The View from Behind the Lenses: Will Barclay Recounts his Journey to the Finish Line in Homer, AK

In between that first mini bike and my flying career I spent years racing large sailboats offshore professionally. Before the era of Loran and later the GPS, I learned to navigate complex courses with complex set of rules using a sextant, a compass, a timepiece and various maps and charts while keeping a close eye on the sky, the wind, the weather, the competition and my own state.

In 2006, my Hoka Hey preparations were underway much more directly. I was stationed in Delhi, India and fascinated by the ancient motorcycles still ridden there. I managed to acquire a few of these antiques and explored progressively farther afield in them. In the end, I was making frequent and lengthy trips through the Himalayan Mountains. I learned to deal with scarce and unreliable fuel stops on bad roads as high as 18,000 feet in elevation. Hotels were often nonexistent and maps of the area provided inaccurate representations of poorly marked roads. One trip in 2009 took me from Delhi, India all the way through the length of Nepal to Tibet and back, under time pressure the entire way on a motorcycle I built myself. The weather ranged from hotter than Arizona has ever seen to arctic cold. Good prep for the Hoka Hey Challenge, although I did not know it at the time.

My accidental preparations continued in 2009. I imported two of my antique bikes into the U.S. in Miami. After spending a couple of weeks overhauling the first, I rode it from central Florida to Key West. It was only after this ride that I learned of the Hoka Hey. I was staying in Florida with a friend who is a Harley enthusiast and after the round trip through the Keys on my trusty iron horse he told me of the Challenge. Mitch had ridden with me in India and it immediately occurred to us that I had inadvertently been preparing very well for this event.

Work heated up and demanded my attention. The Hoka Hey still captivated me but it seemed unlikely that finances and my work schedule would allow me to participate. I spent the winter and the spring working a very demanding project in Saudi Arabia. Just in time, politics and corruption in the kingdom put an end to the project. I liberated three aircraft and a number of people, including myself, from that magic kingdom one step ahead of an evil Prince (but that’s another story). May found me back in the land of the free and checking to see if I could still enter the Hoka Hey. Beth said I could.

I started looking for my first Harley. I chose an ‘08 Electraglide Classic because that was what I could afford. I wished I had a later bike with the wider rear tire, which would not have required changing, and the larger diameter front tire that rolls smoother, and the satellite radio and the ABS but they were out of my budget.

I bought a bike with a few thousand miles on it so that the “new bike” issues were shaken out. I named her Excalibur and, with three weeks to go before the start of the Challenge, rode from Florida to Canada and back pulling all-nighters on back roads for practice and to get to know the bike. Back in Florida, I changed all the fluids and both tires in Ft. Lauderdale 100 miles before the start; I then changed the synthetic oil again at the Marriott the day before the start. I changed it again while new tires were going on, about 5,000 miles into the Challenge and it never got dirty.

The Marriott still had rooms available and honored the special rate so I reserved a room right there and headed for Key West.

The day before the Challenge I was busy finishing last minute details. I slept late and had a swim. I applied my stickers proudly, finished registering, changed my oil, stored my Hoka Hey registration card and my motorcycle registration and insurance card carefully, cleaned the bike and toured the grounds a couple of times looking at the competition and looking for ideas. The pre-ride meeting was as expected with few surprises and the usual good questions and inane ones. Jim was more patient than I would have been. He did confirm the 6:43 a.m. start time.

A couple of hours before departure found me relaxed but awake so I loaded the bike. People were staging so I rolled over into the back of the line, which turned out to be precisely in front of my air conditioned room. I showed my coin to claim a set of directions. With everything but what I was to wear loaded, I retired to study the directions and wait for the 6:43 a.m. start, “when the morning star kisses the horizon.”

The complexity of the route was immediately apparent. Pre-start consensus among the challengers had been that we would almost certainly head northwest up the Florida peninsula on route 27 toward a first stop in Mississippi. Instead the map showed a serpentine inefficient grope toward Daytona Beach. The good news was that our route headed out on a road that Eliza and I had inadvertently driven the month before, up Krome Avenue, which was the road I had driven several times to my Harley friend Mitch’s house, and then immediately through the Everglades and southwest Florida on roads that I was very familiar with and had driven many times when I lived on Marco Island in the eighties. My familiarity was an advantage over many and I needed to devote almost no energy to navigation for the first several hours.

My girlfriend called me just after 6:00 a.m. as agreed and we enjoyed some connection. I did not let the pressure of my final preparations interfere with giving her good attention. She was also headed out on a trip – work, and I knew I would be unable to have as much contact with her as we were accustomed to. I refused to let the familiar sound of Harleys outside distract me. The motor sounds rose to a crescendo and then faded as we spoke, while I kept careful track of the time so that I would not have to rush. We ended the call when I thought I should finish dressing and head to the bike.

When I reached over to the window to part the shades and glance at the busy scene outside, I was startled to see Excalibur sitting alone in the deserted staging area. The race had started early - without me!

My race started then. I turned up the calm full-blast, used the toilet for last time for a while, dressed, surveyed the room, took a deep air conditioned breath, stepped out into the steamy morning and sauntered to the bike.

She started on the first compression stroke and we rolled under the start banner, past the waving police who were still on site facilitating traffic. Excalibur turned left at the light and accelerated to the speed limit heading east into the brightening sky. I was suppressing the urge to stress about the start and promoting my natural relaxation response to the surprise.

People were still roadside in beach chairs waving at me in a kind of send-off. Not all of the fans had packed up and gone to breakfast. I felt good. Missing the exciting start and the adrenalin of hundreds of Harleys crowding the road and surging east was a bummer, but riding placidly and efficiently probably left more energy for events to come.

Less than a mile down the road I passed a challenger on the side of the road. He was inspecting his load and it felt great to be out of last place as I passed him. Within 10 miles, I was regularly passing bikes in ones and twos that had stopped to get things out, to change clothes, to fuel, to grab a drink or a snack. Excalibur and I rolled on. Traffic mounted as hardy early morning travelers joined the trek back east to the mainland for the workweek. The trucks and trailers presented visual obstacles. As the road grew more crowded, the search for reasonable passing opportunities became a competing priority.

The bike was as heavy as she would ever be. The tank was full. The food bags were full. Handling at slow speeds was an issue, as we were heavier than I had ever ridden before. With an empty weight of over 800 pounds, 40 pounds of fuel, 200 pounds of geared up rider, and another 250 pounds of miscellaneous gear from first aid to tools to spare helmet to quarters, the whole rig was rolling along at about 1,300 pounds on two wheels. As the miles rolled by, supplies were consumed and the load grew lighter, but I grew tired as well. Several very experienced riders dropped their bikes at various stages of the race. Some just rolled to a stop at a traffic light and lost it. Many were heavier than I was or had higher loads.

