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There it was right on "For Sale - Road-ready bikes" in the GS Resources Forum. Mike Trent (canroc) was selling his GS1100GK.
I bought my 850 GS new in 1980 and have always loved it. But I have long thought it would be good to have one of the larger displacement G models, 1000 or 1100, to complement it. It just never seemed to work out that the money, motivation, and opportunity all peaked at the same time. My motivation had recently been boosted with the prospect of a 2500 mile ride this fall to the reunion of my old Vietnam unit. Going on two wheels would have a lot more class than taking the silver bird, but I know my 850, at least as I currently have it set up, would not be totally kind to my body's collection of injuries. And the pictures of the bike on Mike's website looked to be just about what I needed.
Well, should I or shouldn't I? I really don't need a third motorcycle. I mean I hardly ever get to ride the ones I have now. Just another machine to take up space in the garage and go onto my insurance bill (no minor matter in Flordia). Well, let's just look at the posts Mike has made on the forum about the bike--no harm in doing that. And you know, Nick Diaz has a lot of both 850 and GK miles. Maybe I'll email him and see what he thinks--no harm in doing that. Heck, the bike may have already been sold. I'll just contact Mike and see if it is even still available--no harm in doing that. Western New York state, huh. Well, I'll just see what an internet deal plane ticket to Buffalo would cost me--no harm in doing that. Pretty Cheap. Just for grins let's just punch up Yahoo Maps and see how much of a trip it is from Buffalo to Jacksonville --no harm in doing that. A little over 1000 miles, huh. Gee, that is an awfully round number.
Mike met me at the Buffalo airport around 9:30 pm on Monday 9/8. On the trailer behind his truck was a 1982 GS1100GK topped off and checked out ready for a thousand mile trip. He then delivered me and the bike to a lodging facility just off I-90 & I-190 where we did our paperwork and he gave me quick orientation on the GK. By midnight he was heading back to Rochester and I was packing for my trip. It is suprising how many ways it is possible to arrange the contents of one backpack and one helmet bag.
The bike had a name before I even sent Mike the binder. I didn't particularly care for the brown color so I figured I had to make a positive out of it. So what is brown? (no, no, beside that). Mud is brown. Muddy water is brown. the Mississippi river is called "The Big Muddy". Let me introduce my motorcycle, Muddy River. I know of at least two songs, one bluegrass and one Grateful Dead that have the line "Muddy river, roll on". It seemed apt because this Muddy River was going to be rolling me down to the sea on a course parallel to the flow of that better-known muddy river a little to the west that rolls from Minnesota to New Orleans.
The one thousand mile figure had struck a chord with me as did the fact that Buffalo sits right on the border with Canada. The entry level ride for Iron Butt certification is 1000 miles in 24 hours. And wouldn't it make for a neat story to say you rode from Canada to Florida in a day? I had complete confidence I could do it with a 21 year old motorcycle that I had only seen for the first time 8 hours earlier. That confidence was due to the facts that it was a GS and that it was coming from a member of the GS Resources Forum. I knew the bike and I knew the person selling it even though we had never met in person before. I would not have even considered the adventure if this had been an eBay purchase.
Before delivering me to the motel, Mike showed me the way to the US Customs office at Peace Bridge, the border with Canada. I would be starting my trip from there.
That night I retired late and slept poorly. I was relieved when 5:30 arrived and I could quit faking trying to sleep. A power bar for breakfast and quick stop at the checkout desk. I rode straight to the customs office and there I tried to get someone to be a start witness for my Iron Butt ride. Being a total stranger to the area I had no luck getting anyone to sign the form. The supervisor was friendly and sympathetic, but his signature was not going on any piece of paper. He did apply the custom's office stamp and date to the page, and he said I could put his name down if I wanted to. He just wasn't going to do it. Given the times we live in, I easily understood. I took what I could get, thanked everybody and started the trek.
My first gas station receipt was from an all night service station about a mile and a half from the customs office. Time: 6:15 am, miles 24668. My planned route was all interstate except for a brief stretch in West Virginia.
