April 4-5, 2009.
Warfare and adventure, two powerful instincts that still exist in our DNA. Some truly are warriors, and serve as such, most are not but we still have the drive from deep within urging us to seek out something to fill the desire to strive to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. For some it is found in true adventure for some it is found in competition and still others find it in the mind. For the entrants of this event it is discovered way out in the sage desert atop specially designed motorcycles. The Desert 100, put on by the Stumpjumpers, a local off-road motorcycle club, is a collection of family oriented events held annually in the desert of central Eastern Washington. The event includes a Family Poker Run, an Iron Man Poker run, junior races and the top billing Desert 100. The rides vary in length and difficulty culminating in the 100 mile endurance test-piece. I was there as an endurance athlete to test myself in a new arena. Up to the day of the ride I had not ridden a motorcycle loner than an hour or so. But what the heck it adds to the adventure quotient. My goal: to finish the Iron Man Poker Run without injury or expensive mechanical failure. I know many who have ridden out here and most have stories of crashes, breakdowns, and traumatic injuries.
Trace, my riding companion, and I were scheduled to meet up with a couple other guys and make our way caravan style to Odessa. We departed Monroe a bit behind schedule and played catch-up for an hour and a half reaching Leavenworth directly behind the motor home that would be our base camp for the next few days. A quick phone call and we were connected. Our route would take us through Wenatchee, past Crescent Bar and straight to Odessa. The day was proving to be a good one. As we headed ever eastward the clouds thinned and broke allowing the warming rays of the sun to reach us. Four hours of driving brought us to our goal, the eastern Washington desert location for the event. 
Pulling off the highway the ever-increasing sea of motor homes, campers, tents and trailers became visible. We would become absorbed in this sea for the next two days. 
The terrain of this area of Eastern Washington is a high rolling plains desert dotted with rough dry sage and random trees waiting the next rain fall. The geology is volcanic. In the geologic past fissure faults opened allowing molten rock to flow over most of eastern Washington. That volcanic rock, now exposed in some areas as blocks of basalt, can be seen in road cuts and cliffs in the form of columns. The basalt adds a texture to the hills and valleys cut by the Columbia and smaller rivers. The race course, contained on a 1200+ acre private cattle ranch, takes full advantage of this unforgiving terrain as it meanders into a small river valley, ribbons in between rocky buttes and cuts across dusty plains. 
The atmosphere in the cow pasture turned campground was one of impending adventure. The smell of gasoline and exhaust combined in the warm air with hints of sage and cow manure. As dinner approached the first whiff of BBQ signaled the firing up of thousands of similar stoves. Meat, lots of it and in so many different forms. The din of motorcycles large and small was constant, unavoidable and surprisingly not very annoying. Small 50 and 80cc bikes buzzed around like gnats. They were in various forms of conversion as “pit-bikes” used to flit around the city of portable homes. Larger bikes being ridden for show or out of the lack of a pit-bike were also constantly zooming past. Families were everywhere, kids decked out in the latest riding gear, adults dressed similarly or just in jeans and jackets wandered about the makeshift city; all in all a comfortable “pre-war/adventure” atmosphere. We all walked down to the race headquarters and did our entry duties. The fee, $30, gets you a Poker punch card, a raffle ticket and at the end a finisher’s t-shirt. We walked up to the tent and went through the motions of entering with very little fan fare. We all received our first of five punches, representing our first playing card for our poker hand. Later the line for entries would extend into the parking area and take up to an hour to complete. 
Trace decided he needed a new back tire. He removed the rim and we walked down to the vendor tents to do some shopping. The bill came to $100 and he was a tad short. Borrowing a few bucks resulted in his having to give up his Ace of Spades punch card for a five of hearts. The tire was changed out by a mechanic in lighting speed; it’s amazing what you can do with the right tools. Remounted and ready to go the tire looked good on the back of Trace’s bike. We sat around talking for a few hours huddled around a heater while temperatures dropped. It’s amazing how temperatures drop at night in the desert. As the evening closed the carousing reached a crescendo around 9-10pm quickly dying down, for the most part around 11pm, as many needed to rest up for the next day’s ride.
