"Years ago," said Rick, "there was a cycle shop down in West Chester that sold Yamaha RD-two-fifties." He leaned back in his chair and lit up a cigar, the way he always did when he was getting settled into a good story. I poured myself another vodka-and-orange.

"Right on West Chester Pike," said Rick, "in the middle of town. My buddy Harold was working there at the time."

The Yamaha RD-250 was a 250cc two-stroke motorcycle, and like most two-strokers, it seemed to have a mind of its own. The throttle response was incredibly non-linear; you'd start rolling it open, and suddenly the bike would hit its power band and leap forward with incredible force, jerking your arms out of the sockets. Even worse, each individual RD-250 had a different trigger point, so even the dealer couldn't tell you exactly what to expect.

"One day, this old guy comes into the shop," said Rick. "I say 'old,' but he was probably about as old as I am now." (That is to say, around 50).

The old man had come, check in hand, to buy an RD-250.

"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?" the dealer asked.

"I used to ride Harley forty-fives!" the old man growled with unjustified pride. For those too young to remember, Harley forty-fives, or WLs, were WWII-era flatheads, which got their name from their 45 cubic inch (750cc) displacement. They didn't make much power--you'd be lucky to hit 60 miles per hour with the throttle wide open.

"Okay," said the dealer, "these bikes are a little different than the ones you're used to. Let me get one of my mechanics to go over the bike with you."

"Fuck you," snarled the old man, "I used to ride Harley forty-fives! These pansy little Jap bikes ain't shit!"

With that, he mounted the bike and kicked it to life. Before anyone could stop him, he revved the motor into the peak of the power band and dumped the clutch.

"He took off like a bullet," said Rick. "It was a hole shot a drag racer would have been proud of."

The old man rocketed across all four lanes of West Chester Pike--God only knows why he didn't get run over. When he hit the high curb on the other side, the bike stopped and the rider went airborne. He flew about 20 feet and miraculously landed on the grassy lawn in front of a bar, the only soft landing spot on West Chester Pike.

As soon as Harold saw the old man go airborne, he leaped up, check in hand, and shouted, "Call the cops! Call an ambulance! I'm going to cash the check!"

"Fuckin guy didn't even land yet," Rick said, "and Harold is running to cash the check!"

And why not? After all, there are plenty of ways to kill yourself, but even a greedy swine of a motorcycle salesman knows that few are as exciting as riding an evil-tempered Japanese suicide machine with an unpredictable bomb for a motor. Those who bring such pleasures to the masses deserve just compensation, ambulance or no ambulance.

Melanie has an RD-250. She's a hot young blonde whose skimpy belly-shirt exposes flat, hard abs and a silver navel-ring. Her blue thong panties are visible above the waistband of her low-slung pants, which hug the contours of her firm, round ass. She appropriated the bike from her father, downloaded the shop manual off the internet, and got it running again.

I'm impressed.

Maybe I should start again. I'm at a party at my buddy Ernie's house on the evening of Labor Day, 2002. Melanie is Ernie's niece. Tomorrow, I will head down to North Carolina via the Blue Ridge Parkway to visit my buddy Karl who lives near Asheville. That's what this story was supposed to be about, before I got off on that tangent about the Yamaha RD-250.

This party is tame and dreary, the way parties tend to be when the participants are over 30. At 22, Melanie is the youngest one there, and she's getting restless.

"I'm bored," she says, then she flashes me an evil grin. "Let's go ride the RD!"

"You crazy bitch," I say, "we've both been drinking wine all night. I'm not going near that goddamn RD!"

Melanie laughs like someone who knows your fly is open, but isn't going to tell you, then she grabs a guitar and joins a jam session which is forming in the living room. She's not going to have the pleasure of watching me get dumped on my ass--at least not tonight.

On the morning of my departure, I go on-line to check the status of a tropical storm which is harassing the Carolinas--luckily, it is expected to blow out to sea in a day or so.

I should perhaps explain that the Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway are a sort of Mecca for bikers on the east coast, a beautiful scenic route which overlooks the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Skyline starts in Front Royal, Virginia, and dumps you out onto the Parkway at Rockfish Gap, near Waynesboro. The Parkway goes all the way down to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, over 450 miles of high-altitude twisties.

My plan is to take the PA turnpike to interstate 81, then take interstate 64 to Rockfish Gap. I've decided to skip the Skyline Drive, because it runs through Shenandoah National Park, which is full of deer and bears. I've had sphincter-puckering encounters on the Skyline before--you never know which one of God's critters is going to be waiting for you when you whip around the next hairpin turn. No, thanks--black bears get pretty cranky when you slam motorcycles into them.

