The San Francisco 1000
by Scott Easton
Around the turn of the century, the Iron Butt Association leadership began to look for new ways to challenge its membership. Hidden in a seldom-browsed IBA webpage, registered trademarks began to appear, and went unnoticed until the Jacksonville ride-to-eat in 2006, when Mike Kneebone announced that they would now certify Saddlesore 1000s ridden entirely within a single state.
You live in Kentucky, but don't like to ride far? No excuses. The KY-1000 awaits; if you can take it. Some of the smaller, northeastern states would present unique problems with documentation, and exceptions to the Saddlesore rule forbidding repetitive routes would have to be made, but thousand-mile days have now been ridden in nearly every state.
IBA cornerstone Dave McQueeney insisted that Washington, D.C. be included for certification with the state rides, as he had documented a stop in the District when he did his 48 states plus Alaska ride in less than ten days. He didn't feel the series was complete without D.C. After all, a town full of drunken lawyers and bloated politicians has three electoral votes, why shouldn't they have their own Saddlesore? He successfully lobbied for its inclusion, to the amusement of those who thought they knew better.
Debates ensued between them and a very obstinate rider over whether such an "urban" Saddlesore was possible. Within a couple of months, the debate ended when a crew of witnesses counted the 63rd lap of Washington D.C. within 24 hours, completed by that obstinate rider, and followed shortly thereafter by Bob Higdon and Mike Kneebone.
Questions followed. Can this be done in New York? Los Angeles? Where else? There are now trademarks in place for all of the major cities.
Someone circled New York for over a thousand miles, without ever leaving Manhattan. Seventeen riders have completed the Los Angeles-1000, 1000 miles in 24 hours inside L.A city limits. Two people spent a thousand-mile day in Indianapolis.
"San Francisco would be an interesting challenge", Mike Kneebone said, at the post-ride breakfast in D.C. Sean Gallagher and John Ryan decided to take a closer look.
Gallagher hadn't been on a long ride in "two and a half years". Ryan seems inclined to try anything on a bike, and won't admit to owning a car since the Reagan administration. They warmed up by riding a southerly route, from the northeast, in three days, arriving at a Travelodge in South San Francisco, where they were to meet Tom Austin and Dave McQueeney.
Sean isn't comfortable on the south side of the tracks, and checks out of the designated Travelodge ride headquarters after twenty minutes. "I'm going to the Holiday Inn down the street. I have 4 billion reward points, they have a bar, and a good restaurant. Meet me over there for dinner."
Gallagher proceeds to fortify himself for the ride with generous portions of nachos, steak, sushi, Patron, Stella Artois, and Marlboro Lights. Ryan doesn't drink or smoke, but eats more than enough to compensate for this deficiency.
Sean hands John a fistful of sponsorship money. "This is from Roger Sinclair and me".
"Thanks, but I wish you wouldn't do that", Ryan says, trying to frown while looking relieved.
"Yeah, right. You have enough money to get home?"
"Nearly half way, yes. I've got plenty of credit cards...."
Sean also picks up the tab for every meal and drink we would have that weekend, and would hear nothing of anyone else contributing to the bill.
Ryan grew up on urban riding tactics, but Gallagher is not very confident. "You've got to be at the top of your game 100% of the time for this ride," he says. "I've never really ridden in a city before, and I'm not sure that I have the skills for this."
Ryan shrugs. "Well, you'll have the skills by Monday morning...."
Austin and McQueeney weren't showing up until Saturday night for the planned Sunday ride. It was only Thursday, and there were details that needed attention.
The route looked good on paper, but would have to be tested in what these people think is reality. The average speed limit must be greater than 41.7 miles per hour, to make a thousand-mile day legally feasible, otherwise, the IBA won't certify it. Distance per lap was measured. Traffic density and temperament were assessed, at different times of day. A suitable fuel stop/checkpoint was found at the south end of town, open 24 hours, with receipts that included the required date, time, location, and gallons of fuel purchased. Ryan spoke with a few members of the California Highway Patrol, who were busy writing speeding tickets at the north end of the route, and tried to explain what they might see on Sunday.