Dawn broke around 6:30 as the sun crested the far off basalt cliffs. Announcements were being made on a distant P.A. at a rider meeting, breakfast was cooking, coffee was brewing and gear was being made ready, “Race Ready!” was our tongue in cheek motto, apparently an inside joke from prior years. Riders donned protective clothing, hard shell helmets, chest plates, boots, and pads. Bikes were fueled, started, revved, checked, rechecked, restarted, re-revved and refueled in a nervous dance pointing toward a day of testing; testing of self and machine. The day started crisp as desert mornings do with a thin layer of frost, eked out of the driest of air, coating the ground. The air was cold and dry but the sun was quickly warming everything in its reach. Predictions were made and clothing was doffed and re-donned in a guess as to how hot it would be and when layers would need to be shed.
The Iron Man Poker Run, the ride we had come for, is a ride of approx. 70-80 miles depending on the course; the distance is not exact and can vary annually. It is a two lap course allowing for a refueling and resting in between laps. The course opens at 7 am and closes at 1:30pm at which time the sweepers go out closing down the course and cleaning any large debris. We hit the course after a good heavy breakfast and a few cups of joe. 
We took our time getting on as past rides have proven the day’s ride to be over in 4-5 hours and if you leave too early the rest of the day is spent sitting around. Plus waiting a while allows the course to warm up and the faster and more anxious riders to clear out. Off we go through the starting shoot across the wide open starting area. Fine dust billows from our back tires as we head toward the narrow gate in the distant barbed wire fence. There will be several of these funnel point along the route creating various amounts of traffic. I am riding the only 1985 200cc Yamaha Big Wheel. 
Everyone, and I mean everyone, else is riding standard trail bikes with higher clearance, narrower tires and other features suited for exactly this type of riding. Me, not so much. My bike is not built for speed so much as climbing and touring. I will be the slow guy today. My bike attracts fair amount of attention as belonging to the un-existent “classic” division.
The Family Poker ride is being held at the same time on the same course as the Iron Man ride. This make for very entertaining traffic jams when we approach the “littles” on their 50cc bikes. Everyone is friendly and courteous as we patiently wait an opportunity to pass. The Family ride veers off to avoid the steeper descents and climbs and more technical aspects of the Iron Man ride. I discover this at the finish of the first lap when I arrived back at camp 15 minutes before the rest of the group. They informed me I missed a turn at an aid station missing out on some really cool dusty climbs. Apparently, in doing so, I cut about 5 miles off my ride, oops.
The first lap was a test of concentration, speed and physical endurance. My bike could not fly over the tops of the wavy “woop-de-doos” skimming along; no I had to endure every single up and down in roller coaster fashion, while maintain my speed and keeping my self on the bike. It took a bit of getting use to but I was doing well. I stopped a couple times for photos and regrouping with my waiting crew. The course has one good descent, two shallow stream crossings, mud, dirt, bushes, dust, rocks, and a few fast flat spots. It was challenging to enjoy the desert views while concentrating on staying on the bike. As I knocked off the 30 plus miles I became very comfortable on the bike. 
Back at the pits we shared stories of the first lap, refueled our bodies and prepped to head out for the final lap. The first lap took about 2 hours. Trace hit a rock with his foot on the way back and decided to sit out the second lap as his foot was beginning to swell. He and a few others recounted a story of an unlucky gent who became tangled in his front wheel fracturing his femur. We decided the second lap would be an individually paced adventure and made our way back to the barbed wire gate. I was determined to not skip out on the missing portion of the course this time around. So I rode carefully to the aid station and saw the turn I had missed a few hours earlier. The course had grown a bit more challenging as the bikes had chewed it up digging ruts and making the muddy parts even muddier. I was beginning to tire now 3 ½ hours into the ride. I took the turn onto the part of the course I had missed earlier and sped off to the hills. This section of the course was smooth as it wove up and over a few rolling sage covered hills. I turned a corner and spotted the first climb, a 200 foot assent up a rutted loose dirt hillside. I approach with a healthy amount of speed down shifted half way up attaining the crest victorious. My little climber bike likes this stuff. 
