The problem is that Susan Can't go along with me. Actually, there is another probem: I can't really afford to go either, but that's a minor problem Credit card s for gas, trade in the aluminum cans and cash in the change jar for food; there are almost always ways to finance a rally. No, the big problem is that Susan can't come with me. Susan and I have been traveling together by motorcycle for years now. Thousands of miles together. The truth is that, generally, I don't have nearly as good a time when she is not with me. I always see things that I want to point out to her, or tell her my feelings about, or ear her feelings about. And when she is not there, there is a feeling of something missing. My sister Kelli, who has the gift of turning a phrase, calls it "conversation interruptus." Stll, I have always wanted to go to the Iowa rally, and I decide that I will go. It is some 500 miles from Fargo, ND, to Iowa City, IA. I am up by 6:00 on Friday. I have my dog to the kennel by 7:30--yet another expense I Have to figure out how to cover--by 7:30. Then it's home to pack the bike. I do a safety check and notice that one of the throttle cables is frayed to the point of binding. Do I relpace it? Nah! In typical BMW rider fashion I ask myself only "Will it last the trip?" I conclude that, indeed, it will. With a toenail clipper I trim off the offending strands and worry no more about it. I stop to say goodbye to Susan, who pushes out her lower lip and pretends to pout. Ultimately she wishes me well. Before I am even out of town I stop to add more clothes. I figure that if I'm cold in town at 40, I am going to be freezing at 70 on the freeway. It is exactly *:00 a.m. when I descend the ramp onto I-29 S. A mile later I connect with I-94 E. I know that I will have to put in some long miles in order to make southern Iowa by dark, therefore, my forst stop of the day won't be until St. Cloud, MN, some 175 miles distant. My second stop won't be until faribault, MN, nearly 300 miles away. The weather is chilly, but lovely. The sun is moving in and out of cloud banks perched on the eastern horizon, looking like mountains inb the distance as I head southwest at 70. Books I have read and movies I have seen replay themselves in my mind. Things I wish I said to loved ones are there too. Arguments I have had with people come to mind and I am always much more articulate when I am on my cycle and arguing with an imaginary opponant. I think of the trip ahead and the rally and wish Susan were here with me. I sing to myself; songs from "Fiddler on the Roof," folk songs, homemade songs. I buy gas a t St. Cloud. As usual when I am traveling alone, I stop only long enough to fill the tank and stretch for a few minutes, then I am back on the road again. Just southeast of St. Cloud I pass a car with ND plates. He waves and smiles and I wave back: strangers in a strange land. Then I hit the traffic of Minneapolis. It may not seem like it to those who ride it every day, but to those of us from the open country city freeways feel claustrophobic and congested. I come from a state whose entire population is less than that of Hennepin County, MN, and riding in this close-in, hand-to hand-combat situation requires my full attention. Down 494, west of the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul and on to I-35 W south I go. I pass the same car that I passed just southeast of St. cloud. He recognizes me and gives me a thumbs up. I am getting hungry now, but I promised myself that lunch would be in Faribault, MN. I consider calling some friends from faribault, but I know that that would delay my trip, and my only goal is to get to the Pure Stodge tonight. I stop and have a late lunch (1:30) at "The Depot" in Faribault. It feels good to rest and the food is filling. In only a few miles I will get off the freeway and travel southest through Blooming Prairie, Austin and on into Iowa. It is now several hours later and I am sitting with my back against the wall of a convenience stote outseide of Janesville, IA, studying the map, eating a sandwich and dringking a mineral water. The sun is pleasantly warm but even on this June day I have never been wrm enough to shed my cool weather riding outfit. Even now it is folded down only as far as my waist. After half an hour or so I get up, re-fold the map and prepare to leave. I figure that I am bout 100 miles from the rally now. After Waterloo and Cedar Rapids a K-bike with a young looking couple aboard comes by me at about 75 mph. I figure that they must be headed for the rally, and, havbing never been there, I hope to tail them in. The 16 year old engine respons beautifully, and soon I am matching their speed. Only their speed keeps increasing. Now 80. Now 85. Now 90. Finally at 95 they level off. I am desperately afraid of getting caught by the police at these speeds, and in my head I am calculating furiously how much the fine would be for traveling 