All three officers were motorcyclists, one had even heard of the Iron Butt Association. "How many bikes will be doing this?"
"Just two of us. In the past, we've caused some concern when officers see us pass them over and over again."
"Okay. Fifty bikes might be a different story. Just don't get pulled over, keep it safe, and you should be fine."
Sean would be on the "Robobike", a BMW R1150GS Paul Taylor rode to victory in the Iron Butt Rally and promptly sold to him after giving it the thrashing of its life. He drops it at San Francisco BMW on Friday for a full service. Roger Sinclair had just spent a week fixing leaks in the 11 gallon Touratech gas tank.
He picks the bike up the next morning, fully serviced, with one small caveat. The technician explains that he could not test ride the bike because of a fuel leak, and noted on the repair order, "Unsafe to ride". He points to a small puddle of gasoline beneath it.
Gallagher is convinced that he parked it in the warm building with a full tank, which then expanded through the overflow line. As he pulls out of the shop, I follow at a safe distance, a quarter mile or so. Everyone feels pretty good when he makes it back to the hotel without pyrotechnics.
A few more test laps on the route support the notion that a thousand mile day in the city is possible, if that pace can be sustained for nearly 24 hours. A thorough inspection of the checkpoint reveals another small problem, however. The building, and the restroom inside, are closed from 9PM to 6AM.
"No big deal", Sean says. "I can just go behind that bush over there."
Ryan begs to differ. "You're six feet tall, wearing a hi-viz Aerostich, relieving yourself behind a three foot high bush at a busy urban intersection. If you get busted for urinating in public, I'm not going to bail you out until I'm finished with the ride."
"I can bail myself out."
"Then, you're not going to finish the ride."
"Good point. What do you suggest?"
"We need to find a medical supply store."
They're fully equipped by the time Dave McQueeney and Tom Austin arrive Saturday afternoon. The first priority is abuse of Sean Gallagher. Ryan telephones him.
"Sean, you need to come over here and talk to Dave. It seems there might be a problem."
"What!? What kind of problem?"
"Well, apparently San Francisco BMW called and told him that your bike was unsafe. Dave and Tom are the certifying authorities for this, and they say they can't let you ride. You can work as a witness, though...."
A long string of expletives follows. It's strong enough to make even Ryan, a product of New York's underside, flinch. "How could San Francisco BMW call him!?"
"Everybody knows Dave McQueeney."
Another full minute of unprintable dialog. Finally, Ryan lets it go. "Sean, calm down. I'm just kidding."
Gallagher shows up a few minutes later, and McQueeney goes over the rules for the ride.
Dave is a soft-spoken straight talker who isn't given to much humor at another's expense. However, he has been known to make an exception under appropriate circumstances.
"The route is just under twenty miles in length, so, John, we'll need you to come in for gas, and an odometer and GPS track log check every 17 laps. Now, Sean, since you're new at this, we need you to come in for an odometer and GPS check on every lap."
Gallagher's eyes widen, his jaw drops into his Aerostich, and his face turns the color of the setting sun. Ryan turns away, but had just taken a mouthful of Gatorade. The stunning blow from such an unlikely source has him on his knees coughing it up on the pavement. After a few seconds Gallagher realizes he's been tread upon once again.
"I'll get you guys for this," he says, finally laughing. "It might be ten years from now, and you'll never know it's coming, but I swear that I will get you for this. Man, I was hot!"
At an early dinner that night, both riders eat light, and Sean switches from drinking beer and tequila to Perrier. "Game time," he explains.
Two hours later, Ryan is hungry again. Tom Austin has just arrived, and John unsuccessfully tries to talk him into having dinner. "You need to get some sleep, don't you?"
"That won't happen for a few hours yet."
Ryan returns to his bike, opens a foil pack of processed salmon, sips from a bottle of water, and munches on dried fruit from his tankbag. "Want some?"
"No, thanks."