Riders were thinning out as the day continued and I had no one to share my success with, as was the case on the earlier more technical parts of the ride. Like vultures, riders would stage above and below the hard spots waiting for carnage. The second taller climb went off much the same. The course then rounded a corner and dropped to skirt a small stagnate pond then rose up a climb and headed toward a windmill. Just past the windmill was a dusty pit 200 feet long of the finest high quality particulates, the kind that puffs weightless when you walk upon them. I hit the pit fast not knowing the depth of the dust. It was substantially deeper than I had anticipated. My front tire floated for a few feet and then was swallowed by the pit. It quickly whipped to the right throwing me over the handle bars head first into the dust. What I didn’t know was that there were two other riders doing the exact same thing directly behind me, to close in fact. Their skinner tires cut through the lightweight dirt having no problem. Now the obstacle for them was me and my bike. The first rider a 300 plus pounder rode and bounced over the top of my now backwards facing bike on a collision course straight for my head. He did not have time to adjust or avoid, he ran over my head. The force of his front tire landing on the left side face piece of my helmet drove my head deep into the dust. His tire, now locked up and skidding, fit perfectly in the opening of my helmet. This resulted in the tread pattern of the tire to be scratched into the lenses of my goggles as the tire folded the goggles in half introducing a tremendous amount of dust and dirt to my eyes, mouth and ears. It took only a split second for the whole event to unfold; I was upright, I was flying, I was down and I was pile-driven. I stayed still not knowing the extent of my injuries. After a bit I wiggled my fingers and toes, or at least I hoped I was while I kept thinking, “Don’t inhale, don’t inhale, don’t inhale.” I must have been lying motionless long enough for the second rider, who avoided both of us, to stop while the first rider dumped his bike and made his way frantically to me. I slowly sat up while the amazing amount of dust fell from my helmet like sand draining from an hourglass. I was then able to take a deep breath without the danger of inhaling the dust. I kneeled in the pit assessing my situation while the two riders made it to my side. 
The first rider, the one who ran me over, was beside himself in fear. He thought he had killed me, or broken my neck; nope, just a slight concussion, a crushed helmet and damaged goggles. We carefully walked to the side of the course, removed my helmet and goggles and had some water from my backpack bladder. I was pretty groggy but okay. I sent them on their way and sat down for a spell. Relived I was still alive and walking they reluctantly left me there. The next few riders to approach questioned me with the universal “Are you okay?” thumbs up. I responded in like fashion and they kept going. Finally, a more concerned rider approached and stopped to help me rebuild my mess. When I started the ride I had two bags on the back rack of my bike one full of tools the other was my medical bag. Nestled snugly in between the two bags was a 22 oz aluminum bottle filled with gasoline. The bags were still connected but the fuel bottle was missing, that’s odd I thought. We searched the dust but came up empty. Hopefully no one rides over it and blows it up. He hung with me for a few minutes until we were both okay with me completing the ride. I cleared my helmet and goggle of the remaining dust, remounted and rode off at a very slow speed. I was about 15 miles out and had some tough terrain to conquer. It took a few miles to regain my confidence but I was soon moving at a speed that didn’t require me to stay to the side of the course. I limped back into camp and recounted the story to the crew who had been waiting my arrival for a while. They were glad to see me and a bit surprised at the story. I removed all my dust infused riding gear, cleaned off, sat down and had a late lunch. It had been a long day and I went to bed early.
