The Phantom Duck And His Fairweather Friends

The Phantom Duck and His Fairweather Friends

In Which the Fourth Annual Barstow-To-Vegas Unorganized Trail Ride Does Not Take Place

Allan Girdler

Federal agents are usually efficient so it didn't take long for investigators working for the Bureau of Land Management to trace the Phantom Duck of the Desert. When the agents arrived to serve their papers, though, the Duck wasn't home.

He was in municipal court. Serving on a jury. He is, as the judge later remarked, a good citizen.

Perhaps this is why there is a Phantom Duck of the Desert and why he has so many friends one day and so few the next. But that comes later. In the beginning there was the Barstow-to-Vegas race, until in 1975 the sponsoring club couldn't get a permit from the BLM. On the traditional date of the B-to-V race, the Duck and a few other dirt guys rode from the old starting area to the old finishing area. On designated roads and trails, that part of the Mojave Desert being open to such use. The next year the Duck issued a public invitation and gave medals to the handful of riders who showed up. In 1977 there were posters. Somebody offered T-shirts and finishing pins and many of the riders, 75 or so, donated a few dollars to the cause. The idea was to demonstrate that off-road motorcyclists are part of the public and are therefore entitled to a share and a say in the use of public lands, just like it says in the law books and regulations.

Early in 1978 there were more posters and more invitations. The idea of a myste rious man calling himself the Phantom Duck of the Desert has its own romantic appeal. On the practical side the American Motorcyclist Association's efforts at coop eration hadn't shown the hoped-for re suits, that is. the BLM was refusing applications for competition events and the AMA legal defense fund wasn't going for court suits that could improve this.

Came then the federal investigators and a meeting between the Duck and BLM officials. He didn't have a lawyer and the meeting was private. The press. meaning this magazine, was forbidden to attend by the BLM.

The BLN'I didn't get satisfaction, appar ently, and their lawyers filed for an injunc tion ordering the Duck not to organize an event, on grounds (among others) that large trail rides require permits and further that a large ride would damage public lands under the BLM's care.

The Duck is not a wealthy man. He had no attorney. Rick Sieman, editor of Dirt Bike, heard about the injunction and signed on his own lawyer. while taking responsibility for paying the bill. The at torney sat up most of that Sunday night preparing a legal answer for the court hearing on the Tuesday before the Satur day of the ride.

Meanwhile, out in public, great clamor. The AMA officially disapproved of the trail ride. AMA member clubs, or some members therein, took issue with the AMA. Area clubs decided to ride as a gesture, with jerseys. The Dirt Diggers made the ride a double-point event. There was talk of mass arrests, with scores of rangers rounding up a handful of riders and clapping all participants in the slam mer. There was talk of mass defiance, of thousands of bikes overwhelming the BLM and its handful of field personnel. There was talk of thousands of road riders, touring from Barstow to Vegas as a gesture of solidarity.

None of the above took place. Instead, both parties had their day in court and both parties got a decision worthy of Solomon.

United States District Court Judge War ren J. Ferguson was raised in the desert and appreciates the desert and shares with the BLM and off-road riders a concern for the desert's wellbeing.

Testimony quickly showed that the pro posed route of the ride, via abandoned highways. old mining roads, dry lakes, sandwashes and powerline roads, was legal. Further, that if the riders stayed on the trails, they would do no harm.

The Phantom Duck of the Desert's Fourth Annual Barstow to Vegas Unoffi cial Trail Ride, though, despite being pre sented as a form of political protest and free expression. was not according to the rules. Judge Ferguson said the Duck has a right to dissent. Our government should encourage dissent, he added, but also must limit the form of dissent.

Under the circumstances, the judge ruled, he was granting the BLM's request~ for an injunction. The Duck was prohib ited from organizing a trail ride without a permit.

The BLM side of the courtroom looked happy. the Duck's side looked grim.

hut wnen tne wording or tfle court order was being discussed, the judge said that~ because the land was open for public use and because the rules say an event has to have more than 50 people before a permit is required. the Duck and no more than 49 of his friends could legally ride where they wished, even if they wished to ride from Bartow to Vegas.