I settled in behind my sunglasses and the shaded half visor that extended down inside the primary visor of the helmet. With the primary visor about 1/3 open to maximize ventilation, I was looking comfortably into the sunrise through four pristine layers of glass and plastic: the bike’s windshield, my helmet visor, the helmet’s internal sunshield and my Serenghetti Driver sunglasses. None of these visual layers would ever be pristine again. Bugs, rain, crop dusters, rocks, tar, and drink spills caught in the slipstream conspired to mar the various lenses.

All was well as I slid efficiently east over the road I had driven several times in the past eight months. The sun rose high enough to be out of my eyes, but was still low enough that riding was cool and comfortable. The wind was light out of the southeast as usual for these waters. The seas were calm and the waters clear. I could look to the sides and see the maritime lighthouses, channel markers, reefs and channels that were still familiar to me from the years in the 1980s when I operated the largest yacht management company in Florida and sailed these waters regularly. I ate an apple to celebrate and thought of my son who had taught me that an apple does more to wake one up than a cup of coffee. There was Red Bull buried in a saddlebag for true emergency use. I never saw it until Alaska.

The first real opportunity to make a wrong turn presented itself as Route 1 went left and the prescribed route to Card Sound went straight. There were a number of bikes and confused bikers at the intersection. Some followed Route 1 and left the official route. Some found their way back to the turn they knew they had missed. Others correctly continued straight toward Card Sound. I knew the way. I did not come out of high speed cruise. I was back in the thick of the pack.

I had never before ridden as part of a group on nice U.S. roads. The good riders were mostly demonstrating a consistent pattern of dividing our travel lane into two lanes with each subsequent rider staying on his or her half of the lane and riding behind, rather than beside, the rider ahead. Refusing to cross the center of the lane or ride beside another rider provided two lines of defense from an inadvertent collision. The best riders also left plenty of space between them and the rider ahead. This allowed them to relax more and ride further. Crowding is dangerous and slow.

There was a line of perhaps 50 bikes waiting to pay the toll bridge at Card Sound. I stopped and grew warm for the first time. It was time to shed the jacket. I shrugged it of and laid it back over the bag on the back seat still securely zipped to the rear of my riding pants. I paid the toll in turn from the bills and change I had ready and accelerated back to the speed limit, donning my coat and heading north.

The route soon rejoined Highway 1 briefly as we crossed it to head north up Krome Avenue. I passed dozens of bikes at a major gas station. They were fueling and consulting their maps and chatting. It was apparent that many riders were just here learning that they had already gone off route by skipping Card Sound. Several turned back to do it right. Many clearly did not. Excalibur never broke stride. I was confident that I could make it all the way across the state to Route 29 where I knew there was fuel. I re-evaluated the fuel situation several times before turning west onto Highway 41, but I knew that if I could avoid a stop I could continue my progress through the pack. We pressed on.

Krome Avenue is dotted with stoplights in Homestead. At a series of lights, I stopped beside a young fit challenger on a Road King with a big load. He was riding patiently and consistently. He was relaxed. I had noticed him earlier along the correct road to Card Sound and had made a mental note that he looked like a serious competitor. We rode near each other through Homestead and took the opportunity to chat briefly at the last light. I found out later that he thought that I too might be a serious competitor. At the last light we wished each other luck and he expressed the opinion that we would be seeing more of each other down the road later in the race. He was right. His name was Frank Kelly. The next time I saw him was in Oklahoma.

Highway 41 felt almost lonely as I cruised across the state toward Everglades City on the west coast. There were times when no other traffic was in sight. I fought the urge to stress about fuel, as I was taking a bit of a gamble stretching my first tank of gas. Running out of fuel here could mean a big delay while I stood at the side of the road hoping to beg fuel from a passing car or bike. I distracted myself by studying the directions and the crude map, drumming details into my brain. I could see on their map where the route turned north on 29. I could see that the subsequent turn to the right, Oil Well Road, was north of I-75. I filed these and other details away, ate, drank and enjoyed the Everglades. We cruised steadily on, watching gators and birds and hoping that the old fuel station was still in service.

Sure enough there was still fuel at the intersection of highways 41 and 29. Few riders would have come this far before their first stop so I had managed to get myself out of sync with the fuel stops of the majority. Only one other rider was stopped there. Excalibur had another 40 miles of fuel on board when we got there, but I did not know where the next fuel might be available so I rolled in for my first “real” fuel stop. The receipt went in its assigned leather windshield pocket, and we surged north out of the gas station and up Route 29. Less than four minutes had elapsed and I was back at speed with the fuel gauge reading “Full” and with a smile on my face. I ran the numbers. We were rolling more than 59 minutes out of each hour and getting over 45 miles per gallon. Life looked good. I was in the game. That was the end of the easy part.

Hoka Hey traffic was thinning on Highway 29. I wondered how many challengers had already decided to find their own route to the next checkpoint. I passed another gas station full of challengers dawdling and waiting in line. Traffic thinned. I crossed I-75 and was no longer on roads I knew. I started looking for the next right. About when I thought the turn was due, I saw emergency lights on the road ahead. I also saw a deer on the right hand shoulder and wondered if someone had hit one. At about the same time, from a mile or so away I saw several Harleys turning right. Sure enough the route went right and I never reached the emergency lights. I learned later that those lights marked the scene of an accident that occurred when a challenger realized he had overshot the turn, did a U-turn, and was struck. The U-turn following the overshoot was to become a familiar maneuver. I found myself executing the Hoka Hey U-turn numerous times over the next week as I identified a turning point only while passing it at cruising speed. I recognized the potential hazard inherent in this and forced patience and caution into my U-turn regime. Several times during the Challenge it would become apparent that I had missed a turn and needed to return to a passed intersection. Sometimes this meant backtracking for miles and the sense of urgency pushing me to rush back toward the route was strong. The urge to ride back hell-bent-for-leather was tough to resist with the sense of other challengers gaining from behind or slipping away in front.

We were headed east now on a much smaller road. It was clearly remote and unlikely to be the site of a speed trap. In the absence of visible traffic that might bring law enforcement, the temptation was to drive at very high speed but the surface was uneven and the ditches at the sides looked unforgiving. An alligator on the left shoulder watched the bikes go by and looked like one of the fans earlier manning the sides of the road in the Keys to send us off. The combination of the deer, the emergency lights and the gator reminded me that this was serious business and tempered my speed.

Sure enough, more emergency lights ahead marked the scene of another accident. Where the road bore left, two challengers had not. They were in the ditch on the right side. The Florida Highway Patrol was on scene and tending to the riders. I saw pieces of recently mighty Harleys scattered in the ditch and slowed but was waved on by the Troopers. I wonder how many challengers were chastened by this scene and whether or not the misfortune of these two riders contributed to the safety of others who saw them. It certainly tempered my riding.