Sunday morning broke with clear skies and a bright sunrise. The mood around the trailer city was a bit more serious as rider who would be “warring” in the 100 mile race readied their gear. We joined the staging to view the spectacle. Several hundred riders listened to the day’s 
announcements, and then in a thunder of engines made their way up the road to the starting line. We joined the other spectators on a small hill about ¾ of a mile from the start. When the cannon blast sounded the riders ran to their bikes, fired them up and sped off. As they crested the easy rise off the ¼ mile wide starting line it 
reminded me of an old movie scene with attacking Indians on horseback.
A few faster bikes made their way quickly to the same barbed wire gate I had ridding through yesterday. The remaining pack of riders followed in a thunderous hoard. Only two riders went down in the funnel start. They were quickly aided up and continued on their way. We departed shortly after the Desert 100 started and made our way along the four hour drive home, recounting the adventure the whole way.
The helmet and goggles sit on my workbench in the garage. Do I enshrine them as war relics or do I toss them? We’ll see. By the way the bike was unscathed. So at least one of my goals was accomplished.
Tony
Pulling off the highway the ever-increasing sea of motor homes, campers, tents and trailers became visible. We would become absorbed in this sea for the next two days. 
The terrain of this area of Eastern Washington is a high rolling plains desert dotted with rough dry sage and random trees waiting the next rain fall. The geology is volcanic. In the geologic past fissure faults opened allowing molten rock to flow over most of eastern Washington. That volcanic rock, now exposed in some areas as blocks of basalt, can be seen in road cuts and cliffs in the form of columns. The basalt adds a texture to the hills and valleys cut by the Columbia and smaller rivers. The race course, contained on a 1200+ acre private cattle ranch, takes full advantage of this unforgiving terrain as it meanders into a small river valley, ribbons in between rocky buttes and cuts across dusty plains. 
The atmosphere in the cow pasture turned campground was one of impending adventure. The smell of gasoline and exhaust combined in the warm air with hints of sage and cow manure. As dinner approached the first whiff of BBQ signaled the firing up of thousands of similar stoves. Meat, lots of it and in so many different forms. The din of motorcycles large and small was constant, unavoidable and surprisingly not very annoying. Small 50 and 80cc bikes buzzed around like gnats. They were in various forms of conversion as “pit-bikes” used to flit around the city of portable homes. Larger bikes being ridden for show or out of the lack of a pit-bike were also constantly zooming past. Families were everywhere, kids decked out in the latest riding gear, adults dressed similarly or just in jeans and jackets wandered about the makeshift city; all in all a comfortable “pre-war/adventure” atmosphere. We all walked down to the race headquarters and did our entry duties. The fee, $30, gets you a Poker punch card, a raffle ticket and at the end a finisher’s t-shirt. We walked up to the tent and went through the motions of entering with very little fan fare. We all received our first of five punches, representing our first playing card for our poker hand. Later the line for entries would extend into the parking area and take up to an hour to complete. 
Trace decided he needed a new back tire. He removed the rim and we walked down to the vendor tents to do some shopping. The bill came to $100 and he was a tad short. Borrowing a few bucks resulted in his having to give up his Ace of Spades punch card for a five of hearts. The tire was changed out by a mechanic in lighting speed; it’s amazing what you can do with the right tools. Remounted and ready to go the tire looked good on the back of Trace’s bike. We sat around talking for a few hours huddled around a heater while temperatures dropped. It’s amazing how temperatures drop at night in the desert. As the evening closed the carousing reached a crescendo around 9-10pm quickly dying down, for the most part around 11pm, as many needed to rest up for the next day’s ride.
Dawn broke around 6:30 as the sun crested the far off basalt cliffs. Announcements were being made on a distant P.A. at a rider meeting, breakfast was cooking, coffee was brewing and gear was being made ready, “Race Ready!” was our tongue in cheek motto, apparently an inside joke from prior years. Riders donned protective clothing, hard shell helmets, chest plates, boots, and pads. Bikes were fueled, started, revved, checked, rechecked, restarted, re-revved and refueled in a nervous dance pointing toward a day of testing; testing of self and machine. The day started crisp as desert mornings do with a thin layer of frost, eked out of the driest of air, coating the ground. The air was cold and dry but the sun was quickly warming everything in its reach. Predictions were made and clothing was doffed and re-donned in a guess as to how hot it would be and when layers would need to be shed.