"I was expecting rain. Every one of these city rides, we've had good weather. We were due to get rained on." There hasn't been a cloud in the sky for three days, with temperatures rising from the mid-sixties at night to the seventies during the day. Light breezes, and no change for tomorrow.
John sits on the bike, nonchalantly snacking away in the parking lot of a cheap airport motel. It looks as if there's no place he'd rather have dinner. He seems rational, despite his reputation, and a thousand yard stare that would take the smile off Ronald McDonald's face.
"You really think this can be done?"
"That's what we're here to find out. The test rides on the route worked well enough. The only thing that could stop us would be a minor disaster shutting down the freeway. But, I'm wearing my lucky Higdon Courthouse Ride shirt - what could possibly go wrong?"
"Traffic."
"We know there will be plenty of that, we just have to keep moving, even if it's slowly. At one point in New York, we did 304 odometer miles in eight hours and fifty minutes, but were still able to finish, because we kept moving."
"Cops."
"I spoke with them the other day, and they sounded very reasonable. We're not going to do anything stupid, and don't need to in order to finish this ride."
"What about Sean? He seems a little nervous...."
"His confidence is not what it should be, but he's a big boy, has done some great rides. It may take him a few hours to adapt, but he'll be fine."
It's nearly midnight. "I think I can sleep now," he says. "We want to be rolling by four. See you at the checkpoint."
A few hours later, I follow Dave McQueeney's 1980s-vintage BMW R100RS about ten miles to the Chevron station that will be our home for the next 24 hours. Has Dave survived all of his million and a half BMW miles by riding at 50 in a 65 mph zone? He apologizes when we arrive, explaining that the bike is running on only one cylinder.
Tom Austin parks his pickup truck in a back corner of the small lot, providing a place for the naps that would certainly be needed. He sports a California Highway Patrol baseball cap to thwart the suspicions of those who might wonder about a group of grown men hanging around a gas station all day and night. It seems to work - he gets a wave or nod from many of the CHP and SFPD patrols that pass through.
In a circle of harsh halogen lighting in the pre-dawn darkness, these two machines don't look like they'll travel another hundred yards without a lot of help. Both would appear to have significant mileage with the shiny side down, if either had a shiny side. Saddlebags have been removed and left at their respective hotels. Starting odometers are recorded (112K and 127K!), GPSes are zeroed, witness forms signed, handshakes exchanged, and smiles fade as both riders swipe a credit card and fuel up.
They're "on the clock" by 0400, bright white HID lights carving across three traffic lanes, to make a left at the stoplight directly in front of us. Two quick rights, and they're on the freeway. It's a busy and complex five-corner intersection, and will probably serve to help keep them alert as the day winds slowly along.
Dave McQueeney goes over the record keeping. The completion time of every lap is recorded, elapsed time will give some idea of traffic or other problems. If a lap takes much too long, it's probably a good idea to try them on the phone. We acknowledge with a wave as they pass. The riders will stop for gas every 17 laps, and have the GPS track log checked, to verify that they're staying in bounds, that is, within the city limits. Ryan's bike is equipped with a Star-Traxx, for additonal verification, and so that Mike Kneebone can watch from IBA headquarters when he's grown weary of watching a fresh coat of paint in the living room dry.
The first few laps are nearly interesting, hoping for the best and anticipating the next safe arrival. The lights on those bikes make them clearly visible as soon as they're reached the exit ramp, nearly a half mile away. After a few hours, the novelty wears off, a nap in the pickup is really tempting.
Two hours later, Bob Mutchler and Neil Cook have arrived, Dave McQueeney's bike is running on both cylinders, Ryan has already made a gas stop, and Sean Gallagher is pulling in for his first. "How many laps is that f$#! ahead of me?"
"Six right now, Sean", Dave tells him.
Ryan rolls past, waves, and yells to Gallagher. "Hi, Daddy!"
"Make that seven."
Tom and Dave don't seem the least bit fazed by what must be the blinding monotony of the task. Their fanatical attention hasn't lapsed a bit. Their devotion to riding, and to the Iron Butt Association, is renowned, but to see it in this context gives one concern for their well being. Gallagher and Ryan may be trying to live on the edge, but Austin and McQueeney went over and lost sight of it years ago.