From here we wound our way north past Lake Okeechobee. Several times I recognized stretches of road I had ridden on my training ride north through Florida. I often found myself alone on the road now and wondered where the bulk of the challengers were. The quality and size of the road varied greatly. I remember a rough stretch where I passed an entire backpack on the road clearly fallen from a challenger’s bike. I checked my load and found a gallon jug of water missing from atop the bag on my back seat. Navigation became critical and more challenging alone on the unfamiliar roads. I developed the habit of repeating in my head the next two turns and checking and reading as many road signs as possible, even when I did not anticipate an immediate turn.

Somewhere on the way past Orlando I did my first road reconnaissance. I rode down the most likely road out of an unmarked or poorly marked intersection until I could determine that it was or was not the correct road. I would then continue or return to the intersection to try another road. Other competitors confident of their way sometimes highlighted the most likely alternative by taking it but I was always reluctant to trust their navigation until it was confirmed by subsequent information. This was a challenging section in terms of navigation and I was pleased at one point when a confident group of challengers led by one with local knowledge passed me. I followed them and ticked off the turns on the directions as we made them in sequence.

Arrival at the first checkpoint was busy. There were plenty of bikes in the parking lot but I was encouraged as they looked like the more serious and capable challengers. I thought myself in good company. I found Beth and showed my data-card in exchange for a fresh set of directions. I offered the fuel receipts that we had been told to turn in at each checkpoint but was told to keep them. This forced a change in my system and made loss of receipts more likely. I emptied the receipts from the assigned leather pouch and put them together in a Ziploc in the trunk. A fellow challenger remarked that he wished he had scissors to trim his directions. I had just seen mine in the tour-pak and lent them to him. As he finished a page I borrowed them back to trim mine as well so that they would fit better in my map pouch. We alternated using the scissors, each of us anxious to get back on the road. Then I was done and heading out.

My memories of the next leg are of easier navigation, good luck and weather. I stayed on track in spite of a road closure by riding right through the road closed signs and discovering that the road was passable to a motorcycle. At one stage, my attention was flagging but the habit I had cultivated of routinely reading all road signs saved me. I was one of a string of riders cruising along when a very small residential road sign reading “Lake Erie” caught my eye. I grew up racing sailboats on Lake Erie and that road name was clearly stamped in my mind from our map directions. As I overshot the road I gestured clearly to it on my left so that the riders following me might see it. I then checked traffic as I slowed and, cautiously but swiftly, negotiated the now-familiar U-turn and turned right on Lake Erie following those who had just been following me. The riders immediately ahead of me had continued straight into the failing light. I wondered if they would notice the absence of the bikes that had been behind them and catch the hint that they were off-route before they went too far. I got the feeling that this “Lake Erie” road sign marked a critical phase of the Challenge where many would miss the turn and have difficulty finding it in the fading light and increasing rain. It was a small road marked by a minuscule sign that certainly did not show up in my Rand McNally and probably would not have been in a GPS.

The sky began to spit and I had my first non-standard fuel stop. I think it was a Hess Station where the paper tape that was supposed to be a receipt emerged from the pump totally blank. I wrote on the blank paper the numbers of the two highways that intersected at this station as it marked a turn indicated on our directions and both highways were mentioned in the directions. The paper was getting wet and my pen was struggling so I stuffed it in with the rest of the receipts, knowing that I could augment the details later if required. I rolled on.

The sky was threatening serious rain as I pulled into the next fuel station. I took note of four other riders going in and out of the associated convenience store to take turns using the bathroom and change clothes. I zipped up my gear, closed my visor and headed north into the rain with a smile. This was a big opportunity.

All evening I had been riding near a remarkable rider. He was clearly a serious challenger. He rode a Classic with clear indications of his sponsors. He stayed with me through quick fuel stops and in the rain. His posture was erect. His license plate frame informed me that, “Iron Butt Riders (were) the World’s Toughest”. We both charged into the wet night. The harder it rained, the faster I went. Drilling a hole through the wet night with my fairing. Cozy, warm and dry in my gear.

The Iron-Butt pro and I were clear and dry and making good time. I passed him several times. I seemed to cruise slightly faster, yet even when I did not stop he somehow reappeared in front of me to be passed again. This might have occurred when I overshot turns and had to retrace my steps. The last time I passed him was approaching Andersonville Prison. He was stopped alongside the road - I had never seen him stop. His map was out and I signaled onward as I passed.

Before the start I had wondered what the first night would be like. I expected to pull an all-nighter and forgo sleep altogether on the first night because I had easily done so on my training rides and at other times in life, and I was better rested, prepared and motivated. I also thought that I would be fine all day when the sun came up on day two. The real question was what night two would be like. My preparations were all working well. Somewhere in the night, the Iron-Butt rider, the “world’s toughest”, must have gone to sleep. I never saw him again. I wonder if he made it to Homer.

In fact, I did not see anyone for most of the next day. At one stage I stopped to search the high grass beside the road after something that might have been a fuel receipt or two escaped from the center leather pouch on my windshield. I searched diligently for perhaps 20 minutes but found nothing. During this time I was not passed by a single bike and had I not been confident in my navigation I would have been concerned that I was off track. I also spent some time this day riding multiple ‘River Roads,’ all of which turned left from the road we were on, before I found the correct River Road that fit the directions. Near the end of this section there were rough, unimproved sections of road through a park with a big lake. This was my first opportunity to ride Excalibur in conditions similar to those in India. She did not like it as well as my smaller Enfields. On the overloaded Harley speed was your friend. Handling was a challenge below 15 mph. We survived and learned.

When I finally pulled into the second checkpoint, I knew that I had done well. A friendly rider (Alex Hood from Colorado?) informed me that he had been first or second in and that I was third. I think it was at this stop that a medic asked me how I was doing and checked me out. I changed out my map and directions. It was interesting that Alex seemed in no hurry to move on. He had apparently been focused on reaching this checkpoint and was taking some time to shift his focus to riding onward. My focus remained Homer. When later I rode near Alex through some sweeping turns in New Mexico, it was clear that he rode at higher speeds than I, but took more breaks. I felt great and left the stop ahead of Alex figuring that I was second and wondering who was first.

The route led to Arkansas, to another detour and to a difficult phase for me. There was another road closure on our route and this time it was manned by an officer who would not let me through. I headed off on the prescribed detour and eventually managed to back into the route at the point of the detour. Riding onward, confusion and my mounting fatigue left me disoriented. I burned my eyes badly by riding through chemicals in the wake of a crop duster. I got off the bike, lost and confused, pulled out my meager Rand McNally, and frantically tried to find the elusive turn. After chasing my tail for a few minutes – these roads were not in my atlas – I had just the presence of mind to know that I was tired and being unproductive. I can certainly understand why many riders might at this stage have decided to head for the interstate and for Homer, or for a hotel or home. I decided to decompress, ride miles up a nearby straight road and find a more detailed local map in Walnut Ridge. The break worked. I stopped long enough to use a toilet and stretch my legs, and had a long look at a better local map in good light with reading glasses on. Everything came clear. I realized that I was tired and that this fatigue could lead to more inefficiency and perhaps an accident. I made some notes, rode back to the route and started thinking about getting some sleep.