The expressions on both sides of the eourtroom instantly reversed.

A BLM spokesman protested that the order was unenforeeable. Judge Ferguson said he was appealing to the Duck’s sense of citizenship and reasonableness. He would do the same for the BLM; that is. if both parties used common sense, there need be no confrontations, no mass arrests or flouting of the law.

And so it proved to be. As great minds work alike, during the weeks preceding the non-event there were letters and calls flying back and forth. One group of 500 riders would be against the rules. Ten groups of 50 would not. One man w rote to Cycle News inviting 48 men and boys to ride with him and his son, w hile 48 women and girls would be welcome to ride with his wife and daughter.

Months before all this took place this magazine had mentioned the ride and, in effect, invited riders. Seemed to us that if the worst happened and all bikers present were carted off to Durance Vile, we ought to be among the incarcerated.

From here on. therefore, the account gets personal. Cycle World w'as there to report and to take part. We had our own group. Tribal Elders, Brian and Henry; Support Troops, Denise and Kate; Riders Steve, Scott, Mike. John and Joe; Mother Hen, Yr. Nervous Ed.

Our equipment was the usual mixed bag, that is, when you check the contents of a truck going to or from the wilderness, seldom are all bikes the same type and condition. We ride for fun, with friends and what we ride is less important. So we had one sparkling new Honda XR 185, two new IT Yamahas, the Honda XR75 seen on these pages in the December issue, the world’s most cherished Honda XL250, 13,000 trouble-free miles strong, and Mike’s 1970 Montesa 125, bored to 175 and decorated with flames painted on the tank.

The BE M’s official count, as reported in the daily press, was 580 riders. We don't know if that’s accurate or not. We were told the BLM guys were taking license numbers and discouraging riders who were at the start the day before the rides, but we didn't see that, either. The first groups headed east down the abandoned highway at 7:30 a.m. When we arrived at 8. groups were still leaving, and when we left at 8:30 there were riders still unloading, all of which indicates there was no mass ride. Instead, as requested by the judge and as legal by the rules, there was a series of groups, all going the same way.

(There was also ribbon marking the route from B to V. We didn't do it, we know the Duck didn't, and we don’t know who did. If the ribbon kept riders back from getting lost, well, good on the guilty parties.)

At three (or more? We weren't counting them. They were counting us) spots along the trail, there were official trucks wfith guys taking notes. And a small airplane flew back and forth. We waved.

It was a lovely day for a ride, clear sky and bright sun. clear and nippy air. The fast guys in our group went on and the rest puttered down the trail. Rain the previous week had dampened the dust and wetted the sandwashes. We survived the Dreaded Downhill and skirted the sand uphill, to climb a ledge and come bursting from beneath the Interstate in clouds of flying sand. As always, I wondered if the poor wretches in their little boxes had any idea of the fun they were missing.

At the first fuel stop we were joined by a man on an IT. He’d never ridden in the dirt before but figured this was a day to take a stand. Whoosh, he said, we’ve only gone 28 miles? Undeterred, he topped off and rode away, not to be seen until the finish.

Down a powerline road and under the Interstate again, after a rock pile and a tiny tunnel. Joe was behind me, acting like a kid with a new toy, in this case a Bassani pipe I bought him for his birthday. Made my ears ring but heck, anybody who doesn’t like to hear the exhaust when going through a tunnel has grown old before their time.

Across Soda Dry Lake, which wasn’t, and we met a surprise party.

Parked where the trail crosses the pavement were members of the California OffRoad Vehicle Association. Jeepers and truekers, they’d heard about the case of Phantom Duck vs BLM. Rather than ride, they catered the event, with piles of beer and sandwiches.

Most welcome. Another side note: We are always being told that bikes aren’t liked by other wilderness users. And yet. when we meet truckers, jeepers, fishers, the horsey crowd, hikers, rockhounds et al, seldom is there a discouraging word. We are all enjoying the same thing in our own way.

Then, trouble. Mike’s Montesa seized a> mile or so from the picnic. He and Joe headed back to the trucks, Mike pushing and Joe riding donuts around him. Proving once again the benefits of dual-purpose motorcycles, I scooted onto the Interstate and to the next scheduled stop, secure in the protection afforded by my license plate and lights if feeling foolish about appearing on pavement in enduro jacket and motocross boots.