40mph over the speed llimit. Try paing for THAT with aluminum can money! Still, the speed is exhilerating and we are within 10 miles of the rally site now and I am afraid to let them go. As we cut through North Liberty the driver of the K bike pulls over and tells me that they need to find a cash machine and so will be driving around for awhile before going out to the rally site. I thank them for letting me tail them in and for "blocking" for me. I ask if they can point me toward the rally site. They laugh at my "blocking" comment and give me directions. Nearing th entrance I can see many bikes coming and going. I love the sound of BMWs; especially BMWs in large numbers. Then there is that moment which occurs at all rallies, when one pulls up to registartion and climbs off. There always seems to be a group of guys standing around with a beer in hand (could be the same group of guys at every rally for all I know) and giving all the new arrivals the once- over. I don't mind. After 550 miles in a day I feel as though I have paid my dues. While registering I see one of the guys saunter past my /7 and, with deliberate casualness, check out the reading on the odo. He saunters back to the others and reports his findings and I think I have been approved. In the book "Hear Me Roar" which is about women and motorcycling I checked to see what it had to say about BMWs and their riders. Aside from some generalizations about who we are as a group, the author, who rides a 1987 R-65, did say soemthing which I regard as true in essence. Paraphrased, the author mad the observtions that not many custom paint jobs nor much chrome will be found at BMW rallies. That at BMW rallies it is hard-won miles on the odometer of which war stories are made. I am very proud of that reputation. I register, and, of course, the welcoming committe comes over with their beers. We exchange stories about our rides here. Naturally, I had to put up with a certain amount of ribbing about being from North Dakota. This being my first Pure Stodge I was promptly labelled a "virgin." I asked what that made THEM and they laughed, catching my meaning. Now for a place to camp. I enter the campground and drive slowly around. This is one place where rally hospitality breaks down. It is made clear from the cool looks and head shakes that no new campers are welcome in many parts of the campground; I feel a little like Forrest Gump on the first day on the school bus. Finally at the bottom of the camp I come to an open field with a creek running through it. Only a very few tents are set up here and people nod to me in a friendly way. I stop my bike and I am immediately greated by a person who introduces himself as Paul. He then introduces me to his friend Dan. I have found my companions for the weekend.PURE STODGE: COMING HOME I was reluctant to go to depite the fact that I was very tired and had a 600 mile day ahead of me. It isn't just that the rally itself ends when I finally hit the rack for the last time on Saturday night, but also that something which I have been looking forward to for a year is gone until next year. And each rally completed, each weekend ended, each ride finished inches me closer to the end of the season. But I am in bed now. Of course I sleep poorly. I never sleep well at rallies and I sleep even more poorly in anticipation of a long trip to or from one, waking up frequently to check my watch to see if it's time to arise and pack. I have chosen to sleep outside of my tent tonight. Partly it is because I was laying outside anyway, checking the constellations against my constellation book by flashlight, and partly because there are no bugs this time of year and I want to take advantage of a situation which will not occur again for 2 1/2 months. Finaaly at 4:45 I judge that will not catch any more snatches of sleep, and I sit up in my bag. The sleeping bag, tent and cycle are all soaked with dew. I make a mental note to unpack and dry everything out when I get home. First, while remaining part in and part out of the bag, I put ony my very damp riding clothes. THAT starts to wake me up! I unscrew the valve of the Thermarest and soon I am sitting on the ground. I stuff the sleeping bag into its sack. Next comes the tent rolled cold and wet into its stuff sack. I seem to be the only one stirring at this hour. The stars are still here, but they are beginning to look weak in the gathering eastern light. Stove, candle lantern, clothes, tools, new purchases are all mthodically loaded into panniers and top case and tank bag. I begin to think about the trip ahead. Last night's sorrow is completely replaced by a desire to get on the road. the rally, for me, ended when I chose to go to bed last night. Now there is only the ride and it is time to get to it. My bike fires up right away; better now since I had Doug synch the carbs and reset the mix yesterday. I let the bike warm while I finish getting