A group of three deer just off the right shoulder got my attention. More experienced riders had told me that they were surprisingly likely to behave unpredictably to the detriment of motorcycles and motorcyclists. I was not too worried because only one of these three was near the road, and he was facing directly away from the road. It seemed he would probably move toward the other deer and away from the road if he moved. I nevertheless paid careful attention as I was going by. Sure enough, the one near the road managed to leap in the direction opposite of the way he was facing and plant himself immediately in front of me at close range. I instantly got on the front brake as hard as I dared, and on the back brake until I heard the tire complaining. I just had time to wish that I had ABS. I never knew a Harley could stop so quickly. We stopped inches from the deer who decided at that point to continue across the road at a great rate. This provided a welcome jolt of adrenalin and I was very alert for half an hour or so, but I knew it could not last. When I missed the correct turn to Highway 123 and had to figure out that Highway 123 intersected the road I was on in two places not just one, I knew it was time for a nap.

Approximately 46 hours into the Challenge I stopped for 2.5 hours in the driveway of a bible camp on Highway 123 in Arkansas and slept for two hours. The nearby high grass served as a toilet when I awoke. I was on the road, still in the dark, feeling good again.

I was trying not to let fear of deer slow me down too much when I crested a rise in the road to see an animal in the middle of my lane again. This time there was plenty of distance for me to slow. As I approached I could see that it was some unusual canine creature. He had no collar and was unlike any domestic dog that I had ever seen, but he did not look like a fox, coyote or wolf either. He was pure ivory white in color and looked young and clean and healthy, weighing in at perhaps 50 pounds. As I approached, he looked straight at me without apparent emotion and showed no tendency to flee or move at all. I had a good look as I changed lanes and passed. He watched me pass and I was alone on the road again.

The name of the next road I sought fascinated me and is imprinted in my memory. “Low Water Hasty Cutoff Road” evoked images in my mind of someone trying to prevent a flood. On a hunch, I did a short recon down an unmarked road and found a mailbox labeled with an address that began “HLC” or something to that effect that identified this as the road. Another box further down the road confirmed it with the address, “Low Water Bridge”. I again thought that finding this road without a struggle was a piece of luck that few would have. The sky grew lighter as I worked my way down the page of directions, along the route southwest, then northwest, toward Oklahoma.

Oklahoma felt like a day off. My memory is that we were on one road or very few roads most of the way across the state and that navigation was not demanding. The enemies that day were the heat and the wind and the monotony. I fought the heat by ventilating, then shedding my coat again. I fought the wind by assuming an aerodynamic position and hiding behind the fairing. I fought the monotony by completing small tasks, listening to music and weather and communicating. Then I applied sun block, consolidated my trash, studied the map, rocked out to some great music, drank a lot of water in the building heat and pushed the fuel stops as far as I dared.

I did not want to spend too much time with people who did not understand what I was doing, and several people proved unreachable, so I ended up chatting with my sister who really got into it. She went online and discovered that riders many hours behind me thought they were leading. I think she enjoyed gathering information on various blogs and updating me regarding race events and scuttlebutt. I was certainly glad to hear it.

In the heat I saw another rider approaching from behind. He was apparently willing to risk a higher speed and the associated greater risk of a speeding ticket. He went by with no helmet and no shirt and a big friendly smile. I was not willing to match his pace as he cruised ahead risking a ticket. He stopped for fuel shortly thereafter and I was once again alone on the highway, but not for long. An hour later I needed to fuel as well. I wondered if my stop would be quick enough to keep me ahead of this other rider or if I would pull back onto the road behind him. He did not pass me while I was refueling and was not in sight as I resumed my more conservative solo pace, but within minutes I saw him coming from behind again. This time I offered him sun block as he drew alongside. He declined and led again at the higher pace. This guy looked young and fit and tough and I hoped that he would tire before me. Another set of fuel stops separated us. I would not share the road with Frank again that day.

The road in New Mexico ran for a time on divided highway but it was a construction area and a, “Safety Zone.” Confusing signage could have led to a potentially disastrous speeding ticket for me but I sensed the danger and obeyed the posted speeds meticulously. When the construction ended, the orange cones disappeared and the canvas cover was pulled off of the next 65 mph sign, I accelerated. Turns out the wind had removed the canvas cover on the sign and I was still in the safety zone. Sure enough the highway patrol was on the job and patrolling with a vengeance. He pulled me over. This could have been the end. He looked at my beautifully laminated registration and insurance cards and my license and passport. He listened to the story of the Hoka Hey and its prohibition of speeding. He saw my safety gear. He looked back up the road at the cover missing from the 65 mph sign. He gave me a smile and directions to the next turn and sent me on my way.

The sun set and I ran out of easy navigation. Midnight found me at a fuel stop with Ben from Milwaukee and Alex from Colorado. Alex explained that this was his playground. He came here often from his home in Colorado to ride. Now I found out how he could take so much time at checkpoints and catch me en-route. Alex led us through the challenging turns at remarkable speed. A tankful of gas later, the three of us fumbled together through a few navigation challenges and then Ben and I decided to nap. Ben pulled into a gas station to sleep beside their building and said he would sleep for hours. I found a dark quiet paved pullout, a few miles on and lay down beside my bike. Alex rode on. Twenty minutes later I awoke and decided to press on rather than waste time trying unsuccessfully to sleep. I was hunting for the turn on to BIA13. My weak map showed a couple of unlabeled candidates and I set out to find the right one. I proceeded south, looking for road signs and seeing unmarked possibilities until I was clearly too far south. I backtracked quickly to the most likely candidate just in time to see Ben racing down it. As I turned in, I saw another rider that looked like Alex or Frank heading off too far to the south where I had just been but I was unable to get his attention with my lights. I set off in pursuit of Ben.

It took me several miles on an unpredictable road to get close to Ben again. Just as I did, he chose to turn right when the road forked. I had been watching the stars thinking that this road was more likely to be the correct one if it went left a bit and I instinctively chose the left fork without hesitation instead of following Ben who broke right. I was fortunate again. Within a mile a beautiful highway sign revealed my choice to be the elusive BIA13. I was alone, ahead and on track.

As I approached the hills along the New Mexico–Arizona border, the road turned into a beautiful mountain pass complete with steep climbs, descending hairpins, and a bobcat. I knew that even though it had taken me many extra miles of road recon to find this route, few others would find it so quickly unless they had better maps than mine and were slowing to take the time to read them. For the third time, I felt that I somehow pulled off a navigational coup that would give me an advantage over many of the other challengers. I knew for certain that Ben and Alex and Frank were behind me and likely to have lost significant ground.