Outside, it's a perfect fall day; cool air, blue sky. But as soon as I get on the highway, I'm riding straight into the jaws of a vicious head-wind. My teeth are clenched, eyes watering; it feels like there's an invisible sumo wrestler trying to push me off the bike. The wind is blowing leaves off trees and kicking up all kinds of debris which feels like someone's shooting BBs at me. The leaves catch the wind like little sails and land like slaps across my face. I end up bucking this evil wind all the way to the Potomac River, getting no relief until I cross into West Virginia.

After what seems like an eternity, I pass the turnoff for Front Royal. I'm whipped and sore from my battle with the elements, and I'm sick of the interstate. To my left, the cool, blue mountains rise like waking giants from the primordial forest below. They mock me in my black tar purgatory of tailgating tractor-trailers and lane-changing minivans. Just when I feel like I can go no farther, the on-ramp for I-64 appears. Fifteen minutes later, I am on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Norwegian author Roald Dahl once said that no one can know true peace, who has not sailed into Oslo Fjord. I have been to Oslo Fjord, but Dahl never rode a motorcycle through the Blue Ridge Mountains. The thin ribbon of road snakes through lush, green forests just beginning to blaze with the first reds of fall. Craggy brown cliff-faces stand proud by the side of the road, ancient and immense. Roadside pull-offs overlook scenes of postcard beauty; mountains fading to blue in the distance, and the tiny ant-world of Man down below. Being here again is like greeting an old friend.

By 6:00 PM, exhaustion is setting in. I stop at the first campsite I see, eat dinner at the cantina, then check in at the campground. When I ride through the campground loop, I see that the place is full of Harleys.

Bikerdom is a mobile community consisting of Biker Nation, which we carry with us on our bikes wherever we go, like the Sioux Indians carried the Sioux Nation. We have never met before, and will never meet again, but that doesn't matter. The road is life, and we are brethren.

At 10:00, fatigue overtakes us. We wish each other a safe trip, then crawl into our respective tents to sleep a dreamless sleep.

I wake up around 9:00 the next morning after a cold mountain night. I pack quickly, eat breakfast, and head out on the Parkway again. Although the sun is hot, the cold mountain air sucks the heat right out of me. I'm beginning to wish I'd left the Thinsulate liner in my leather jacket. It gets a little warmer as the sun climbs higher, though, and I spend the rest of the day riding through the Blue Ridge's idyllic beauty. By evening I'm ready to call it quits, so I get off the Parkway and head into Blowing Rock.

I'd fallen in love with Blowing Rock, North Carolina, earlier in the year when a detour on the Blue Ridge led me there by accident. It's a little resort town whose main drag is filled with coffee shops, ice cream stands, and craft stores. There's a little park with a gazebo in the middle of the town. This place has been a popular resort since colonial times, when people would come to escape the summer heat--up here in the mountains, the temperature rarely hits 80 degrees.

I stop at the same motel I stayed at last time--the lady at the desk says she remembers seeing my name in the books. I decide to give my seat-busted ass a break by walking the short distance into town. I amuse myself for a while by snapping photos, talking to other bikers, and sitting in the park, then it's back to my room to enjoy my first hot shower in two days.

The next morning, I'm in no particular hurry to get going--I'm only 100 miles from my destination, and I've got all day to get there. I walk into town, eat breakfast at Sonny's Cafe, buy a cigar, go to the park to smoke it. Quite a few motorcycles are cruising up and down Main Street; kids on sport bikes, older men on Harley baggers, all loaded down with luggage. Blowing Rock is a popular pit-stop for the swarms of bikers who come to ride the Parkway every year. Across the street, the Old World Gallery is opening for business; the shopkeeper is rolling a long Oriental carpet out onto the sidewalk in front of the store. A bee hovers in front of me, smelling my leather jacket. Then he decides I'm not a flower and flies off. Sitting here on a park bench in the cool morning with a belly full of hot coffee, feeling the warm sun on my face and the pleasant tobacco buzz in my head, is pure heaven.

I get back on the Blue Ridge Parkway and continue south. The road snakes upward through the mountains, and soon it is cold and overcast. Suddenly, I see what looks like white smoke drifting across the road, but I don't smell anything. Then I realize what I'm seeing; the road has climbed so high that it's touching the bottoms of the clouds.