I decide that it's time to experiment, and ride the route. The traffic light at the start is timed to turn green just as you've gotten bored enough to reach for a sip of water or a tankbag snack. Thirty Californians lean on their horns and remind you that "lanesharing" isn't just for motorcycles, as sheet metal brushes both knees, and a Ring Ding falls into your lap and begins to melt.
A left and a quick right, and another wait. To keep everyone in the great state of California safe, a right on red is not allowed to the freeway ahead. Riding under the influence of diesel exhaust from the F450 in front of me is much more prudent. A motorcycle cruises by on the right, with several inches to spare, slicing its way to the front of the line. Maybe it's one of ours, and I can catch up to take a look, but it's out of sight by the time the light changes.
Traffic is already very heavy. Brake lights flash randomly, without reason, as when someone imagines a glimpse of nothing out of the corner of their eye while text messaging a girlfriend or trying to slap the brat in the back seat. A few sweepers undulate through the hills toward downtown, the forest of trucks and sloppy SUVs making it difficult to pick a smooth line. If I had the road to myself, this stretch could be fun, a chance to scuff the edges of the tires. Right now, it's more important to avoid scuffing the edges of the motorcycle against the sea of cars and trucks heading.
Congestion builds in the north, as people try to make their right lane exit from three lanes to the left, while others have their heart set on the exact opposite. There is an occasional turn signal. Hybrid cars lumber along at twenty miles per hour below the speed limit. There is an occasional fender bender.
The pace picks up approaching the Oakland Bay Bridge. I accelerate to the far left lane, looking for the last exit before you leave San Francisco city limits and with it a very sharp U-turn. "It's marked for 15 mph," Sean Gallagher warned. "There's no exit ramp, and a concrete wall on the outside. You're at highway speed going in. Sometime tonight, one of us is going to bounce off that wall." I put on my turn signal a half mile from the exit, trying to put some distance between myself and whatever is behind me, checking mirrors, and hoping that they're paying closer attention than I've seen so far. I frighten myself only moderately, feeling the ABS shudder as the concrete wall gets very big, very fast, and struggle to turn the thing around a curve with about a twenty foot radius. Ryan told me to make a bootleg turn as soon as I reach the end of the divider, and get right back on the bridge, per the advice of the CHP. The road on tiny Yerba Buena Island (which is the far edge of the San Francisco city limits) is under construction, preventing an easy return to the freeway in the process.
I'm back on the bridge again in seconds, this time on the upper level, with astounding views of the city, the bay, and Alacatraz. I'm reminded of a friend who takes the annual swim from Alcatraz to the city, a mile and a half in fifty degree shark infested waters. There are all kinds of freaks out here on the left coast. Some of them come from the east, for no other reason than to circle the city on a motorcycle, at least 51 times in a day.
Two well-worn bikes pass as I reach a split in the freeway, north of the checkpoint. Gallagher and Ryan, a few hundred yards apart, suddenly signal and change lanes in opposite directions as I hear and feel a series of concussive thuds. The rear end of the car ahead hops a few inches off the pavement. I swerve and note four cages, each a little shorter than a moment before, sharing what the DOT has appropriately named "crush zones".
It has gotten warm enough that the shade from a tree near the sidewalk looks good, and I wave to the small IBA crowd that has gathered there while passing the checkpoint. Dave McQueeney makes a notation on his omnipresent clipboard. He shouldn't plan to keep track of what I'm doing, because there won't be much.
I return to the clogged freeway for a few miles, shifting and swerving like a kid in a schoolyard game of tag. The turn signals get enough use that my left thumb starts to cramp, and suddenly the odd BMW controls make sense. You can share the work between both hands. Relief is just ahead, though - a huge clot of brakelights, six lanes wide. I won't be needing the signals for a while.