As I came down out of the pass into the next leg south into Arizona, I stopped for fuel on the reservation. I went into the store only because the pumps did not provide a fuel receipt and,, on a hunch I asked the attendant how far it was to my next turn. For the first time, in what was to become a pattern, I received clear, concise, friendly directions from a reservation Indian. It was good that I did, because I had zigged when I should have zagged about a mile back and she put me back on the correct path without much damage. The mis-turn was also fortunate because this service station was the only one open and in range. Things were going my way.

The fresh navigational directions from a local provided a period free of navigational stress. I scanned the radio waves and settled in on an AM station broadcasting only Native American music and language. It seemed appropriate.

The sun came up. The radio station faded. Arizona grew hot. I learned to trust the directions and myself more; unless the map, a local or another hint gave me a clear indication that I had passed my next turn, I carried on until I found it ahead of me. This worked well and I made good time. This must have been Wednesday. It grew hotter still. I was in full cool-down mode and concerned. I was also concerned about my trusty iron horse, Excalibur. The thermometer climbed to 108°F. We rounded Flagstaff and headed back north through the heat, maintaining focus with a series of ministrations: Stay on track. Stay safe. Stay cool. Reapply sun block. Consolidate the trash. Accept the supportive energy from all of those who are wishing you well. Feel the love. Invite the spirits. Miss the deer. Rock on.

Night fell as I crossed into Utah. For once, my map showed the next road I sought. Unfortunately it wasn’t where the map said it was. I spent more than two hours reversing at high speed, stressing and vacillating between an unmarked road that headed too far south and the road I came in on that went much farther than the map showed without intersecting the highway I sought. Then my headlight bulb failed. Then I lost my entire Rand McNally road atlas (this turned out to be a blessing as it was worse than useless on these roads). I finally decided to revert to my trust in myself and the directions and went far enough down the previously assigned road to find the next one. I was tired. I struggled up the switchbacks and realized that I was dangerously tired. At the top, I cruised a few miles down the straight road and pulled off to sleep. At this point I was aware of four companions who were talking amongst themselves and traveling with me. They clearly did not understand exactly what I was doing but they were picking it up. My headlight was burned out again and I installed my last spare. Staying positive remained a priority and although I calculated that I had lost a good three hours pfaffing about and replacing headlights before I recognized that I was too tired to function, the fact that I had not been overtaken provided some comfort. I slept well.

But only for 20 minutes or so. Again I decided to press on. It was a mistake. My four companions tried to help as I drifted in out of sleep while trying to keep the bike on the road. I knew I needed to stop. Then my headlight bulb failed again and I had no more spares. A nearby tertiary road provided a perfect place to get off the highway and rest. I stayed fully dressed, aimed the bike down course for a quick getaway, and lay down beside it to sleep. I expected to be caught and knew that I could be caught exhausted and struggling slowly down the road in sad shape without a headlight, or I could be caught by the same rider after having slept. I slept well. Somewhere in the wee hours, Marc from Australia roared by and woke me in the process. Within seconds, literally less than ten seconds, I went from dead asleep to up and chasing after his taillights. I managed to catch him and follow him through the canyons. Marc, as I later learned he was named, was the most beautiful rider through the turns that I had ever seen. I followed his line and trusted his speed and enjoyed his headlight until we both stopped for fuel. Mark was ready to sleep, but he decided to push on to the dawn in order to help me with his bright lights. Thank you Marc.

It grew light and Marc grew tired. I saw that he was in the wrong lane and would miss the upcoming well-labeled turn that we needed to take. I tried to catch him while flashing my remaining lights and sounding my big horn, but he turned the wrong way on a limited access highway before I could stop him and disappeared around the bend. I knew that if I followed him, I might be trapped – unable to exit or u-turn for some time. I waited for a few minutes than pushed on alone for Flaming Gorge.

A glance at the odometer made me think that there was no way I was going to be in Homer Alaska 7,000 miles after leaving Key West. I had recognized early on that Jim’s description of the length of the course as “7,000 miles plus” probably indicated a lot more than 7,000 miles. The brand new tires that rolled out of Key West were going to be mighty thin when they rolled into Homer. I needed help. I called my sister Jill.

I explained to Jill that unlike many other competitive challengers, I was unsponsored. She knew that I had a very good run going. She was tracking all of the chatter online by riders and spouses and support crews and she knew that I was in front and pulling away. Jill asked what I needed. She agreed to call the dealer at Flaming Gorge and prepare them for my arrival. They were tee-d up to replace my tires, engine oil, transmission fluid and primary chain oil. When I rolled in they went to work, while I went to sleep outside. Thank you, Jill!

Perhaps because of my sleep back in Utah, I did not sleep the whole three hours it took them to complete their work on the bike. I saw this as wasted time and had hoped to bank sleep during the entire time that the bike was unavailable. Instead I slept about an hour and a half, and then worked to get back on the road in good shape by buying five more headlight bulbs and installing one of them, re-packing my load to improve access and lower the center of gravity again. The people in Flaming Gorge were wonderful. I think they felt like part of my effort. They had never had a customer fall asleep in their back parking lot before.

The next leg was a good one for me. I saw that we would be stopping at Chief Red Cloud’s house and looked forward to that. My first fuel stop was an inefficient 12 minutes because I had to get off the bike to buy some highway maps to replace the atlas that had escaped somewhere in Utah. They had no map of South Dakota but my new map of Wyoming and Montana showed a bit of the Dakotas along its eastern edge. That, along with the basic map included in our directions, would have to do.

I was swift and fortunate again. I chose to stop for fuel at a Mom and Pop gas station even though there was a line for the single pump and I knew I would have to spend valuable minutes getting a receipt. This turned out to be a good call. On the way out of that stop I passed Marc backtracking for fuel and running on fumes. Had I skipped the small gas station, I too would have become fuel critical. Marc had passed me during my extended maintenance and sleep stop in Flaming Gorge but now I was in front again.

Knowledge of some nearby competitors and questions about others was a constant motivation. My sister told me about some of them using information that their friends, family and support teams were writing online. She was also able to tell me where some of them were, but others were more stealthy. I knew Marc was close behind. I heard the tragic news that Alex was injured and out of the race due to a hit-and-run driver in Arizona. Frank and Ben were out there somewhere and they were very good. I rode on.

I thought I had ridden well across Wyoming and, as I left my map looking for the turn south on BIA 32, I stopped to ask directions rather than risk a major deviation that would cost major time. I pulled into a house where there were four young girls on the front porch. They fled inside immediately as the strangely dressed white guy on the Harley rumbled into the front yard. I made friends with their killer dogs and, after a few moments, one of them - the fearless Chantilly - ventured back out and introduced herself. I think the fact that I interacted well with their dogs was the key. I told her that I was looking for BIA32 and Chief Red Cloud. She started to explain, and then excused herself to go back inside saying that she would draw me a map. I suppressed my urge to rush. I was constantly listening for the sound of the Harley that would certainly catch me if I were still for too long. After what seemed like several hours, but was in fact two minutes, Chantilly re-emerged with a map drawn on a napkin. It was surprisingly clear and she explained it well and with care. I said good-bye to the dogs, thanked her profusely and was rewarded with a big smile.