I traveled southwest to Erie, PA where I turned due south on I-79. Between Erie and Pittsburgh, at 148 miles on the tripmeter, the gas ran out on main. At least, that is what it seemed like. I reached down and switched to reserve, but it didn't catch. I am losing speed and trying to get to the shoulder out of harm's way. I frantically switched the lever back and forth with the bike coasting and wheezing. Then just as I was about to come to a stop the engine caught on full power again. I wheeled back into the driving lane, but I only got another mile, maybe two, when it shut down again, this time completely.
So I am sitting on the side of the road with cars and semis whizzing by. The people I would call in such a situation and the pickup truck I would have them bring me are 900 miles away. So much for the 1000 mile day. I kept trying to start it, and at times it would give me a couple of hits like it was going to go. After sitting for a few minutes trying to figure out what I was going to do to get me and the motorcycle back to Jacksonville, I gave the starter one last punch. The bike fired up like a champ. I quickly pulled out into roadway and got up to speed. Another two or three miles and it sputters to a stop again. I let it sit for maybe 10 minutes or so and hit the starter again. Again it fires, and this time it makes it to an exit ramp before it starts bucking. I somehow stumbled and coasted our way up next to a gas pump in the only station at the exit. It was a small country store kind of place. I filled up and then pulled the bike in front of the store.
Time for a coke and another power bar. Start tracing the fuel system. Something clicks in my brain. Mike had mentioned the night before that he had just installed an inline fuel filter. I set to work using the Suzuki tool kit, a few tools I had brought with me (can't carry much through airport screening), and a piece of 2x4 I found on the side of the building. I managed to get the filter open and removed the element. I didn't know for certain if it was the culprit, but I figured it couldn't be helping matters.
The bike fired right up and I headed down the highway. After a few miles I figured I had guessed right on the problem. And I had only lost an hour and a half or so on the trip. Funny how convincing something can be to you when you want to believe it. Life was grand and the Muddy River was humming happily until just north of Bridgeport, West Virgina when the gas ran out on main again. Again I was frantically trying to get my dying motorcycle across traffic to the shoulder. The experience this time was a repeat of the one in Pennsylvania. Let it sit for a few minutes. Then fire it up and go a couple of miles before coming to another stop. At least by this time I knew the drill. I repeated it enough times to make it to an exit ramp and coast into a gas station. By now the problem and the work around were obvious.
I had no reserve and prime was only letting a trickle of gasoline through, not enough to keep the bike running on the highway. If you left it on prime for a few minutes enough gas would trickle through to fill up the carbs and let you get down the road a mile or two. The likely culprit was rust in the gas tank clogging the flow. Mike had done a super job of preparing the bike, but he had no way of knowing about this problem because it was his habit to always gas up before the bike needed reserve. I'm sure many riders do this; the GS has a pretty good gas guage. But it is actually a good idea to run on reserve at least occasionally. The orifices for the reserve and prime are near the bottom of the tank where all of the crud and loose rust reside. It is not unusual for them to get clogged. Message to any of you who have not rust treated your GS gas tank: if you haven't checked your reserve lately, you may not have one. And even regular use of reserve doesn't guarantee that it will be there when you need it. Particles can break loose and clog openings at any time.
After gassing up I moved the bike to the front of the store. I was just barely into West Virginia and I was already beat. I turned this into an extended stop feasting on some junk food from the store (love those Moon Pies). I got back on the road around 1:15 in the afternoon. I was seven hours into the trip, and I was less than 300 miles down the road.
At this gas stop, my credit card would not work at the pump, so I went inside and paid cash. This same thing happened to me at the next two gas stops. On the third stop The clerk tried swiping my card at the counter and it worked. I suspected this was all because the credit card company's security had picked up a lot of out of town purchases and placed some sort of block on it. I contacted them after I got back and found that was indeed the case. At the time it was good to know that the card would at least work inside, but not being able to use it at the pump was damn inconvenient.