I was passed by a lady in a Buick festooned with shoe polish slogans; Support the Duck, Stop the BLM. Easily identifying each other as kindred spirits, we waved to each other and then to a DT Yamaha, flapping and humming in the other direction.

Closest we came to a confrontation was at the second stop. We were talking with Mrs. Duck when a sheriflTs car rolled past. “Oh,” she said “They’re after him.”

Can't blame the lady. They had certainly been after him lately. Turned out this deputy was an Us. He stopped in to tell the Duck that a rider had broken a leg and been rescued. He knew the area and offered to sweep the next section, which offer was gratefully accepted. If a rider did that, he would have proved organization, see, while a deputy sheriff has a duty to make sure everybody is okay.

One of our trucks went to rescue the Montesa and our bikes tackled the mountain. Snow down to 4500 feet and it was all there, towering white across the valley. Impressive and not as tough as it looked. Snow and dirt give good traction.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon and our group, slowest of the day. headed off across a damp lake and into the mountains, which we crossed in a series of w inding sandwashes. Terrific stuff. We lost the ribbon, for the third year in a row and were wandering down the road when we were buzzed by the Prospectors MC. They knew the route and we tucked in long enough to find the trail and ride through a collection of rock basketballs. Then the powerlines again, more sand and just about the time the beam from my headlight began to show' on the trail, there was the finish and the trucks and Denise had coffee ready. The odo read 147 miles, the clock said eight hours.

Now, about the Duck and friends. The reader may have noticed that the true name of the Phantom Duck does not appear here.

This is intentional. The Duck vs BLM has been going on for years. This was my third B-to-V ride and until this year I have taken great care not to know who the Duck really is. I reckoned if I was ever officiallv asked. I didn’t want to have to lie. The Duck, for his part, has operated under an assumed name in part because he truly has no interest in seeing his name in print. And he has so many friends that when the legal hassles began his wife had to call in a friend to answer the ’phone when she needed to step into the other room. The Duck has spent countless dollars and time because he believes in the cause. He has asked to remain a nom du gare and I'm gonna do it.

(Persons moved by this commercial message can respond with a check made out to the Flame, Sanger. Grayson and Ginsberg Client Trust Fund, c/o Rick Sieman. 17619 Los Alamos Street, Granada Hills, Calif. 91344. The Duck isn’t out of his legal blind yet.)

According to the Los Angeles Times the BLM guys hiding in the bushes didn't see the Phantom Duck.

As the wise men tell us. we see what we look for. Because he was on jury duty and then worked double shifts to make up for wages lost, the Duck didn’t have a bike to ride. At the last minute he dragged out his old 125 four-stroke.

Because there was fear the Duck would be held accountable for all riders present, although he w'as entitled to 49 friends, all the various groups rode oft’ at a pace beyond that of a 125. The Duck’s only faithful companion was Dale Brown of Cycle News.

So. Bureaucrats work for and with politicians. They know w hat leaders look like. Leaders are men who travel in comfort, surrounded by aides and assistants and flunkies and like that.

All the middle-aged man on the battered little bike was worth, to them, was another mark on the scorecard.

Runner-up for hero of the day, by the CW team’s account, was a man whose name we didn’t get. He too heard about the political protest and figured he should be there. He doesn't have a dirt bike.

So he hauled his Yamaha SR500 to the starting area, removed the turn signals and rode, on street tires, with low pipe, across the rocks and through the sand and mud and snow;, all the way. Then he bolted the signals back on and rode off into the night, down the Interstate to Barstow.

During the ride, while not deciding which rock to ride into, 1 was thinking about Shakespeare. Seemed to me the Bard had some good stuff about those w ho take part and those who don’t.

I had to sneak into the bookstore to find the quotes, but I found them.

Comes from Henry V, Act IV. Scene III. Henry is about to take on the French and he gives the troops a pep talk.

“He that out-lives this day and comes safe home

“Will stand a-tip-toe when this day is named.”

We who were there will be a-tip-toe for some time to come.