The time I spent with Chief Red Cloud was a highlight of the trip for me. Beth and Whitney and a gentleman were at the end of the driveway hoping for guests. They told me that the chief had been waiting for me. I was not clear if that meant he was waiting for a rider, for the first rider or for Will Barclay, but I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting him. The staff warned me about ruts in the driveway, but my Himalayan experience served me well as I rode the top-heavy, overloaded Harley up the deeply rutted driveway to the house. I was warmly greeted there and knew immediately that losing the Challenge would not be the end of the world, but that I would never forgive myself if I offended or even disappointed these people or missed an opportunity to share time with and learn from them. A couple of race officials welcomed me and inspected my numbered Hoka Hey coin and the serial number and odometer on my bike. I showed them the cool map drawn by Chantilly. This was clearly the surprise checkpoint that we had been told we could expect. I gave an informal interview with the photographer and videographer present and was honored to spend almost half an hour with the Chief.

When I first saw the directions leaving Flaming Gorge and realized that I might meet the Chief, I began thinking about what I might give him as a gift. I was traveling light and had little that was suitable. I finally settled on offering him a bit of my food as I accepted his. He seemed very pleased to be recognized and sat with me while we enjoyed the soup, sandwiches and other delights prepared by the ladies. The Chief commented repeatedly that I was on a ‘Long Ride.’ I told him that I was honored to share a meal with him and that I hoped to come back when I was under less time pressure and meet with him again. Much of this was captured on video. I hope to find a copy.

I was very conflicted about leaving. Still hoping for a chance to return one day at a more leisurely pace and in daylight, I thanked everyone and worked my way to the bike. The matriarch present put her hands on the bike and all were quiet as she said a lengthy blessing in her native tongue. Basking in my blessing and in their hospitality and good wishes, I wheeled gracefully through the rough yard and rejoined the driveway with appreciative comments from the crowd at my impressive display of bike handling. The blessing may have been limited to visual range. As I disappeared from their sight down the driveway, the bike dropped into a rut so deep that the crash bars aside the bike caught on its edges and stopped the bike instantly. I went over the handlebars like Superman and found myself sliding through the dirt.

“Stay calm,” I told myself. I had been thrown from a bike before and knew that the adrenalin could mask serious injury. A quick replay of the incident and inventory of limbs revealed little damage, so I rose and returned to the bike fearing the worst. If there was enough damage to require repairs, I was probably out of the running. Excalibur seemed to be laughing at me. She was perfectly upright in the rut, and almost undamaged. I put her in neutral and restarted her, while inspecting with a small flashlight. The right-hand side of the crash bar was bent back a few inches but I could find no other damage. Not even a scratch. Perhaps the blessing did work. With the bike back in action, I wiped the blood from my face and inspected a small cut on my lip in the mirror. No reason to slow down. We were off and looking for fuel. Somewhere on the rutted driveway, I left the nice ventilated seat pad I had been sitting on. I was not to notice its absence for hundreds of miles. I hope someone is enjoying it.

The fuel station was a mile or so north back up the road. I refueled and went inside to pay, collect a receipt and ask directions for the route ahead. A local tried to sell me artwork I had no room to carry, but I told him I liked it and would look for him when I came back to see the Chief again. He and another who overheard that I had been to see the Chief seemed surprised. The second man, who had obviously been drinking, went out of his way to give me extremely accurate and surprisingly lucid directions to the next turn and beyond. They knew where Wounded Knee was for sure. I was again impressed and grateful for the friendly help in Pine Ridge. On the way of town, I passed Marc who was on his way in. He shouted for me to “Wait!” and I did for several minutes, but suspected that he would be at the Chief’s place for a while so I moved on. He later told me that he also was there for quite a while and had shouted in an effort to help me. He was glad I did not wait longer.

The good directions kept me on track. When I came upon an unmarked road exactly where I had been told I would find the next left turn, I stopped to look again at the directions and their map. A car going by during the wee hours of the morning stopped to volunteer help and the woman in it confirmed that this was indeed the correct road. She explained further that it would become the subsequent road mentioned in my instructions. I just continued straight on it as I left the reservation. I could ride straight on confidently.

Soon I re-entered the territory covered by my maps. Sunrise found me in Montana, alone and moving quickly. Later that afternoon I somehow ran across Frank again at a fuel stop. When Frank stopped next for fuel I carried on in an effort to get ahead. My subsequent fuel stop was a bit slow, so I figured he was in front of me and I figured Marc was close behind. I accelerated.

The trip to Missoula was swift and uneventful and I was in the groove. The officials at the checkpoint confirmed that I was the first. I checked in and out quickly. The hands-free microphone and ear buds that I had been using with the cell phone since the Bluetooth failed had been missing since my mishap at the Chief’s house. I found them now melted on the exhaust pipe. Oops! My communications underway were now reduced to text messaging from a moving motorcycle. Not a good idea. I could read incoming messages easily, but sending was a challenge – especially with gloves on. The fact that there was almost no coverage in Canada along our route probably saved me. I was free to concentrate on riding.

A quick peek at the directions told me all I needed to know to get moving, which in this case meant getting briefly back on the interstate where it was easy to have a more thorough look at the directions while driving. The initial route looked simple and I could figure the rest out on the way.

The weather was comfortable and beautiful. The bike, its rider and what remained of my essential self were all happy. The navigation looked fairly straightforward. I was in the lead. It was an epic afternoon as I rode to the Canadian border. My smile was contagious. The agent clearing me was happy too. The angry woman agent working behind him pushed him to put me through the wringer and check all documents and strip search the bike. He just looked at her and told her that he would not as he was allowed to use his own discretion. I was cleared and winding back up to speed in less than 30 seconds. I set my sights on Fairbanks, leaned into the turns and turned up the stereo.

Canada was different. I lived in Colorado for years, but the Canadian Rockies are clearly more rugged, more pristine, bigger and beautiful. There seemed to be more wildlife too. I paid my fee to enter Kootenay National Park and immediately noticed wildlife along the road. There were bears, moose, caribou and deer. There was also smaller wildlife.