The Iron Man Poker Run, the ride we had come for, is a ride of approx. 70-80 miles depending on the course; the distance is not exact and can vary annually. It is a two lap course allowing for a refueling and resting in between laps. The course opens at 7 am and closes at 1:30pm at which time the sweepers go out closing down the course and cleaning any large debris. We hit the course after a good heavy breakfast and a few cups of joe. 
We took our time getting on as past rides have proven the day’s ride to be over in 4-5 hours and if you leave too early the rest of the day is spent sitting around. Plus waiting a while allows the course to warm up and the faster and more anxious riders to clear out. Off we go through the starting shoot across the wide open starting area. Fine dust billows from our back tires as we head toward the narrow gate in the distant barbed wire fence. There will be several of these funnel point along the route creating various amounts of traffic. I am riding the only 1985 200cc Yamaha Big Wheel. 
Everyone, and I mean everyone, else is riding standard trail bikes with higher clearance, narrower tires and other features suited for exactly this type of riding. Me, not so much. My bike is not built for speed so much as climbing and touring. I will be the slow guy today. My bike attracts fair amount of attention as belonging to the un-existent “classic” division.
The Family Poker ride is being held at the same time on the same course as the Iron Man ride. This make for very entertaining traffic jams when we approach the “littles” on their 50cc bikes. Everyone is friendly and courteous as we patiently wait an opportunity to pass. The Family ride veers off to avoid the steeper descents and climbs and more technical aspects of the Iron Man ride. I discover this at the finish of the first lap when I arrived back at camp 15 minutes before the rest of the group. They informed me I missed a turn at an aid station missing out on some really cool dusty climbs. Apparently, in doing so, I cut about 5 miles off my ride, oops.
The first lap was a test of concentration, speed and physical endurance. My bike could not fly over the tops of the wavy “woop-de-doos” skimming along; no I had to endure every single up and down in roller coaster fashion, while maintain my speed and keeping my self on the bike. It took a bit of getting use to but I was doing well. I stopped a couple times for photos and regrouping with my waiting crew. The course has one good descent, two shallow stream crossings, mud, dirt, bushes, dust, rocks, and a few fast flat spots. It was challenging to enjoy the desert views while concentrating on staying on the bike. As I knocked off the 30 plus miles I became very comfortable on the bike.
Back at the pits we shared stories of the first lap, refueled our bodies and prepped to head out for the final lap. The first lap took about 2 hours. Trace hit a rock with his foot on the way back and decided to sit out the second lap as his foot was beginning to swell. He and a few others recounted a story of an unlucky gent who became tangled in his front wheel fracturing his femur. We decided the second lap would be an individually paced adventure and made our way back to the barbed wire gate. I was determined to not skip out on the missing portion of the course this time around. So I rode carefully to the aid station and saw the turn I had missed a few hours earlier. The course had grown a bit more challenging as the bikes had chewed it up digging ruts and making the muddy parts even muddier. I was beginning to tire now 3 ½ hours into the ride. I took the turn onto the part of the course I had missed earlier and sped off to the hills. This section of the course was smooth as it wove up and over a few rolling sage covered hills. I turned a corner and spotted the first climb, a 200 foot assent up a rutted loose dirt hillside. I approach with a healthy amount of speed down shifted half way up attaining the crest victorious. My little climber bike likes this stuff. Riders were thinning out as the day continued and I had no one to share my success with, as was the case on the earlier more technical parts of the ride. Like vultures, riders would stage above and below the hard spots waiting for carnage. The second taller climb went off much the same. The course then rounded a corner and dropped to skirt a small stagnate pond then rose up a climb and headed toward a windmill. Just past the windmill was a dusty pit 200 feet long of the finest high quality particulates, the kind that puffs weightless when you walk upon them. I hit the pit fast not knowing the depth of the dust. It was substantially deeper than I had anticipated. My front tire floated for a few feet and then was swallowed by the pit. It