I brake to a stop, keeping one eye on the mirrors. Sean Gallagher is just ahead, having tossed his lanesharing virginity to the wind. What would Jill think? Her only concern, according to Sean, was that he return home safe, sound, and on time for their daughter's wedding, six days hence.
My thoughts are yanked back to where they belong by a sickening impact and shower of broken glass, as a Ford Exploder on the left lives up to its name by joining the traffic jam a little too quickly. The driver removes an iPhone from the remains of his teeth and spits a mouthful of blood, while untangling himself from the offending airbag. Lanesplitting is starting to look very safe, and I creep forward.
Another bike goes by, to the extreme right side of the right lane. John Ryan pulls even with Sean, who is mired somewhere in the middle, beeps the horn, waves him over, and keeps rolling. Sean looks around and begins to squeeze his way laterally, but doesn't get much cooperation. After a few minutes, he's able to reach the side and start moving again, disappearing into the sea of steel and plastic.
The cooling fan kicks in, adding a Death Valley breeze to what has suddenly become much too warm a day. The extreme right lanesharing is starting to look good, and I'm able sneak over eventually, tiptoeing between fenders, mirrors, and the tire-puncturing debris on the edge of the road. After thirty minutes of this, I've reached the bridge again, and some relief, as the used car lot spreads out and picks up the pace. The U-turn goes a little more smoothly this time, without activating the ABS. The break doesn't last long, as nothing is moving when I return to the southbound side of the bridge. I'm beginning to understand the DMV motorcycle road test - this is what they had in mind when they have you teeter along at 4 mph between parking cones. I pass a car stereo blaring Journey's "City by the Bay", the singer taunting me about how much he wants to be here. Right now, I'd rather be anywhere else.
The misery persists. Eight miles to the checkpoint. Five. Two. Gallagher and Ryan pass again, with Sean starting to look like he knows what he's doing. My learning curve has flatlined. The best I can hope for is to stay at the checkpoint, feast on microwave burritos, and sip a Big Gulp.
Everyone's times have doubled since the start, so I feel a little better about my two laps in an hour and a half. The 26.3 mph average won't make a thousand mile day, but how long can these conditions last? Well, about 14 hours, with lanesharing a necessity on most of the route until nearly midnight. The San Francisco 1000 will never grace my resume.
Sean pulls in for a gas stop just after sunset, chuckling to himself. He passed a patrol car without realizing it until he heard a Dodge Hemi breathe deep and saw the black and white Charger pull alongside. The PA system crackled, and then announced, "SHUT YOUR BLINKER OFF!"
"How is it out there?"
"They're pretty good about clearing the wrecks. They're gone by the next lap. Remember The Outlaw Josie Wales? I keep repeating the Indian's mantra - endeavor to persevere. It helps. Then, that son of a bitch will pass me again, which helps, too. There's somethin' wrong with that boy," Sean says with a grin.
When John's hideous FJR arrives for its third fuel stop a couple of hours later, Tom and Dave shake his hand and extend their congratulations. The San Francisco 1000 is finished. Ryan, unfortunately, is not.
"I'm going to keep going for 24 hours, if you don't mind...."
"Sure. Whatever you want to do, we'll be here."
"Thank you. How's Sean feeling?"
"Tired, but determined. He'll make it."
Ryan returns a few hours later, with bad news. The exit ramp has been closed by construction. "How many laps does he have left?"
"Three."
"He's not gonna be happy. We need to take one exit north, and wind through some residential streets to get back to Mission."
The lanesplitting requirement has expired, so I decide to head out for another look. Traffic has subsided to the point that it's no worse than riding through a herd of deer, until I reach a Highway Patrol car, crossing back and forth with emergency lights on, making it clear that no one will pass. I picture one of those minor disasters that closes the freeway, but soon see the reason - one driver has given another a
NASCAR-style bump into the wall. The cop pulls over to the crash, closing only two lanes. I'm able to complete a full circuit without putting a foot down, except for the traffic lights. Sean Gallagher passes on the bridge, flipping up the chin on his modular helmet to enjoy a few long drags on a cigarette as he approaches the turnaround. His long history in the recycling business is evident as he extinguishes the smoke and puts it in the map pocket of the tankbag. "I can get four laps out of a butt that way."