The workaround that would keep me off of the side of the road was simply to be certain that I never ran out of gas on main for the remainder of trip. And I almost was able to do that.
For the next four hours everything ran according to plan. I was and am totally impressed with what a mile-eater the GK is. I never much liked riding interstates before, and I still don't. But I must admit to taking a certain pleasure in mixing it up with the semis and fast movers knowing I had exactly the right tool for the job. The only drawback was that I had to pit every 120-130 miles for gas to make sure I did not hit reserve. This made for probably two extra gas stops on the route.
I was still on course to make my time when around 5:00 I somehow missed a turn and instead of proceeding south on I-77 proceeded east on I-81. By the time I realized my error and got to an exit to turn around, I was on the outskirts of Roanoke, Virginia. I suspect sleep deprivation and fatigue had something to do with it. By my odometer this little mistake added close to a hundred miles to the trip.
Once back on course the Muddy River resumed its mile eating and all was well until about 10:00 pm in Columbia, South Carolina where the stupe at the controls took another wrong turn. This time we headed up I-20 to the northeast instead of I-26 to the Southeast. Once I realized the error, I made a gas stop and changed the route rather than backtrack. I decided to head over to I-95 via federal highways 521 and 15. They were two lane blacktop and mostly rural. Since it was after dark I figured there wouldn't be much traffic and I could make good time. That proved to be true, sort of. There were some small towns on the route that dropped my average time considerably. I probably should have backtracked.
Once onto I-95 the Muddy River and I were back in the flow. By this time it was after midnight, and it was mostly semis and us and other serious travelers. And we were under a full moon. It was almost dreamlike cutting through that world picking positions, moving among and around vehicles at will.
Things got so surreal the less-than-alert operator managed to misjudge his last gas stop in south Georgia. By now it is closing on 3 am and there ain't much going on between Brunswick and St Mary's. I have it down to 45 mph, hoping, praying that around the next turn will be bright lights and a big gas sign. But alas, all that appears is another long stretch of dark highway leading to the next bend. After several such disappointments, I finally spot a lone sign standing high above the trees at exit 14 to Woodbine, Georgia. It is for a Sunshine gas station and it says 24 hours. My favorite brand. The GK starts sputtering at about this time, and I coast off onto the exit which is just this short asphalt road that t-intersects with another asphalt road a few hundred yards down. I resorted to some pushiing to get the bike to the intersection. By this time it is probably safe to say I am not making all good judgements.
The advertised gas station is visible on the right and a sign says .3 mile. It doesn't look that far, but it does look decidedly closed. It is a concrete block, truck-stop type place. It is completely dark and all of the apron lights are off. I regained my senses slightly, switched to prime, and got enough fuel into the carbs to idle along the empty road up to the station. I pull onto the apron and see the numerals are lit up on the pumps. It looks like these pumps might be on for credit card sales. There is hope. But my credit card hasn't worked at the pump since this morning. I had nothing to lose. In went the card. The messages started scrolling. "Remove Card quickly. . . Please Wait. . . Please Wait. . .See Attendant".
My options had run out. I would not make the Florida line in 24 hours. It was less than 15 miles away. I had ridden a 1000 miles, but you must have a gas receipt with the time to document your ending, so even the Iron Butt cert wouldn't be a go. I was too tired to be disappointed. That's life. I had given it my best shot.
I put my card back in my wallet and walked over to some bushes to take a much needed leak. But my mind was still fighting through the haze, refusing to give up. It kept trying to come up with something that I had overlooked, something I could still try. Then something did pop into my head. I had an ATM card. My previous bank wanted to charge me a $1.00 a month for debit card function on my ATM, and I told them "heck no". When I switched banks last year I did not request a debit card and there is no charge for one on my bank statements.