ready. I walk around working the foam plugs into my ears while doing a final check of equipment to make sure that there is nothing left behind. For once I remember to refold my map so that the proper roads are showing _before_ I get on the road. I finally straddle the now-smoothly idling machine, put on my gloves and drop it into first. It has been 45 minutes since I first sat up. I take the rough gravel road up toward the entrance and I see that people are now starting to stir. I feel some sort of irrational pride in being the fist one up and out this morning. Almost every person I see waves or nods in greeting. All look over my bike and make their own private judgment as to the merits or drawbacks of the way I have it set up; it does not matter. It is _my_ bike, set up only for _me_. It has better than 105,000 miles on it and to me it is the best bike at the rally. I have reached the main road now and the pavement feels incredibly smooth after the rutted, coarse gravel camp road. I head toward North Liberty because it is the only way I am certain I know of to connect with 380. I was worried about the cold, but for one I have dressed just right. It is morning twilight; the sun is not yet up but it is now more day than night as I speed northward at 70 mph. I think, as I skirt Cedar rapids, that it looks to be a pretty nice fair-sized city. I am beginning to feel thirsty and I decide I will stop for some orange juice after I clear the city. The first stop comes far to close to the start of the ride, but it is important for me to quench my thirst early and often. In just a few minutes I am back on the road again. I think back to my arrival to the rally on Friday afternoon. From my last trip here I knew that I wanted to camp in the lower field; not much shade there, but not much company either. I arrived at 4:30, registered and set up camp. I then changed into shorts and a tee shirt and walked up for a mandatory tour of the vendors. I watched Doug-the-mechanic work on a bike for awhile. I was starting to get a bit concerned about how I would pass the time for the whole weekend when salvation arrived in the form of Nancee Musto, Jeff Oden, Doug Scheunemann, Carol Patzer and Jerry DuBrall. The sun is now fully up, although it kepps dancing in and out of cloud banks. No worry of rain--at least for now; it is a fine day for travel. I briefly pick up a partner in the form of an R bike with hack entering on a ramp, but he (she?) gradually fades into the distance as I maintain 70. I stop on the North side of Waterloo for breakfast. I call Susan to tell her that I am on my way home and that I miss her. I pick up 218 north of Waterloo and begin to zig and zag through the small towns which make up Iowa. This is my kind of riding; open country, farms and small towns. It is still before 8:00 am and I have picked up a surprisingly stiff cross wind. I can't even feel it when I am riding north, but when the road turns west I really have to lean. It makes me wonder what lies ahead weatherwise, especially since Susan told me that storms belw though Fargo yesterday and are supposed to be coming this way. Whenever someone asks me what I do a rallies I am always hard-presed to come up with more than a few lame-sounding activities. I always reort to a sort of "guess you have to be there" explanation. It's always a tremendous amount of fun, but when I try to describe it it sounds boring even to me. I spent the remainder of Friday evening hanging aroubnd with John Coons, walking the vendor area, watching Doug repair--overhaul would be more like it--Dave Dow's bike. I finish the evening talking with John Coons and Jeff Oden, and traipse off to bed at 11:30. I am now back in Minnesota on I-90 for a brief traverse of Austin before hopping off at 218 N. toward Owatonna. Uh oh. Boy, the sky is looking nasty to the northwest, which just happens to be the direction I am going. Saturday dawned clear and beautiful. I was awake at 5:00 and decided to take advantage of the showers before the mob hit. I was able to get right in but the floor already had the beginnings of the Okeefenokee swamp. Tepid shower and out to meet the day. For the next hour Doug, Nancee, Jeff and I sat under a canopy and talked. After awhile Carol and Jerry came over too. I was invited to go with them all on their standard Pure Stodge run. First to the Amana Colonies for breakfast, then to Ned's for fun, then to Gina's for looking and for buying. What a fun ride! Carol knew where she was going and all I had to do was to follow the pack through the Iowa countryside. Breakfast at the Colonies is served family style. You are not asked what you want to eat, but bowls of potatoesand fruits are brought to your table, attended by plates of toast, pancakes (so thin they're almost crepes), bacon and suasage. Over breakfast Carol related some of the history of the MOA, which was fun to hear. After breakfast Doug and I, feeling like a couple