quickly whipped to the right throwing me over the handle bars head first into the dust. What I didn’t know was that there were two other riders doing the exact same thing directly behind me, to close in fact. Their skinner tires cut through the lightweight dirt having no problem. Now the obstacle for them was me and my bike. The first rider a 300 plus pounder rode and bounced over the top of my now backwards facing bike on a collision course straight for my head. He did not have time to adjust or avoid, he ran over my head. The force of his front tire landing on the left side face piece of my helmet drove my head deep into the dust. His tire, now locked up and skidding, fit perfectly in the opening of my helmet. This resulted in the tread pattern of the tire to be scratched into the lenses of my goggles as the tire folded the goggles in half introducing a tremendous amount of dust and dirt to my eyes, mouth and ears. It took only a split second for the whole event to unfold; I was upright, I was flying, I was down and I was pile-driven. I stayed still not knowing the extent of my injuries. After a bit I wiggled my fingers and toes, or at least I hoped I was while I kept thinking, “Don’t inhale, don’t inhale, don’t inhale.” I must have been lying motionless long enough for the second rider, who avoided both of us, to stop while the first rider dumped his bike and made his way frantically to me. I slowly sat up while the amazing amount of dust fell from my helmet like sand draining from an hourglass. I was then able to take a deep breath without the danger of inhaling the dust. I kneeled in the pit assessing my situation while the two riders made it to my side. 
The first rider, the one who ran me over, was beside himself in fear. He thought he had killed me, or broken my neck; nope, just a slight concussion, a crushed helmet and damaged goggles. We carefully walked to the side of the course, removed my helmet and goggles and had some water from my backpack bladder. I was pretty groggy but okay. I sent them on their way and sat down for a spell. Relived I was still alive and walking they reluctantly left me there. The next few riders to approach questioned me with the universal “Are you okay?” thumbs up. I responded in like fashion and they kept going. Finally, a more concerned rider approached and stopped to help me rebuild my mess. When I started the ride I had two bags on the back rack of my bike one full of tools the other was my medical bag. Nestled snugly in between the two bags was a 22 oz aluminum bottle filled with gasoline. The bags were still connected but the fuel bottle was missing, that’s odd I thought. We searched the dust but came up empty. Hopefully no one rides over it and blows it up. He hung with me for a few minutes until we were both okay with me completing the ride. I cleared my helmet and goggle of the remaining dust, remounted and rode off at a very slow speed. I was about 15 miles out and had some tough terrain to conquer. It took a few miles to regain my confidence but I was soon moving at a speed that didn’t require me to stay to the side of the course. I limped back into camp and recounted the story to the crew who had been waiting my arrival for a while. They were glad to see me and a bit surprised at the story. I removed all my dust infused riding gear, cleaned off, sat down and had a late lunch. It had been a long day and I went to bed early.
Sunday morning broke with clear skies and a bright sunrise. The mood around the trailer city was a bit more serious as rider who would be “warring” in the 100 mile race readied their gear. We joined the staging to view the spectacle. Several hundred riders listened to the day’s 
announcements, and then in a thunder of engines made their way up the road to the starting line. We joined the other spectators on a small hill about ¾ of a mile from the start. When the cannon blast sounded the riders ran to their bikes, fired them up and sped off. As they crested the easy rise off the ¼ mile wide starting line it 
reminded me of an old movie scene with attacking Indians on horseback.
A few faster bikes made their way quickly to the same barbed wire gate I had ridding through yesterday. The remaining pack of riders followed in a thunderous hoard. Only two riders went down in the funnel start. They were quickly aided up and continued on their way. We departed shortly after the Desert 100 started and made our way along the four hour drive home, recounting the adventure the whole way.
The helmet and goggles sit on my workbench in the garage. Do I enshrine them as war relics or do I toss them? We’ll see. By the way the bike was unscathed. So at least one of my goals was accomplished.
Tony
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