I pulled my ATM card out and stuck it in the pump. "Remove Card Quickly. . . Please Wait. . . Please Wait. . . Please Wait. . Receipt Desired - yes/no". Did it work?? "Lift lever to begin fueling". Yes, Yes, Yes. Thank you, Lord, thank you. And a very, very special thank you, thank you, thank you to Center Bank of Jacksonville. There could be no more joyous view in the universe at that moment than the sight of that wonderful liquid spewing from the end of that nozzle.
Back on the road and 12 minutes later Muddy and I rolled across the bridge over the St Marys river and into Florida. Thirty minutes after that we were on the I-95 bridge over the St Johns River gazing at the tall builidings of downtown Jacksonville. At 3:58 am I made a balance check at my bank's ATM machine to establish my arrival time with 25836 miles on the odometer.
In spite of all the gas problems and the wrong turns, I had completed the trip with a little over two hours to spare. My total mileage from the customs office on Tuesday morning was 1168 miles. I had ridden from Canada to Florida in one day.
Because of the start witness signature problem, I don't know if Iron Butt will be able to certify my ride for their purposes. If not, that's okay; I know I did it and I was doing it for myself mainly. If anyone does want to try the 1000 mile Iron Butt, I highly recommend the route I intended (but not the the one I took). The distance from that customs office to the Florida line is just a few miles over 1000. If you stay on course and ride steady you can easily do it in 16-17 hours. The scenery is good and the traffic is bearable. The roads are not covered with construction zones as I-95 is. If you want to put in some insurance miles, Jacksonville, St Augustine, and even Daytona are all within two hours.
You would certainly want to plan your navigation better than I did. My biggest failure was not bringing a tank bag with a map window. I left two perfectly good ones back in Jacksonville. As a result I kept my map in the luggage box, checked it only occasionally and relied on sleep-deprived memory in between. I thought it wouldn't be any problem since almost the whole way was interstate. I was very wrong. I have no doubt that with my map in front of me I would have finished two to three hours sooner. You also might want to give a heads-up to your credit card company beforehand and take at least one back up card with you.
It was certainly not an exercise in perfection, but the misfortunes and the missteps did not even come close to spoiling the fun of one great day's adventure on one truly great motorcycle. Roll On, Muddy River, Roll On.
I bought my 850 GS new in 1980 and have always loved it. But I have long thought it would be good to have one of the larger displacement G models, 1000 or 1100, to complement it. It just never seemed to work out that the money, motivation, and opportunity all peaked at the same time. My motivation had recently been boosted with the prospect of a 2500 mile ride this fall to the reunion of my old Vietnam unit. Going on two wheels would have a lot more class than taking the silver bird, but I know my 850, at least as I currently have it set up, would not be totally kind to my body's collection of injuries. And the pictures of the bike on Mike's website looked to be just about what I needed.
Well, should I or shouldn't I? I really don't need a third motorcycle. I mean I hardly ever get to ride the ones I have now. Just another machine to take up space in the garage and go onto my insurance bill (no minor matter in Flordia). Well, let's just look at the posts Mike has made on the forum about the bike--no harm in doing that. And you know, Nick Diaz has a lot of both 850 and GK miles. Maybe I'll email him and see what he thinks--no harm in doing that. Heck, the bike may have already been sold. I'll just contact Mike and see if it is even still available--no harm in doing that. Western New York state, huh. Well, I'll just see what an internet deal plane ticket to Buffalo would cost me--no harm in doing that. Pretty Cheap. Just for grins let's just punch up Yahoo Maps and see how much of a trip it is from Buffalo to Jacksonville --no harm in doing that. A little over 1000 miles, huh. Gee, that is an awfully round number.
Mike met me at the Buffalo airport around 9:30 pm on Monday 9/8. On the trailer behind his truck was a 1982 GS1100GK topped off and checked out ready for a thousand mile trip. He then delivered me and the bike to a lodging facility just off I-90 & I-190 where we did our paperwork and he gave me quick orientation on the GK. By midnight he was heading back to Rochester and I was packing for my trip. It is suprising how many ways it is possible to arrange the contents of one backpack and one helmet bag.