He comes in for his last fuel stop an hour later, and gets his ending receipt. Tom Austin checks the GPS, which reads 1004.7 miles. Sean has been scored by Tom at the Iron Butt Rally, and knows what to expect - all business. Even so, he's a bit taken aback when Tom tells him, "I think you should take three more laps, for some insurance mileage."
Sean looks at the pavement, but is smiling as he gets back on the bike. "Yes, sir!"
With all of the suspense and both riders' San Francisco Saddlesores essentially finished, John is able to raise some interest. He cuts to the front of the line at the checkpoint traffic light, passing, amongst the dozen or so other cars, the California Highway Patrol. The officer zigs out of the turn lane and zags alongside Ryan at the front. The two look at each other, but nothing happens, and they go their separate ways when the light turns green.
Another FJR devotee, Tom Melchild, is a welcome sight for the late night crew, bringing his affable demeanor to lighten the load through the last few hours.
Sean pulls in with his insurance miles and a huge sigh of relief. He puts in a few gallons of gas, notes the odometer reading on the receipt, and collects signatures on the ending witness form. 1064 miles, GPS certified. He staggers over to the curb, looking for Ryan, hoping to wave him in. John cruises by, slapping his hand without touching the brakes. "Nice ride, Sean!"
He returns to his bike, leans against it, and lights another smoke, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm finished. I have a flight home tomorrow afternoon, a friend's keeping the bike at his place. I'll ride it back next week."
Sean shakes hands and thanks everyone before climbing back on the motorcycle. His only goal now is arrival at a good night's sleep, just a few miles away. Hopefully, he'll awaken before that afternon flight.
The most fascinating thing in the small hours after midnight is Dave McQueeney's nearly robotic ability to function. He's been out here nearly 24 hours, on a few hours of sleep, calmly and precisely making notes, without taking a break or missing a lap, without a sign of fatigue, boredom, or change in disposition. He passes the hours quietly sharing his multitude of riding experiences, everything from gorgeous destinations to keeping an Airhead together for hundreds of thousands of miles. It's no surprise that BMW awarded him their highest honor, Friend of the Marque, a few years ago.
Ryan finally pulls in, exactly 24 hours after his start. After getting all the paperwork finished, he's ready for breakfast, but no one is willing to join him. I've started to fall asleep standing up, and want nothing more than the squeaky bed in my cheap motel room. Dave McQueeney, however, is ready to ride home. Four hundred miles. "I checked out of the hotel yesterday." These people are not like us.
It has been said that whoever is in charge of the universe looks after drunkards and fools, and they apparently look after some of the IBA's stranger denizens, as well. Ryan's front tire begins to show its steel belt, and the front wheel bearings aren't bearing anything by the time he reaches Flagstaff. Sean Gallagher flies back to San Francisco the following week, determined to score a 50CC on the way home, when his BMW final drive does what they have become famous for, in Tallahassee. Whoever's in charge wanted to see a San Francisco Saddlesore, but decided that was enough.
Another city has fallen within the IBA realm. Much of the membership has regarded these rides as the very edge of sanity, and they are certainly not appealing in the traditional sense. Most long distance riders want to go somewhere, without concern for the journey as destination, as it is in the purest sense with an urban Saddlesore. The constant high demand on situational awareness makes it so, and that is not something many riders are comfortable with, or perhaps capable of, for a thousand miles. Those who claim such a short, repetitive route is boring clearly have no relevant experience. There is no opportunty for boredom, with conditions and hazards changing so much that no two laps are alike.
Steven L. Thompson has written "Bodies in Motion", a book which offers to explain why riding motorcycles feels good. We are beings who have learned to enjoy the physical sensations of moving around, which started as basic instinct and grew as we evolved into the planet's dominant species. For some, a spectacularly distant place isn't needed to enjoy this instinct. Simply being on a motorcycle, braking, accelerating, swerving, reacting, and surviving is not only good enough - it is fantastic.
