At 2:57 a.m., on a nearly empty four-lane south of Lubbock, trying to outrace a hailstorm, I was explaining to the Texas DPS Officer that, under the circumstances, 91 mph was a reasonable speed to be riding. He didn't agree.

"You headed for Ft. Davis?" he asked. I nodded. "Well, you aren't the first motorcycle headed for Ft. Davis that I've caught tonight, but you sure are the fastest."

Moments earlier I was singing out loud, thoroughly enjoying the Waltz Across Texas, a 1000-miles-in-24-hours endurance rally. Now I was bitter and tired - and riding considerably slower. In the previous 18 hours I had ridden more than 1000 miles, going without sleep, living on granola bars and stopping only for gas and to take Polaroids of local landmarks. The finish line -- Ft. Davis -- was still hours away.

Now in its third year, the Waltz Across Texas draws long-distance riders from across the country. It's the brainchild of Jack Tollet, an Iron Butt Rally veteran and one of the friendliest men I've ever met. From the field of 75 riders the winner would receive an automatic invitation to the holy mother of all endurance rallies, the Iron Butt Rally itself. A mandatory $50 minimum donation to the Texas Scottish Rite Hospital For Children puts everyone's heart in the right place and gives purpose to the event.

Rally headquarters was a dude ranch outside of Ft. Davis, Texas. The pretty Davis Mountains of West Texas come as quite a surprise after miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. I was welcomed in warm fashion and given my rally towel with the number 55 emblazoned beneath the dancing armadillos of the Waltz Across Texas logo. Together with my Polaroid camera, the rally towel would be my proof of places visited and bonus points earned.

At the riders meeting that evening, Jack went over the rules and the base route was revealed. We would leave Ft. Davis no earlier than 8:30 Saturday morning and had to be back by 8:30 Sunday morning. Mandatory checkpoints were the village of Lajitas, deep in the Texas Big Bend country; El Paso, so far west it's in another time zone, and Lubbock, out on the high plains.

Making the base route on time would put 1057 miles on the odometer and earn an equal number of points, but that wouldn't be nearly enough to win. Winning would take lots of bonus points. The bonus point lists were handed out after breakfast Saturday and riders began the serious business of planning their routes. It's a balancing act between gaining points and burning time. Go for too many points and you won't get back in time. Go for too few and you'll make a poor showing.

There were scores of bonus locations including the Paisano Hotel in Marfa (setting of the movie, Giant), the UFO Museum in Roswell, and Buddy Holly's grave in Lubbock. Really big points could be earned by attending a wedding in Dripping Springs or by actually getting legally married in Anthony, New Mexico.

I decided to stick fairly close to the base route, circling wide here and there to get the bonus points I could, without taking chances. After a DNF in my last rally, my primary objective was simply to finish.

But I wanted to finish respectably and I wanted to enjoy the ride, so early in the day I went for points as well as scenery. With a 45 mph speed limit, crossing Big Bend National Park was slow travel, but there were good bonus points to be had and the scenery was worth it. As proof of the Lajitas checkpoint, you had to have your picture taken with the mayor, which turned out to be a beer-guzzling billy goat.

I had heard that the river road from Lajitas to Presidio was spectacular but slow and it proved to be both. But I could get 70 points for a picture of a U.S. Customs Agent at the border crossing in Presidio. The first half-dozen agents I asked would not allow pictures of themselves, until I found a friendly agent who held my rally towel and smiled for my camera.

Things turned brown, flat and ugly as I blasted through the nothingness of west Texas toward El Paso. A hot, dusty crosswind made it that much more unpleasant. I reached El Paso at about 5:00 pm and bought a one-dollar token - worth 30 bonus points -- from the Speaking Rock Casino, operated by the nation's smallest Indian tribe. Rally volunteers at the Scottish Rite Temple in downtown El Paso signed my rally book to prove I made the second of the mandatory checkpoints.

It was dark by the time I reached the resort town of Ruidoso in the mountains of southern New Mexico. This was a low point. I had already ridden more than 600 miles with the unpleasant prospect of 600 more in front of me. After a dreary diet of granola bars and trail mix, the appetizing smells of Ruidoso's restaurants made me wish I were anywhere but on that motorcycle.

After bonus stops at the jail that once held Billy the Kid in Lincoln and the Smokey Bear Museum in Capitan, I caught a second wind. I felt like a starship trooper flying through the darkness toward the UFO Museum in Roswell. A new ambition grabbed hold and, instead of heading directly to Lubbock, I turned north for pictures of the retired F-111 in Portales, New Mexico, and the mule monument in Muleshoe.

At an all-night convenience store in Lubbock I encountered last year's Waltz winner, Bill Gillespie. All I was looking for was a gas receipt to prove I was there, but Bill, in true championship form, was in search of Buddy Holly's grave. It was starting to rain as we parted ways. I wished him well.

It seemed to take forever to get to Odessa, where I bagged my final bonus points - the Andrews/Crane exit sign on I-20. Now all I could think about was finishing the rally, getting off the motorcycle and getting some sleep. After another 150 miles of darkness, dawn began to break as I entered the Davis Mountains and closed in on rally headquarters. Rally staff officially checked me in at 7:30 am. Mission accomplished. I had successfully finished the rally, riding1265 miles in 22 hours. Amen.

Now all that stood between me and a soft bunk was paperwork. Sitting across a table from a rally staffer, we went through my gas receipts, Polaroids and poker chips, verifying my route and tallying my total points. I was surprised at the number of pictures I had.

The wind was still roaring in my head as I flopped into bed. I managed about an hour and a half of sleep, then got up and took the longest hot shower of my life. I almost felt human again when the awards banquet began at noon. After a plate of Mexican food Jack Tollett stood up and declared the event a success. The rally had raised $7,000 for the children's hospital.

"And now for the top-ten finishers," Jack began. "Where's Robert Entrop?" I couldn't believe it. I had not only finished, but finished respectably. Roger Pattison, my riding partner for much of the rally, finished fourth. And Bill Gillespie, last year's winner, whom I had last seen searching for Buddy Holly's grave, was the winner again.

Later that afternoon, through the heat and fatigue of the 262-mile ride back home, I recounted the rally in my mind. I remembered chanting to myself in the wee hours of the West Texas darkness, "I'll never do this again." But the glory of my top-ten finish gave me a fresh perspective. Heck, it wasn't so bad. Next year I might win this thing.