The bike had a name before I even sent Mike the binder. I didn't particularly care for the brown color so I figured I had to make a positive out of it. So what is brown? (no, no, beside that). Mud is brown. Muddy water is brown. the Mississippi river is called "The Big Muddy". Let me introduce my motorcycle, Muddy River. I know of at least two songs, one bluegrass and one Grateful Dead that have the line "Muddy river, roll on". It seemed apt because this Muddy River was going to be rolling me down to the sea on a course parallel to the flow of that better-known muddy river a little to the west that rolls from Minnesota to New Orleans.
The one thousand mile figure had struck a chord with me as did the fact that Buffalo sits right on the border with Canada. The entry level ride for Iron Butt certification is 1000 miles in 24 hours. And wouldn't it make for a neat story to say you rode from Canada to Florida in a day? I had complete confidence I could do it with a 21 year old motorcycle that I had only seen for the first time 8 hours earlier. That confidence was due to the facts that it was a GS and that it was coming from a member of the GS Resources Forum. I knew the bike and I knew the person selling it even though we had never met in person before. I would not have even considered the adventure if this had been an eBay purchase.
Before delivering me to the motel, Mike showed me the way to the US Customs office at Peace Bridge, the border with Canada. I would be starting my trip from there.
That night I retired late and slept poorly. I was relieved when 5:30 arrived and I could quit faking trying to sleep. A power bar for breakfast and quick stop at the checkout desk. I rode straight to the customs office and there I tried to get someone to be a start witness for my Iron Butt ride. Being a total stranger to the area I had no luck getting anyone to sign the form. The supervisor was friendly and sympathetic, but his signature was not going on any piece of paper. He did apply the custom's office stamp and date to the page, and he said I could put his name down if I wanted to. He just wasn't going to do it. Given the times we live in, I easily understood. I took what I could get, thanked everybody and started the trek.
My first gas station receipt was from an all night service station about a mile and a half from the customs office. Time: 6:15 am, miles 24668. My planned route was all interstate except for a brief stretch in West Virginia.
I traveled southwest to Erie, PA where I turned due south on I-79. Between Erie and Pittsburgh, at 148 miles on the tripmeter, the gas ran out on main. At least, that is what it seemed like. I reached down and switched to reserve, but it didn't catch. I am losing speed and trying to get to the shoulder out of harm's way. I frantically switched the lever back and forth with the bike coasting and wheezing. Then just as I was about to come to a stop the engine caught on full power again. I wheeled back into the driving lane, but I only got another mile, maybe two, when it shut down again, this time completely.
So I am sitting on the side of the road with cars and semis whizzing by. The people I would call in such a situation and the pickup truck I would have them bring me are 900 miles away. So much for the 1000 mile day. I kept trying to start it, and at times it would give me a couple of hits like it was going to go. After sitting for a few minutes trying to figure out what I was going to do to get me and the motorcycle back to Jacksonville, I gave the starter one last punch. The bike fired up like a champ. I quickly pulled out into roadway and got up to speed. Another two or three miles and it sputters to a stop again. I let it sit for maybe 10 minutes or so and hit the starter again. Again it fires, and this time it makes it to an exit ramp before it starts bucking. I somehow stumbled and coasted our way up next to a gas pump in the only station at the exit. It was a small country store kind of place. I filled up and then pulled the bike in front of the store.
Time for a coke and another power bar. Start tracing the fuel system. Something clicks in my brain. Mike had mentioned the night before that he had just installed an inline fuel filter. I set to work using the Suzuki tool kit, a few tools I had brought with me (can't carry much through airport screening), and a piece of 2x4 I found on the side of the building. I managed to get the filter open and removed the element. I didn't know for certain if it was the culprit, but I figured it couldn't be helping matters.