I had nearly been killed a few years earlier when I left the road at high speed in order to avoid hitting a dog in India. Henceforth, I followed a policy of refusing to change course for an animal smaller than the bike. There is no way of knowing that your efforts will avoid collision, as it is impossible to predict what the animal will do. It may well move in a way that would have allowed you to miss it if only you had not tried to. The only exception is that I will unload the tires before an imminent collision if I can. Bikes stop fastest when moving straight ahead, and even a squirrel can take down a Harley if running over it provides the lubrication the tires need to break loose in a turn. While sweeping through a turn in the park at dusk, I saw a small black animal crossing the road ahead of me from left to right on what looked like a collision course. It looked like a weasel or a mink or a something to that effect, about two-feet long and very low to the ground. I held my line and, in the second or so that I had before the crossing, checked for oncoming traffic, came off the throttle and stood the bike up a bit, hoping that the animal would move or stop or accelerate and miss me. It did not. I felt two solid thumps as both tires connected. I said a quick prayer and got back on the power feeling saddened.

It was too beautiful to stay sad for long. I sailed north on the beautiful route full of wildlife from one park into another. We went through three parks back-to-back and it was the most beautiful part of the trip, although it almost marked the end of the trip for me.

North of Lake Louise, on the way to Jasper on the Ice Fields Parkway I became dangerously tired. I was riding at altitude, at night, at temperatures dropping into the 40s and in light rain. I stopped to change another headlight bulb and knew by the difficulty I had in handling the tools and parts in completing this now-familiar task that I was way too tired to be riding. I carried on in search for a place to rest. The trees were animated and showing their auras. My spirit companions were present and talking with each other. The rain eased up and I unrolled my sleeping bag for only the second time on the trip in a paved pullout. My companions were busy talking amongst themselves, as I took my boots off and climbed into the bag.

I woke an hour and 20 minutes later. The cold woke me. I was dangerously cold. I had no time for anything but riding or effective sleep. I would not allow myself to lie there awake and bleeding energy into the cold, so I took advantage of my bootless state to slip off my riding pants and add the thermal layer to them. I also donned the electric jacket beneath my riding jacket before I climbed back on the bike, plugged in, warmed up and headed north. I was soon in trouble again.

I was struggling to remain awake and to keep the bike on the road. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic. Another vehicle every couple of hours was the extent of it. I have no memory of the next dozen or so miles, but I remember listening to my four companions discussing, “keeping it on the path.” The next thing I knew there were car headlights behind me. Then it was not a car at all. Frank pulled up next to me, beeped his horn and asked if I was okay. That woke me up. I said, “Hell yes! Let’s go!” He had apparently been observing me riding and decided to wake me before something tragic happened. Thank you, Frank. If that was not enough to jolt me awake, I soon came across a brown bear the size of a Mini-Cooper doing about 30 miles per hour, ass-over-teakettle down the shoulder of the road right next to me. I hit the gas and hoped that I did not hit the bear as this would only have pissed him off before he ate me. Frank was nearly out of gas and, for the first time, was happy to cruise at my slower pace. I had plenty of fuel but felt indebted to him for waking me. I stayed with him, prepared to supply some fuel if he ran out. Together we limped into a fuel stop that was, miraculously, open in the middle of the night on the Ice Fields Parkway.

The long distance I rode through Canada seemed to pass quickly. The weather was mostly good. Navigation posed few challenges as there were few roads and fewer opportunities to make a wrong turn. I had printed a list of all the fuel stops on the AlCan highway, along with the rest of the major highways in western Canada, before leaving Florida. Now that our route was defined, it was a simple matter to know where there might be fuel. I say ‘might be,’ because the list was imperfect. Fuel stations appeared that were not on the list, listed fuel stops had disappeared or were out of fuel and many that were open and had fuel were closed at night. There were few hours of darkness, so I had to pay attention to the time and plan for my second night. Late in the evening of night seven, in broad daylight, I stopped at a small resort that sold fuel and had signs of life. The proprietor came out and unlocked the pump. While I filled up, I asked him the location of the next stop. He explained that his friend had a place about 200 miles north but that he would be closed at that time of the early morning. When I told him about the Hoka Hey Challenge, he agreed to call his friend and request that he wake up and fuel me upon my arrival in a few hours. It worked. More than three hours later, after 1:00 a.m., I was able to get fuel again and keep moving.

Frank was still riding with me. There were few options regarding fuel stops, neither of us was stopping for any other reason and we were following the same speed limits. A couple of hours later, I decided to stop due to the risk of running out of fuel and exhaustion. I stopped at an official rest area and pulled out the sleeping bag for the third and final time.

This time I managed to sleep a solid two hours. When I woke, Frank was happily snoring away on the ground nearby. Frank had mentioned that he wanted to sleep for two hours and that the cell phone that served as his alarm clock was giving him trouble. I could not bear to sneak off and ditch him like that, so I woke him before leaving. I set of again into the brightening morning with a couple hours of fuel left in the tank – just enough to reach business hours and the next small town. As I approached town, converting the distance signs from miles to kilometers and watching my fuel computer wind down quickly, I knew that it would be close. Then I knew that I would not make it. With ten kilometers to go and the tank virtually dry, I came out of the forest and my heart sank. I could see the ten kilometers of road ahead descending into the river valley, then crossing the bridge and climbing steeply out the other side and into town. I pictured the long walk to the fuel station and the delay and energy that would cost and prepared to make the best of it. Then I had an idea. I turned off the engine and coasted for miles down the hill. The locals in Kashmir had taught me to do this back in 2007, and in the Himalayas we sometimes went more than 20 miles at high speed with no motor. Excalibur glided across the bridge and we restarted just in time to hold fourth gear and climbed into town on fumes at 40 mph. I asked Excalibur to forgive me the shock cooling and the lugging up the hill. Gas stations are beautiful.

Alaska seemed close now but the last bit took a while. I had started to measure distance in terms of tanks of gas rather than hours or miles. The tanks flashed by, but the last couple of hours to the border were different. Frost heaves and gravel sections posed new challenges. The worst of the roads were technically much easier than the average conditions I was accustomed to riding in Nepal; however, they were still bad enough to break your bike and ruin your day if you were surprised by a hole in the road or wiped out in the gravel.

I discovered that the Harley had no issue sailing across the gravel at high speed as long as I did not ask her to accelerate, decelerate or turn. . . with one exception: wind. I was following a Honda Goldwing, which entered the 250-meter gravel stretch ahead of me just as a 50 mph crosswind hit, and I knew he was in trouble because he had had difficulty with the previous gravel stretches and was clearly skittish. I headed for the left side of the road and fought to stay left as the crosswind forced both of us to the right. The big Honda moved steadily to the right and off the road, because the driver was wisely unwilling to ask the tires in the gravel to beat the crosswind. He did not have enough traction to stay on the road. The crosswind hit his more aerodynamic bike harder because the airflow remained attached due to brilliant Japanese engineering and the wind pulled him sideways just like a wing that is not stalled. My blunt high-drag Harley with its poor aerodynamics was much better in the crosswind because it was already fully stalled. The crosswind generated less sideload on the Harley and I cruised on as the Goldwing driver wrestled his bike to a stop on the shoulder.