of easter eggs, waddled over to some of the Amana shops. The wines were too sweet for our taste but the furniture was good looking and reasonable. After a gas fill-up, and with Carol and Nancee leading the way, we set off for Ned's. If you have never been to Ned's it is a Moto Guzzi shop which also caters to BMW riders. It's located in the little town of Riverside, IA, and it's really one of the old, country shops you seldom see any more. It's a lot like Judson's in Lake Crystal, MN. Nothing fancy, no carpet nor "designer motor clothes." Just a friendly small-town shop run by competent people. Doug and I wanted to leave for the rally site earlier than the others so we do, taking the back roads there. We stop at Gina's where I picked up a cap for Susan and a used H-4 headlight unit for my Windjammer for $20, bulb included. After we got back to site we changed into shorts and watched the field games. Too late I realize my mistake. The storm is rolling in faster than I thought, so I hit the binders, pull off onto a side street and try to wrestle my way into my rainsuit in the suddenly drenching rain. I continue up 218 and hit I35 at Owatonna. The rain is hard but not so bad that I can't see...until just north of Northfield. Then it really lets loose! My bike begins to miss, which it has never done before. I finally surrender and pull under a bridge. Soon after, a guy on an iron-head Sportster pulls up too. Whereas I am dressed in full rain regalia, he is dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a blck leather vest. He tells me that he is going home after a weekend rally in Geneva, MN. Around 5:00 the same group of us that rode together this morning walked up to the pavillion area with our chairs. We all agreed that we weren't that hungry and that we would just wait for the line to go down, which is what we did more or less. We passed the time with talking and stories, the way that people from this club always do. I would usually have included "lies" in that category but John Coons wasn't there, everyone else was too honest and I was off-form for the telling of a good lie. >From the reports of the carnivores among us, most of the money at Iowa goes to something other than the purchase of quality beef. In fact, the only complaint I consistently heard about this fine rally is that the meat was the consistentcy of a fine gristle. After supper we went over to the pavillion to watch everone but us win prizes. The downpour finally lets up enough for me to leave the bridge. As I am saddling up I notice that my new-found Harley buddy has NO FRONT BRAKE. NONE! That being the case, I make sure that I am well ahead of him. After a two hour rain delayed visit to my parents' home in the northern suburb of Circle Pines I am ready to start home for Fargo, some 250 or so miles. It is hot and windy on the road and I am a little tired, but there is nothing like the feeling of leaving the Cities behind me and getting back into the open country where the sky is not hidden by trees and buildings. In fact, as strange as it may sound, the only thing I miss about living IN the Cities is is the exquisite feeling I used to get--usually on a Friday afternoon--of leaving the concrete jungle behind me. I begin to feel better at the bifurcation of 494/694/94, and I feel like I can breathe again after I get northwest of Monticello. Saturday evening was waning. Scheunemann and I were doing our last round of the vendors. After a last and regrettable load of 20W-50 curly fries we stopped and talked to the woman selling the blow dart guns. They looked fun and were. At only $10 for a gun and 16 darts it was a good deal. I have no idea why, but we each bought one. After that I wandered down to my campsite. I kind of thought that Doud would wander down to find out where I had gone but he didn't. The evening was so nice that I dragged the Thermarest and sleeping bag out of the tent and, with the help of a flashlight and the constellation book Susan bought me for my birthday, I laid on my back and tried to identify some of the stars. But the light was distracting and soon I just shut it off in favor of just looking up at the soothing night sky until I drifted off to sleep. I stop only one more time, at Alexandria, to buy gas and rest briefly. Ninety minutes will get me home now and the time passes quickly. Ashby, Dalton, Fergus, Rothsay, Barnsville. Soon I am crossing the Red into North Dakota once more. The bike has not misseed again. I will find out next week that my 20 year old plug wires are shot, but I do not know that yet. Finally I cross the long bridge which spans the RR tracks which bisect Fargo and coast down into my driveway. I shut of the motor and look at the odometer. I have traveled 1340 miles in four days. I had a great time and met some friends. I have some good memories which will help see me through this winter. I am already looking forward to next year. Rand Z Rasmussen