The bike fired right up and I headed down the highway. After a few miles I figured I had guessed right on the problem. And I had only lost an hour and a half or so on the trip. Funny how convincing something can be to you when you want to believe it. Life was grand and the Muddy River was humming happily until just north of Bridgeport, West Virgina when the gas ran out on main again. Again I was frantically trying to get my dying motorcycle across traffic to the shoulder. The experience this time was a repeat of the one in Pennsylvania. Let it sit for a few minutes. Then fire it up and go a couple of miles before coming to another stop. At least by this time I knew the drill. I repeated it enough times to make it to an exit ramp and coast into a gas station. By now the problem and the work around were obvious.
I had no reserve and prime was only letting a trickle of gasoline through, not enough to keep the bike running on the highway. If you left it on prime for a few minutes enough gas would trickle through to fill up the carbs and let you get down the road a mile or two. The likely culprit was rust in the gas tank clogging the flow. Mike had done a super job of preparing the bike, but he had no way of knowing about this problem because it was his habit to always gas up before the bike needed reserve. I'm sure many riders do this; the GS has a pretty good gas guage. But it is actually a good idea to run on reserve at least occasionally. The orifices for the reserve and prime are near the bottom of the tank where all of the crud and loose rust reside. It is not unusual for them to get clogged. Message to any of you who have not rust treated your GS gas tank: if you haven't checked your reserve lately, you may not have one. And even regular use of reserve doesn't guarantee that it will be there when you need it. Particles can break loose and clog openings at any time.
After gassing up I moved the bike to the front of the store. I was just barely into West Virginia and I was already beat. I turned this into an extended stop feasting on some junk food from the store (love those Moon Pies). I got back on the road around 1:15 in the afternoon. I was seven hours into the trip, and I was less than 300 miles down the road.
At this gas stop, my credit card would not work at the pump, so I went inside and paid cash. This same thing happened to me at the next two gas stops. On the third stop The clerk tried swiping my card at the counter and it worked. I suspected this was all because the credit card company's security had picked up a lot of out of town purchases and placed some sort of block on it. I contacted them after I got back and found that was indeed the case. At the time it was good to know that the card would at least work inside, but not being able to use it at the pump was damn inconvenient.
The workaround that would keep me off of the side of the road was simply to be certain that I never ran out of gas on main for the remainder of trip. And I almost was able to do that.
For the next four hours everything ran according to plan. I was and am totally impressed with what a mile-eater the GK is. I never much liked riding interstates before, and I still don't. But I must admit to taking a certain pleasure in mixing it up with the semis and fast movers knowing I had exactly the right tool for the job. The only drawback was that I had to pit every 120-130 miles for gas to make sure I did not hit reserve. This made for probably two extra gas stops on the route.
I was still on course to make my time when around 5:00 I somehow missed a turn and instead of proceeding south on I-77 proceeded east on I-81. By the time I realized my error and got to an exit to turn around, I was on the outskirts of Roanoke, Virginia. I suspect sleep deprivation and fatigue had something to do with it. By my odometer this little mistake added close to a hundred miles to the trip.
Once back on course the Muddy River resumed its mile eating and all was well until about 10:00 pm in Columbia, South Carolina where the stupe at the controls took another wrong turn. This time we headed up I-20 to the northeast instead of I-26 to the Southeast. Once I realized the error, I made a gas stop and changed the route rather than backtrack. I decided to head over to I-95 via federal highways 521 and 15. They were two lane blacktop and mostly rural. Since it was after dark I figured there wouldn't be much traffic and I could make good time. That proved to be true, sort of. There were some small towns on the route that dropped my average time considerably. I probably should have backtracked.
Once onto I-95 the Muddy River and I were back in the flow. By this time it was after midnight, and it was mostly semis and us and other serious travelers. And we were under a full moon. It was almost dreamlike cutting through that world picking positions, moving among and around vehicles at will.