Frank and I were in sight of each other most of that afternoon and we rode together toward the border. The last few miles were largely gravel but the wind was light and we thought we were moving smartly when we heard a mighty roar and a man in a kilt and a leather duster went by in the gravel at 100 mph with three, five-foot tall flags flying from his Harley. If I had not recognized him from the start in Key West, I would have been sure I was hallucinating. Frank was ready to concede to him, but I had heard through my sister days earlier that he had abandoned the course and was driving on to Alaska on his own.

Back out on the highway, Frank faded from view in the mirror and I knew this was my chance. I hung in there for two hours, made the critical turn toward the checkpoint in Fairbanks and rolled in ahead of even the Scotsman who missed the turn. I had achieved about 18 minutes of separation. The plan was to check in and out quickly and ride away alone toward Homer before Frank could catch me, thus maintaining and building on the lead. I had it made.

The folks in Fairbanks were not ready with my directions. Shit. This took too long. Frank rolled in and we waited together. My advantage was lost. I was out of ideas and unwilling to count on his misfortune.

Friends of Frank were at the checkpoint to support him. They brought food and drink and offered to supply me as well. I gratefully accepted and was impressed by their generosity in this competitive environment. I rode out and Frank joined me at the first traffic light. He asked, “What do you want to do here?” I was noncommittal and suggested we think about it and speak at the next fuel stop. Off we went.

I pulled off my gauntlet gloves and went to work. My bike was as light as it had been at any time. I had consumed most of the food and had little water on board. She handled well as I thought about how to handle the finish. This was a big decision. I knew I was tired. I came up with the following points:
1. My bike was faster this day.
2. I was confident in my navigation.
3. I was confident in my physical condition and thought I might have a slight advantage there.
4. Speeding away was not a good option; the way to lose was to pull ahead and earn a speeding ticket.
5. I trusted Frank totally.
6. If we crossed together, I suspected that Big Jim would want to identify a single winner.
7. I had started the race 20 minutes behind Frank. Jim had said in writing before the start that total elapsed time would be the determining factor. Frank admitted to seeing my lonely bike at the start and to starting ahead of me. If we crossed together, I would have won by 20 minutes.
8. I strongly suspected that Frank would be disqualified due to his failure to make it all the way to the Chief’s house.
9. I thought that two tired men on Harleys dueling in the dark was almost certain to lead to disaster for one or both of them and possibly to other innocents.

At the next fuel stop, I suggested to Frank that we call the number on my lovely laminated registration card and speak with Beth. We did and I put her on speakerphone. Beth expressed clearly that she saw no problem with our intentionally finishing together. She also confirmed my suspicions about Frank’s status by telling him clearly that he had an issue regarding his failure to visit the checkpoint at the Chief’s house. I asked that they discuss that between themselves later as a separate issue, and off we went. Frank and I agreed to finish together no matter what. After that, I would have carried him across the line if I had to and I believe that he would have done the same for me.

We made it through Anchorage with a slight delay while I helped to pick up the pieces of Frank’s cell phone that fell on the highway. Then he helped to prevent me from missing one of the few turns on the route. Next stop, Homer!

Frank got a heads up via what remained of his cell phone that the Highway Patrol were looking for us and intended to check our state before allowing us to continue. He conveyed the message to me but, at the time, we were not sure what it meant. Sure enough, a few minutes later I realized that the pretty lights and persistent siren behind me meant that I should probably pull over. I was in the lead and was driving at exactly the speed limit. Frank did not have to stop, but did. When I put the bike on the stand, took of my helmet and greeted the officer with a big smile I felt like a million bucks. One minute earlier I had felt like a filthy nickel. I asked the officer his name, shook his hand and greeted him with gusto. He told me that they had pulled us over to make sure that we were safe to proceed. We spoke briefly and he thanked me for not speeding. He said it was obvious that we were in fine shape, wished us luck and sent us on our way. Then the wheels came off.

The last 100 miles were the toughest of the race. Had we known that Marc was the closest competitor at 16 hours behind, I would have slept. As it was the pressure to continue was irresistible. I felt fine and when Frank started talking about a rest stop, I resisted. When he insisted, we did stop. He could only make a mile or so at a time and had to stop repeatedly. Twenty miles later, the tables were turned. He was riding well and I could not stay awake to save my life – literally. During this period, we each helped each other to get back on the right side of the road just in time to prevent a collision. With less than 60 miles to go, I dug deep into the left saddlebag, pulled out two cans of Red Bull and chugged both.

Frank was out of sight ahead and I was shouting out loud, “This is the road to Homer!” “I am riding to Homer!” “I will not cross the yellow line!” I changed to my half helmet and turned up the music. I sang. I rode standing. Inevitably, I found myself riding on the wrong side of the road. I would then stop, shake it off, feel good and try again. After a substantial period of this, I suddenly felt better. Perhaps the RedBull kicked in. I cranked her up to the speed limit, turned on my passing lights, hit the cruise control and had no further issue.

Excalibur and I bounded over a rise in the road and saw Frank on the shoulder ahead. My bike looked different with the passing lights on. He thought I might be another competitor and was jolted wide awake. Frank mounted up and pulled onto the road just as I drew alongside. His relief that it was me was palpable. With only a few miles to go, Frank took the lead at a pace I was unwilling to match. This was no time to get a ticket. I finally got him slowed and we wound together into Homer and out the spit in perfect formation.

I think we both expected the finish line to look like some sort of banner across the road at the end of the spit. In fact it was in a parking lot on the left about halfway out. I spotted it first as Frank and I cruised right on by. I shouted and beeped to get him turned around and rode with him. We crossed as close to simultaneously as I could manage, and the course was complete for me. But the experience was just beginning.

My bike was impounded. My fuel receipts were scrutinized. I was drug tested thoroughly for performance-enhancing substances. When all that came back clean, I was subjected to a rigorous polygraph.

Most of our fellow humans can never understand. At first they said it was a hoax, there would be no ride. Then, when the ride began, they said that it was a hoax, there would be no prize awarded. Then when the prize was awarded, they complained about the lack of charitable contributions. I thought of this when I met the rider who used the Hoka Hey to raise many thousands of dollars for leukemia and when I was honored as a Hoka Hey rider to lead the charity ride for Camp Boggy Creek for seriously ill children.

The people who gathered in Homer were an exceptional lot. I am proud to have ridden as part of this group. They taught me what it is to be a Harley rider and I am determined to continue to learn. I am also determined to try to give back. Those who I was in contact with during the ride were consistently helpful to each other, putting others ahead of themselves – even when it was risky or slow to do so. The prize money was a key ingredient that helped to make the Challenge special, but most of us would gladly do it again with no money involved. The real value was the experience and the example of what an individual with a vision can accomplish, and the message that there is still a place for risk and self reliance and adventure and personal responsibility.

I look forward to seeing you out on the road.

Will Barclay (Highlands, FL)
First-to-finish challenger, 2010 Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge