The morning of my departure, I awoke to a set of erect nipples pressed against my chest. Green eyes stared intently into mine and I could feel her reaching for my wrist. "If only I could tie you to the bed," Layla whispered in my ear as I responded to her nudity.

"You're the one who likes to be tied up," I said, circling her ear with my tongue. I rolled her over and grabbed her wrists, thrusting them toward the rockin' wooden headboard. Her legs spread and we connected like a dream that had occurred the night before. I held her like I never wanted to let her go, although I was anxious to make my last remaining checks and mechanical adjustments for the trip.What a strange feeling. There's nothing in the world like making love, yet I was planning to leave. No wonder women don't understand, neither do we.

I packed a small set of Cordura Buell saddlebags and one dinky, over-the-seat bag, which worked out perfectly. The seat bag came with a top drawer, which kept my cell phone, note pad and camera within easy reach. The scoot had 2,352 miles on it as I pulled out of the headquarters, headed to the gas station and rode through the front door of Century Motorcycles to say goodbye to Cindy, the bouncy redhead.

I was out the door at 10:45 and on my way across town, past LAX toward the Wilshire area to pick up the good doctor. From his house we cut into Brentwood to snag the lovely Veronica. We walked into the house and were assaulted by her three kids and a helpful Hispanic house maid. The smallest kid, Isobela was crying at the departure, her teenage daughter, Aryn had a thousand questions and her 16 year-old-son, Derek, was acting up. I sat in the corner of the breakfast nook, stared at my watch and ate munchies the maid pushed in front of me.

While waiting for Veronica, a real estate agent, to return from meetings, I discovered that someone had offered her another leather jacket, but it wasn't an ordinary piece. It was being flown in from New York that morning. I looked in her kitchen cupboards for Jack Daniels.

Surrounded by ringing phones, clattering cell phones, fax machines, squabbling kids and a fortunately delightful maid, I tried to conjure a positive attitude. The maid kept me from stabbing the kids by constantly slipping one ambrosial treat under my nose after another. I still kept looking at my watch. The sun had burned off the fog over the coast and the temperature was climbing. My watch seemed to be flushed with high tech petrol and was spinning faster than ever.

Veronica finally arrived in her Range Rover and was immediately attacked by her squawking kids. Her tiny, bubbly daughter had packed her bags full of clothes in anticipation of being invited along. Veronica scooped her into her arms, had one cell phone buzzing in her ear, the phone in the house was ringing, she had faxes to check, an ex-husband to deal with and a list for the maid. I was certain that we would never leave town and Chris was trying to deal with the arrival of the leather jacket. Of course a call to the woman on the flight wasn't possible, so messages were handled second hand. Thank God, we left the jacket on the runway.

We finally pulled Veronica to the bike, strapped her helmet in place and jammed away from the curb. It was about 12:45 as we rolled onto the 10 Freeway, to the 405 across town and into the San Fernando Valley, where we were forced to split lanes until we passed the 101 Freeway. We met up again for the run to the 5 Freeway heading north until we dove off on Highway 14 heading toward 395, which wasn't labeled readily and we continually felt we were guessing.

I had packed my ears with foam ear plugs, which dampened the whistle and banging from the wind. I left the good doctor behind when it came time to split lanes. The Buell was narrower, more agile and fast as hell. I buzzed through the traffic as if it were a parking lot. Our first stop was in the blistering town of Mojave for gas. The temperature was cresting above 103 degrees and we watered down. For a short while I held my speed back until I was running behind Chris's dresser and noticed that it was smoking. We pulled off in Lancaster and checked the oil breather, which was dumping oil along the side of the bike. Chris checked the oil capacity and it was over full. He had just had the oil changed and someone had over-filled the tank. At the gas station we found another problem: Chris's starter would not roll when the bike was hot. At the first gas stop Veronica had to push start the '89 Standard until it fired. I took up the duty after that.

We continued along the winding roads until we arrived in Bishop, 173 miles from our last stop. It was a test. I discovered that the Buell had 150 miles before it would go on reserve. At 173 miles, it took 4.2 gallons of high test, which was giving me a comfortable 41 mpg while running generally 80 mph and above. The hotels in Bishop had no vacancies, but we were assured that we could find a room in Mammoth, once the largest ski resort in the world. At the gas station in Bishop I met a girl who had party in her eyes. She spoke knowledgeably about the local bars and told us not to miss Tom's Place, a turn-off just south of Mammoth. Unfortunately, you need to know where Tom's is or you blast right past it on your way into the mountain community. We rolled into the room at night, then found a place to eat. My entire luggage system was held by two snaps. I took along a luggage strap and attached it to the center bag. With the snaps released, the entire bag system lifted off the bike and onto my shoulder.

Although my brothers spat at me when I told them I was riding the Buell to Sturgis, I was beginning to feel that Buells are the most misunderstood model distributed by the factory. At 80 mph I was riding a bike that was in the center of its torque curve and incapable of vibration. It was fast and nimble, and I started using the rear pegs for an alternate place to put my feet. Sure, I was a tad big for the appearance of the bike, but as comfortable as a big guy on a couch. At times I thought about raising the bars an inch.

Just before I left for Sturgis, a guy named Kevin Dimmick (510-524-7490) shipped me a bracket that can replace the top bar clamp to put 3-inch pull backs on a Buell. Unfortunately it eliminates the bracket for the speedo and creates some problems for the front fairing. I wasn't able to try it out.

The Buell riding suspension was flawless on any kind of road. For long rides, a tank bag would be a blessing and I probably would have used one if it weren't for the new paint by master Phil Stadden.

I was wearing my black HA vest and an HA dove skin leather shirt, some of the most comfortable riding clothes I have. But I discovered that the shirt ballooned at high speeds. Dr. Hamster pointed out that he had a similar problem with his so he had zippers put in the sleeves, and sometimes Velcro cuffs are used to tighten the sleeve around the wrist.

Highway 395 is a rambling desert-to-country road that runs at the base of the Sierra Mountains north through California. I had picked that route off the top of my head, and at our first bar stop were told it was the wrong road. According to a biker in the Cue Ball Bar in Bishop, we were taking the long way. We should veer off 395 in Reno and head toward Winnemucca, Nevada, he said. That was the town I was avoiding. I rode through it two years ago and knew there wasn't much there to see and a ton of desert to slice through to get there. Yep, it was shorter, but if you're out for the ride, fuck the short loop and head for somewhere more entertaining.

That night at dinner we got into a discussion about relationships. We have a brother Hamster who has been married for 5 or so years, and rumor has it that his beautiful young wife recently left him because she wants to have kids. The Hamster husband had made it clear when they got married that he was too old to have children. I thought that the destruction of the relationship had to be based on something more.

Veronica pointed out that having children was more important than any agreement and that the wife should have figured out just how to deceive him into getting pregnant. I choked on my salad. I looked across the table at her steak knife and thought about the locking bladed Gerber in my back pocket. Could I get to one and slit her throat? Would it bother Dr. Hamster if he was forced to find a new girl on the way to Sturgis? Suddenly it struck me why men go on runs without women.

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