Things got so surreal the less-than-alert operator managed to misjudge his last gas stop in south Georgia. By now it is closing on 3 am and there ain't much going on between Brunswick and St Mary's. I have it down to 45 mph, hoping, praying that around the next turn will be bright lights and a big gas sign. But alas, all that appears is another long stretch of dark highway leading to the next bend. After several such disappointments, I finally spot a lone sign standing high above the trees at exit 14 to Woodbine, Georgia. It is for a Sunshine gas station and it says 24 hours. My favorite brand. The GK starts sputtering at about this time, and I coast off onto the exit which is just this short asphalt road that t-intersects with another asphalt road a few hundred yards down. I resorted to some pushiing to get the bike to the intersection. By this time it is probably safe to say I am not making all good judgements.
The advertised gas station is visible on the right and a sign says .3 mile. It doesn't look that far, but it does look decidedly closed. It is a concrete block, truck-stop type place. It is completely dark and all of the apron lights are off. I regained my senses slightly, switched to prime, and got enough fuel into the carbs to idle along the empty road up to the station. I pull onto the apron and see the numerals are lit up on the pumps. It looks like these pumps might be on for credit card sales. There is hope. But my credit card hasn't worked at the pump since this morning. I had nothing to lose. In went the card. The messages started scrolling. "Remove Card quickly. . . Please Wait. . . Please Wait. . .See Attendant".
My options had run out. I would not make the Florida line in 24 hours. It was less than 15 miles away. I had ridden a 1000 miles, but you must have a gas receipt with the time to document your ending, so even the Iron Butt cert wouldn't be a go. I was too tired to be disappointed. That's life. I had given it my best shot.
I put my card back in my wallet and walked over to some bushes to take a much needed leak. But my mind was still fighting through the haze, refusing to give up. It kept trying to come up with something that I had overlooked, something I could still try. Then something did pop into my head. I had an ATM card. My previous bank wanted to charge me a $1.00 a month for debit card function on my ATM, and I told them "heck no". When I switched banks last year I did not request a debit card and there is no charge for one on my bank statements.
I pulled my ATM card out and stuck it in the pump. "Remove Card Quickly. . . Please Wait. . . Please Wait. . . Please Wait. . Receipt Desired - yes/no". Did it work?? "Lift lever to begin fueling". Yes, Yes, Yes. Thank you, Lord, thank you. And a very, very special thank you, thank you, thank you to Center Bank of Jacksonville. There could be no more joyous view in the universe at that moment than the sight of that wonderful liquid spewing from the end of that nozzle.
Back on the road and 12 minutes later Muddy and I rolled across the bridge over the St Marys river and into Florida. Thirty minutes after that we were on the I-95 bridge over the St Johns River gazing at the tall builidings of downtown Jacksonville. At 3:58 am I made a balance check at my bank's ATM machine to establish my arrival time with 25836 miles on the odometer.
In spite of all the gas problems and the wrong turns, I had completed the trip with a little over two hours to spare. My total mileage from the customs office on Tuesday morning was 1168 miles. I had ridden from Canada to Florida in one day.
Because of the start witness signature problem, I don't know if Iron Butt will be able to certify my ride for their purposes. If not, that's okay; I know I did it and I was doing it for myself mainly. If anyone does want to try the 1000 mile Iron Butt, I highly recommend the route I intended (but not the the one I took). The distance from that customs office to the Florida line is just a few miles over 1000. If you stay on course and ride steady you can easily do it in 16-17 hours. The scenery is good and the traffic is bearable. The roads are not covered with construction zones as I-95 is. If you want to put in some insurance miles, Jacksonville, St Augustine, and even Daytona are all within two hours.
You would certainly want to plan your navigation better than I did. My biggest failure was not bringing a tank bag with a map window. I left two perfectly good ones back in Jacksonville. As a result I kept my map in the luggage box, checked it only occasionally and relied on sleep-deprived memory in between. I thought it wouldn't be any problem since almost the whole way was interstate. I was very wrong. I have no doubt that with my map in front of me I would have finished two to three hours sooner. You also might want to give a heads-up to your credit card company beforehand and take at least one back up card with you.
It was certainly not an exercise in perfection, but the misfortunes and the missteps did not even come close to spoiling the fun of one great day's adventure on one truly great motorcycle. Roll On, Muddy River, Roll On.
congrats.
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