I arrived back in Gerlach. It was 11:45 am and I had traveled 2,235 miles in 35 hours. I hadn't slept and had only had one real meal.
I turned all of my route information and pictures over to the finish crew. Another friendly young lady told me I had gotten all nine bullets and congratulated me. She gave me a slip of paper and told me to ride out of town a short ways till I saw some people off to the left. I was too tired to argue, although I wanted to say something like "I've ridden over 2,000 miles in the last 36 hours to get to the finish of this thing, and you now tell me I'm not finished?" But, like I said, I was too tired.
Upon riding a little ways out of town and finding the mentioned group of people and dismounting, I was asked what size shirt I wear. I answered the man, and he pulled a tee-shirt out of a box. A lady standing next to him asked for the slip of paper I had been given at the finish and told him "Nine rounds". He loaded nine rounds into the clip of a 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. He put the tee shirt on a cardboard box about fifteen feet from where we were standing. The shirt had a target on it, as well as the "Bite the Bullet" logo. He put the clip in the pistol, handed it to me and said "Fire away". I managed to get all nine rounds into the shirt, and even got several into the target area with one bulls-eye. He handed the shirt to me and said "congratulations, now go get some sleep". I gladly complied.
We had another banquet later that night. The food was great and the stories told were unforgettable. I received a beautiful plaque with my name and nine polished 45 caliber bullets on it. A drawing was held and three Ruger revolvers were given away, a 38 caliber, a 357 magnum, and the top prize, a 44 caliber. After the banquet there was live entertainment and more story telling. Only four riders, out of the 28 entered, got all nine bullets. I was very proud to have done so well, considering the that the likes of Ron Major, Joe Mandeville, Chris White and Ross Copus were among the entrants. But more than that, the Bite the Bullet was the most fun I have had in over twenty years of riding organized motorcycle events. I will treasure my tee-shirt with its nine holes and my plaque with its nine bullets for many years to come, not for the accomplishment they represent, but for the great times they will always remind me of.
George Barnes
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